Page 35 of The Maid's Secret

“The hotel phones are ringing off the hook. We’ve got months of requested bookings, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Thatyouare assigned as their room maid. If things keep going like this, we’ll just rebrand the hotel as a Molly theme park.”

“That would be awful,” I say.

“I was joking. Molly, listen. Some VIPs are in my office. They need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to meet anyone else. It’s too much.”

“These aren’t strangers. It’s Brown and Beagle, and their showrunner, Steve. They’ve got news to share.”

Mr.Snow leads the way as I follow behind him. In his office, the Bees are seated on leather armchairs, drinking cocktails out of highball glasses and looking as dapper today as they did for the cameras yesterday. Steve, sans ironic baseball cap, finishes a phone call, then comes my way.

“Here she is!” he says, holding open his arms.

“Our shining star!” Brown exclaims as he holds up his cocktail glass.

“What happened to you?” Beagle asks, eyeing the rip in my uniform where my name tag was pinned.

“Everyone wants a piece of me,” I say.

Steve laughs. “That’s so great! Hey, our ratings are already through the roof. And since yesterday, we’ve had our best research crew working nonstop on the egg’s provenance. They’ve talked to that Serena woman and Jenkins the gardener. You saw them onChatter Box?”

“I did,” I say.

“Our researchers are making inquiries far and wide. Molly, not a single person has come forward with a credible claim on the Fabergé.”

“And we don’t believe anyone will come forward,” Brown adds.

“So?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

“Finders keepers, Molly. The egg is yours.”

“But what if someone comes out of the woodwork later?” I ask. “I’ve seen that happen on your show.”

“Death and taxes,” says Steve. “Those are the only certainties in this life.”

“We want to set an auction date fast—for next week,” says Beagle as he smooths his dark, shiny curls. “And Mr.Snow says we can hold it right here in the hotel.”

I turn to Mr.Snow. “Is this what you want?” I ask.

“What is it thatyouwant, Molly?” he counters.

When I don’t answer immediately, Steve jumps in. “We need to sell while interest in the Fabergé is at its peak,” he says. “The price is soaring. We’re fielding offers from collectors all over the world. If you don’t get more than fifteen million, I’ll be shocked.”

The news sends me reeling. It’s a number so large it doesn’t even compute. With money like that, Juan and I could buy an inn, our apartment, and a lot more besides.

“You’re the luckiest maid in the world,” says Brown, with a blue-eyed wink.

“Am I?” I ask.

“What do you want to do, Molly?” Mr.Snow inquires.

I consider for a moment. “I want this over with. I want my regular life back.”

“Perfect!” says Steve.

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