Page 23 of The Princess and the Fraud

“Stop by the hotel’s front desk for your room chart,” he told me, and opened the door. “And pick up Mr. Astor’s shirt and deliver it to his room, please.”

That was the icing on the cake.

Mr. Roberts walked out of the employee lounge, leaving me and the four walls alone. My heart still beat fast, leftover adrenaline from the scolding mixed with rejection coursing through my veins. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world around me, tracing the edges of my fingertips. There were no callouses there, though—hadn’t been in a long time.

I didn’tneedthat bonus, but it was a reminder that, even after five years, I was just as expendable as I was when I’d first started. The refusal was a testament to how far I was from that dream, from my mother—how far I was fromeverything.

Thick despair washed over me.I should’ve jumped. All those months ago, back in June, I should’ve thrown it all away. Before Grant cheated on me, before Alderton-Du Ponte fell out of love with me, before I was forced to watch my mother’s dream house fall into someone else’s hands.

I was never going to be able to afford 1442 Everview Road. I was only important around here until I screwed up. A stupid mistake had erased every other time I’d bent over backward. I hadn’t necessarily thought myself untouchable, but I had at least thought there was some respect there. But no. Around here, respect was only given to those who were perfect and rich.

I felt like I was falling, standing still in the employee lounge.

Jumping.

Curling my hands into fists, I set off.

Mr. Roberts said to stop by the hotel’s front desk for my room sheet, but I was done. Done with the polite smiles, the agreeing, and the butt-kissing.

I couldn’t do this anymore, but, like Margot Massey, I could go out with a bang.

I stalked the entire way from the country club to the hotel and all but fell against the front desk, my palms slamming onto the surface. “What room is Aaron Astor in?”

Trisha lifted her chin. “I can’t tell you that.”

“I have to deliver his stupid dry cleaning.”If you don’t give me the room number, Trisha, I swear to God…

Brett, who stood beside her, seemed to realize how close I was to violence. He pulled out the plastic-covered dry-cleaned shirt from underneath the desk, holding it out by the hook. “He’s in 801.”

I grabbed a fistful of the plastic and ripped it away, setting off. “You need your cleaning sheet!” Brett called after me, but I ignored him. Ever so faintly, I heard him say, “Looks like Princess didn’t get her bonus either.”

Passed up for the Christmas bonus, all because Aaron Astor wanted to manipulate everyone. He threw me under the bus at the chance to look like a helpless little deer, uncaring of the consequences it’d have for me. And last June—mockingly offering to buy me the dream house. My existence was a joke to him, something to poke fun at and use for amusement.

I was going to take the hanger on his shirt andpokeit down his throat. For amusement.

After fuming in the elevator ride, I stopped in front of 801, panting for air. Squaring my shoulders, I banged my fist on the door. It was eight o’clock in the morning, but I hoped to God that I startled him awake. “Housekeeping,” I called through gritted teeth.

No response. I thumped the door again, hard enough to leave my knuckles aching, but nothing. I slid my keycard against the lock, shoving my way inside.

And found the hotel room empty. The bathroom door was open with the light off, but I could see the black container of toiletries on the counter. After flipping open the deadbolt so the door didn’t fully latch—a move made on autopilot—I ventured into the bedroom, finding the bed made, though not in the way staff were trained to make beds. Surface level. There were no shirts on the floor, no drinks or snacks littering around. It looked like the room of someone who’d been staying a night rather than three days already.

There was even astuffed animalon the bed, a matted teddy bear that’d seen better days. The sight of it completely disarmed me, like I’d been an amp blaring music and someone suddenly twisted the dial off.

Aaron Astor slept with ateddy bear.

I sighed, tightening my grip on Aaron’s shirt, embedding the plastic underneath my fingernails. What was I doing? It wasn’t like Mr. Roberts fired me. I hadn’t even been demoted or dismissed. I was going to throw everything away just because I didn’t get a bonus? Because I got scolded? The unfairness of life wasn’t new to me. Why was I reacting this way? Because of stupid Aaron Astor?

I’d rather die than let him take part in my pivotal life decisions.

Tightening my jaw, I moved to lay the shirt over the back of the desk chair in the corner. There was a stapled pack of papers on the surface, and as I set the shirt down, I caught a glimpse of a bolded line.

Subject:Urgent: Inheritance Deadline Approaching

It was an email, as if it’d been printed from a webpage. I picked it up, knowing I shouldn’t, but reading it anyway.

Dear Mr. Astor,

I trust this email finds you well. As we approach your 26th birthday, I wanted to follow up regarding the provisions outlined in your grandmother’s estate. As you are aware, a specific condition must be met by this date in order for you to receive your full inheritance. Given your current financial situation, I strongly advise prioritizing this matter ahead of April 6thto prevent any complications. Failure to fulfill the outlined requirement will result in the assets being redirected to the alternate beneficiaries, as stipulated in the last will and testament.

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