Page 94 of No Mistakes
I force myself forward, reminding myself I’m meant to be a company director who is used to this life as we pass the boutiques.
Once we enter the lobby, it’s like the world just…opens.
The ceiling explodes into a thousand shards of colour as an entire garden of glass flowers glows above us. The marble floor beneath us mirrors it like a lake, every step echoing as if the place itself is listening. Columns rise around the reception desk, polished and flawless, the kind of wealth that doesn’t ask for attention; it demands it.
Eva whistles low, her voice barely carrying, “Subtle,” she mutters.
I laugh under my breath, but it doesn’t last. The weight settles back over my shoulders the second I glance at the reception desk. The girls behind it smile politely, perfect and sharp in their uniforms, like even their friendliness is rehearsed.
Eva brushes her hand against mine, a small reminder. I straighten my spine, sliding the paper back into my pocket, and step forward. Director Clara Weston. That’s who I am now.
The girl behind the counter greets us with a polished smile, hands folded perfectly on the desk. “Good evening, ladies. Welcome to Bellagio. Do you have a reservation with us?”
I slide the folded paper across the counter like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Clara Weston, I should have a room booked under that name.” My voice sounds steady, strong, exactly how a director should sound.
The receptionist types quickly, nails clicking against the keyboard. “Yes, Ms Weston. And… Ms. Ford?” Her eyes flick towards Eva.
“Kate,” Eva says, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. She leans closer, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, “I’m going to strangle both of our men when this is over.”
I bite down on my lip, fighting the smirk threatening to ruin my persona.
“Everything is in order,” the receptionist says, sliding two sleek black key cards across the desk towards us. “Room 2319 - fountain view, two queen beds. Elevators are just past the lobby to your right.”
“Thank you,” I say smoothly, watching Eva take the keys. My legs feel too tight in my heels as we step away, the pressure bearing down on me.
I feel Eva’s eyes on me as we walk, but I keep my chin up, shoulders back, steps measured. Director Clara Weston doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t stumble. She doesn’t let her voice shake when the world is watching.
But deep inside, Mandy’s counting the hours. Five left. Five hours until I walk into hell.
We make it to the elevators without a word, the silence between us heavier than the noise around us. Inside, Eva leans against the mirrored wall, arms folded, her reflection sharp and unreadable.
It doesn’t take long for us to reach our floor, the doors opening, revealing a long corridor. We find our room, and Eva slips the key card in; the door unlocks on the first try. She shoots me a wink, pushing it open.
Two queen beds sit in the middle of the room, a bar opposite them, where the drink of courage calls my name. A flat-screen TV is anchored to the wall above it, a slideshow of photos playing as it takes us on a virtual tour of the hotel. I step closer, the carpet soft, swallowing the sound of my steps.
I move to the window, the sheer curtains brushing against my arm as I press my hands to the glass.
“Woah,” I whisper.
The fountains spread across the ground below, dancing water bursting high into the night sky, perfectly in sync with thecity’s glow. Lights flicker off the surface, rippling like liquid gold before crashing back down in a steady rhythm. It’s hypnotic, almost too perfect, like the whole city is trying to distract us with beauty while monsters walk in the shadows.
Eva drops her bag onto the nearest bed with a sigh, her body releasing all the tension from the last few weeks.
“Home sweet home,” she mutters, kicking off her heels.
I move away from the window, walking back towards the door to pick up my bag, securing the locks before leaning against it.
Eva studies me carefully, her face full of concern. “You okay?”
I force a smile, even though my stomach tries to tell me otherwise. “Of course. Just rehearsing my lines for later.”
She snorts, flopping backwards. “Clara Weston, ice queen of the auction house. Should’ve brought a tiara.” She says, while her hands create a rainbow effect in the air.
I laugh, thankful for having her in my life. “Shut up.”
For a brief moment, it feels almost normal. Just us, hiding nerves behind sarcasm like we’ve done from the moment we met. I push myself away from the door, but something at the bottom of the door catches my attention as something slips under it.
“Eva…” I start, never taking my eyes off the paper.
