Julian sneered, shaking his head. "Look at that, a vagrant with a stolen phone. Call whoever you want, old man, security will have you both in zip-ties before—"
The old man ignored him completely. He pressed speed-dial, lifted the device to his ear, and spoke into the receiver with a deep, authoritative baritone that echoed off the high marble ceilings.
"I’ve seen enough," he said with absolute calm. "Tell the board of trustees... I found my candidate."
Julian’s sneer froze mid-breath. The color drained from his face until his skin matched the white lilies on the front counter.
The old man lowered the phone and stood up. Even dressed in wet rags, his posture towered over the general manager with an undeniable weight of authority.
"My name is Arthur Carlyle," the man said, his cold grey eyes piercing Julian like steel daggers. "Founder and majority shareholder of Carlyle International Hotels. For thirty years, my family built this hospitality brand on the premise that welcoming the weary was a sacred duty."
Arthur turned to Julian, whose knees were visibly trembling beneath his tailored slacks.