"A reservation? Here?" She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Look at yourself. You don't have a reservation here, and even if you possessed the delusional funds to book a night, people dressed like that don't step foot inside this establishment. We have standards. We have clientele who pay ten thousand dollars a night not to look at vagrants."
Julian stepped forward nervously, still holding the suitcase. "Ms. Sterling, excuse me, but the gentleman said he has—"
Victoria snapped her head toward the young bellhop, her eyes blazing with fury.
"Did I ask for your input, Julian? Put that filthy piece of junk down and get back to your post immediately! If you touch another piece of garbage on my driveway, I will have your badge stripped before the lunch shift. Do you understand me?"
Julian’s face went pale. He hesitated, looking at the old man with an apologetic gaze, but the sheer terror of losing his job forced him to lower the suitcase gently to the ground.
Arthur did not flinch. He looked at Victoria not with anger, but with the chilling curiosity of a scientist examining an insect under a microscope.
"A hotel is a place of shelter, madam," Arthur said softly. "A place where the tired traveler finds rest. Is that no longer the philosophy of The Aurelius?"
"The Aurelius is an empire of prestige, not a charity house for the homeless," Victoria sneered, leaning in slightly, lowering her voice to a venomous hiss. "Turn around and walk away before I have security drag you off the property and toss you into the gutter where you belong."
A tense silence fell over the front terrace. The other doormen, valets, and arriving guests froze, pretending not to look while drinking in the drama.
Arthur held Victoria’s gaze for a long three seconds. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't curse. He simply gave a subtle, melancholic nod.
Reaching deep inside the tattered pocket of his overcoat, Arthur pulled out a plain, black satellite phone. It was an older model, thick and unbranded, but completely devoid of decorative pretension. He dialed a single-digit speed dial and lifted the device to his ear.
Victoria rolled her eyes dramatically, tapping her foot. "Oh, wonderful. Call whoever you want. The police are already on my speed dial."
Arthur ignored her. When the connection clicked open on the other end, he spoke only seven words:
"Come outside. I’m at the front entrance."
He lowered the phone, slipping it back into his pocket.
"Are you finished with your little performance?" Victoria asked, a smug smirk playing on her crimson lips. "Because your time is up."
Before she could signal the private security guards standing near the perimeter gate, the sound of synchronized, heavy engine roars echoed from the private VIP underground tunnel of the hotel.
Two armored black Cadillac Escalades, flanked by a bespoke Maybach, pulled onto the cobblestone courtyard with urgent precision. The tires hissed to a halt in front of the marble steps.
The doors of the lead vehicle flew open instantly.
Out stepped Jonathan Mercer—the Chief Executive Officer of Aurelius International Hospitality Group—flanked by three senior vice presidents and four personal security officers in tailored dark suits. Mercer was a man who commanded the respect of Wall Street and European royalty, a titan whose presence usually struck fear into the hearts of everyone in the company.