Chapter 5
971 Words
Susan
Thirty minutes later, I descended the stairs dressed in my work uniform: a crisp white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt that ended just above my knees, topped with a fitted black vest. My hair was neatly tied back into a bun at the nape of my neck, secured with a black ribbon. The only accessory I wore was a sleek wristwatch—my mother’s birthday gift to me when I turned twenty-three.
Mom caught sight of me from the upper landing, her smile blooming instantly.
“You look stunning, sweetheart.”
Heat rose to my cheeks at the compliment. I returned her smile. “You say that every morning, Mom. I’m starting to think you’re just biased.”
She let out a light laugh. “Well, I mean it. You really do look wonderful.”
Just then, Rose emerged from the kitchen carrying a bunch of freshly picked pink roses from Mom’s miniature garden. Her gaze found mine, and her lips curved into a warm smile. She replaced the wilted blooms in the vase before walking over.
“I packed you some lunch, Susan,” she said, setting a lunch bag on the kitchen counter and offering it to me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmured, accepting it anyway with a grateful smile.
“It’s no trouble. There’s plenty left for us.”
“You should get going, sweetheart. You don’t want to be late,” Mom reminded me gently.
My heels clicked softly against the rug as I leaned in to kiss her temple. “Don’t forget to take your meds, and please don’t sit in front of the TV all day, okay?” I said with a note of concern. “I’m heading out. Take care, Mom.”
I glanced at Rose, who gave me a firm nod. “Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of her,” she promised, her voice reassuring.
“I know you will.” I smiled at her.
Honestly, I worried too much. But if anyone could be trusted with Mom, it was Rose—my best friend since we were twelve.
“Call me if anything important happens,” I added.
She waved a hand. “Go on already. And don’t skip lunch!”
“I won’t, Mom. Especially not when the food smells this good,” I replied, closing the door behind me.
Outside, the sky stretched endlessly overhead, painted in a serene shade of blue. Puffy clouds drifted lazily, promising a beautiful day.
Tearing my eyes away, I slipped into a waiting cab. Leaning back against the leather seat, I watched the world pass by. Old habits die hard—I found myself gazing at birds slicing through the sky, wishing for even a fraction of their freedom.
The cab zipped through the city streets, finally pulling up in front of La Paraiso, a towering landmark in the heart of downtown. The Glass family owned the sprawling hotel.
La Paraiso—Spanish for “paradise”—had been named after my soon-to-be ex-husband's mother, who came from a Spanish lineage.
After paying the driver, I stepped out, lunch bag in hand.
The hotel gleamed under the morning sun, its design resembling a modern palace. It was the biggest hotel in the country and catered to high society—celebrities, aristocrats, politicians. A true haven for the wealthy.
Heading toward the employee entrance, I flashed my ID badge at the guard and made my way inside. I greeted a few coworkers in the dining area before slipping into the staff room to clock in. Then I grabbed a few cleaning tools and joined the team in prepping the restaurant before it opened.
With an hour to go, I glanced at my watch and got to work sanitizing the tables and chairs. My hands moved in rhythmic circles with the dishrag until the surfaces gleamed. Then I picked up a mop and started clearing the faint marks off the floor.
I was so engrossed that I didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching behind me. Only when a shadow lingered did I pause.
“Can we talk, Susan?”
I whirled around, gasping. There he was—Tristan Glass. My husband.
The room stilled.
Every staff member paused, bowing slightly. “Good morning, Mr. Glass,” they greeted in chorus, eyes low.
Regaining my composure, I forced a tight smile. “Good morning, Mr. Glass,” I replied coolly. Internally, though, I was unleashing curses in five languages. The day had started off so well—and now, he had to ruin it.
“I said, can we talk?” he repeated, jaw tight and brows drawn together in that signature scowl.
“Aren’t we talking already, sir?” I asked sweetly, lacing venom into my words. If glares could kill, Tristan would’ve dropped on the spot.
A few audible gasps echoed from the staff. No one ever challenged Tristan Glass and kept their job. But none of them knew he was my husband. To them, I probably seemed like a lunatic.
“See me in my office, Susan.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. The staff scattered like startled birds.
Tristan Glass, CEO of Glass Hotels, had a reputation for firing employees faster than you could blink. People tiptoed around him. I wished I could do the same—pretend he didn’t exist.
“Susan. Now,” he barked from the doorway, every word dipped in irritation.
I sighed and said evenly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Glass. We have important VIP guests arriving today, and we’re already short-staffed—probably because you fired five people last week. I’ll see you when I have time.”
With that, I waved him off and turned my attention back to my mop.
- Writer
