Chapter Ten: "Hotel Desk Guy: ‘Sorry, Just One Room, Bro’"

"Tell your manager Ethan Black's here—get us a spot," Ethan said to the waiter, cool as a cucumber. Fresh off claiming PrimeBite's ownership, he was riding high—and starving. No way was he schlepping to another joint.

The waiter hesitated, then nodded. "Uh… sure, hang tight." He scurried back inside to fetch the boss-man.

Bryce Tanner smirked, arms crossed. "Pfft, good luck, newbie. I'm a gold member—know the manager—and I couldn't get in. You think one name-drop's gonna work? Dream on." Tara and her crew nodded skeptically—Ethan was toast. Bryce leaned back, practically popping popcorn for the show. This kid's about to crash and burn—especially in front of Sophia. Can't wait. After his own flop, Ethan's fail would be the cherry on his petty sundae.

Inside PrimeBite's office, Manager Mike Rollins was reeling. His phone just buzzed with the old owner's bombshell: "Sold the place. You're off the hook—new guy's in charge." Mike blinked. "Sold? PrimeBite's a goldmine—why ditch it?" Must've been a fat stack, he figured. His cell pinged again—ex-boss sent the new owner's deets.

One look at Ethan Black's photo, and Mike's jaw dropped. "What the—? This kid's barely old enough to drink! And he's got the cash to buy this?" A 20-something tycoon? Ethan's bank account had to be flexing harder than a bodybuilder on TikTok. "Ethan Black… Mr. Black…" he muttered, still processing.

Knock knock. "Come in!"

The waiter poked his head in. "Sir, one of Bryce Tanner's group—some guy named Ethan Black—he's asking—"

"Bryce again?" Mike snapped, waving him off. "Told you, no cuts—tell him to wait!" Bryce's dad was a fading bigwig—Mike didn't owe him squat anymore. Rules were rules.

"Yes, sir," the waiter said, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Mike's eyes flicked to Ethan's name on his screen. "Hold up—what'd you say? Ethan Black?"

"Yeah," the waiter nodded.

Mike shot up like he'd sat on a tack. "Show me—does he look like this?" He thrust his phone forward, Ethan's pic glowing.

"Yep, that's him," the waiter confirmed.

Mike's face went white. "Holy—get him in here, now! VIP suite—pronto!"

"But, sir, we're full—"

"We've got the private suites, genius!" Mike barked. "Move it!" PrimeBite had three exclusive rooms—diamond-tier or big shots only. Ethan wasn't just a shot; he was the whole damn cannon. Mike grabbed his jacket and bolted out to greet him personally.

Outside, Bryce was mid-taunt. "Ethan, you done yet? If you can't hack it, let's bounce—quit wasting our time. You're not even a bronze member, and you think you'll skip the line? Cute."

Before Ethan could clap back, footsteps pounded. Out waddled Mike Rollins—potbelly, suit, and a grin like he'd won the lottery. "Mr. Black! Boss! You're here—please, come in!" He bowed so low his tie hit the pavement.

Record scratch. Everyone froze. Tara's crew gaped. Bryce's smirk imploded. "Boss?!" Tara squeaked. "What's happening?!" Sophia's brows ticked up—her iciest thaw yet. Mike ushering Ethan in personally? This was next-level.

Bryce stammered, "No way—this can't—huh?!" He'd been brushed off like lint, but Ethan got the red carpet? Why?! Then it clicked—Mike's "boss" slip. "Wait… Ethan's… the owner?!" Tara gasped, voice trembling. "You own PrimeBite?!"

"Yeah," Ethan said, strolling past. "Just bought it. No biggie."

The words hit like a nuke. Bought it?! A $20 million restaurant, snapped up like a Black Friday deal? Bryce's face drained to ghost-white. His gold-member flex—six figures spent—looked like pocket change next to Ethan's takeover. "I bragged to the owner about my membership?" he wheezed. "I'm a clown—a full-on circus act!"

Mike led them to a plush private suite—leather seats, crystal chandeliers, the works. Abigail "Abby" Carter rolled in minutes later, mid-apology: "Sorry, got held up!" Bryce ate in silence, trembling like a scolded puppy. Tara's gang flipped from "meh" to "please, Ethan, notice me!"—kissing the ring hard. Sophia stayed chill, but her eyes lingered on Ethan. First the villa, now this? Curiosity burned hotter. Who was this guy?

Dinner wrapped, and Tara's posse peeled off with Bryce—defeated and deflated. Ethan, Sophia, and Abby hit the streets, wandering 'til—oops—10 p.m. sneaked up. "Crap," Abby said, checking her phone. "Dorm's locked by 10:30—we're toast."

"Hotel it is," Ethan shrugged. "No big deal—I'll call in a sick day tomorrow." Sophia hesitated—solo with Ethan?—but Abby's presence sealed it. "Fine," she nodded.

Ethan picked a swanky spot nearby. As they approached, Abby piped up: "You two grab rooms—I'm craving a mango smoothie. Be right back!" She tossed her ID to Sophia and darted off, winking at Ethan. Wingwoman strikes again.

Ethan and Sophia hit the front desk. "Hey, got any rooms?" Ethan asked.

The clerk—20-something, glued to his phone—grunted, "Yeah, sure…"

"Cool, two rooms," Ethan said.

The guy glanced up, clocked Ethan with Sophia, and smirked. "Uh… oops, my bad. Only one room left." He shot Ethan a bro-nod, like, I got you, man—seal the deal.

Ethan blinked. Sophia's jaw tightened. Abby's smoothie run just got a lot more suspicious—and the game? Ethan's phone buzzed:

[Auto-Purchase Detected: Luxury Yacht, $7.50 – Acquired]

[Next Suggested Item: Private Island, $10.00]

[Warning: Reality's Wildin'. Good Luck.]

Outside, that black SUV idled closer. One room, one yacht, one stalker—Ethan's night was about to get interesting.