Closer to her.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

The words, laced with venom, slithered from the receptionist's mouth before she could stop herself.

Her once-cheerful smile had contorted into a sneer—the kind reserved for those she believed had no right standing where they were.

Caleb didn't flinch. He simply raised a brow, his expression unreadable—calm, distant, almost too composed.

It wasn't anger that showed on his face—it was something deeper. Disappointment. A tired, knowing silence that wrapped around him like armor.

He didn't say a word. Not immediately.

The receptionist felt her confidence falter for a beat. She suddenly realized how tall he stood, how steady his eyes were—how unimpressed he looked with her performance.

For someone wearing such casual clothes, he didn't carry himself like someone unsure. He didn't argue, didn't try to prove anything. He just stared. It was enough to make her shift uneasily.

Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. Several. Quick, decisive, and firm.

From the hallway behind the reception desk, a man in a tailored navy-blue suit emerged, holding a tablet in one hand and a frown on his face.

He was tall, maybe in his late forties, with streaks of gray brushing the sides of his hair and a no-nonsense air about him.

He looked around sharply until his eyes found Caleb—then his entire demeanor changed. His frown softened, posture straightened, and in an instant, he walked over with urgency and purpose.

"Mr. Caleb Monrrow?" the man asked, his tone respectful but cautious.

Caleb gave a small nod.

The receptionist turned rigid, her face paling. She hadn't even known his full name—hadn't cared to ask.

'Monrrow? He's a Monrrow?' His last name alone was enough to strike fear to the depths of her soul.

The man continued, "I'm Gregory Vane, manager of this hotel. Miss Lucy has instructed me personally to bring you to her suite. She's been expecting you."

The receptionist nearly gasped. 'Miss Lucy? As in Naya Lucy?'

Before she could fully process it, Gregory turned to her with a look that could freeze fire.

"Emily," he said, voice tight but controlled, "step away from the desk. Now."

"But sir, I didn't know—" she began.

"That is exactly the problem," Gregory snapped, his voice cracking like a whip, sharp enough to silence everyone in the lobby. "Your job is to offer service, not judgment. If Miss Lucy entrusted Mr. Monrrow to us, he should have been treated with the utmost respect. Consider yourself on review."

Emily's lips trembled. Her gaze dropped to the marble floor. For the first time, embarrassment bloomed in her chest—thick and overwhelming.

The sting of her own arrogance laced with fear. She had tried to humiliate someone she assumed was beneath her, only to realize she might have spat in the face of someone leagues above her pay grade.

Caleb looked at the receptionist. This particular scene took him back to when he lost his job.

It was not fully her fault; he had dragged his response for far too long, although it still didn't warrant such a rude remark.

He could see the pleading look in her eyes. He was certain if he didn't speak, she would be fired.

It reminded him how powerless he had been then. How Kevin had stomped on his work—showed him how cruel the world was to the poor.

He didn't want anyone else to go through that.

"Right this way, sir," Gregory said, his voice softening again as he gestured toward the elevator.

"Wait," Caleb calmly called the man back.

"Yes, Sir Caleb?" Gregory asked with a raised brow.

"I'd like to ask that you pardon her. It was just a small matter," Caleb requested.

Emily's eyes lit up. Unconsciously, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

She thought she had lost her job, but Caleb was kind enough to stand up for her.

Looking back at Emily, he added as a note of warning, "You too—never look down on others, regardless of looks, dressing, or whatever."

Emily bowed her head deeply.

"Thank you, sir," she said quietly.

Caleb gave a silent nod before leaving with the hotel manager.

[Ding! Host has unlocked new tab! Character Stats. It can be accessed on the system panel.]

[Charm +10] [Popularity +10]

'Wow, extra perks unlocked... that's great,' Caleb thought to himself in surprise.

He was elated to see the system notification. It gave him hope that rewards would definitely come if he managed to seduce Naya.

Gregory didn't pry, didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He simply scanned his tablet to access the executive floors.

Inside the elevator, silence hung for a moment before Gregory broke it.

"She's been... unusually quiet this morning. I believe something's weighing on her," he said, glancing briefly at Caleb.

Caleb's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did she say anything?"

"No. Only that I was to come get you myself. That's rare—Miss Lucy prefers distance."

Caleb nodded. That confirmed it. Whatever had made her call him so early... it wasn't trivial.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. The hallway was vastly different from the ground floor—carpeted in dark velvet tones, lit with ambient golden hues.

Privacy, luxury, and silence intertwined in the very air. Gregory led him to the last door at the end of the corridor and paused.

"She's inside," he said. "And... Mr. Monrrow?"

Caleb turned to him.

Gregory looked sincere. "Thank you for handling that situation with grace. Not everyone would've."

Caleb gave a small nod. "She's already embarrassed enough. That's punishment enough."

Gregory managed a faint smile before leaving. The door clicked shut behind Caleb as he entered.

The suite was dim, curtains drawn, and the room smelled faintly of roses and gunpowder—an odd, but oddly fitting combination.

Caleb stepped further in and spotted her.

Naya stood by the window, dressed in a loose black blouse and jeans—nothing like her usual all-business attire.

Her long dark hair was unbraided, cascading over her shoulders in waves. She looked... restless.

She didn't turn. "Took you long enough."

"You didn't exactly give me directions," Caleb replied, his tone neutral.

A pause. Then her voice softened—barely.

"I know. Sorry."

Caleb raised an eyebrow. 'That's new.'

He walked over slowly. "Something happen?"

She finally turned to look at him. There were faint shadows under her eyes, and her usual icy demeanor was cracked—like she'd been up all night trying not to drown in her thoughts.

"He attacked me," she said.

Caleb didn't need to ask who 'he' was.

"How close?"

"Close enough to rattle me. Not close enough to take the shot."

He walked to the minibar, poured a glass of water, and handed it to her. She accepted it with a small nod, drinking in slow sips.

"Why call me?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Naya hesitated, her eyes meeting his. For a brief second, the steel in her gaze melted.

"Because I didn't want to be alone," she admitted, her voice low. "Not today."

Caleb blinked. The admission, though soft, landed with the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

She didn't trust easily, didn't open doors—literal or emotional. But today, she had.

"Alright," he said, pulling a chair and sitting down, "then let's not be alone."

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—gratitude, maybe—but she looked away before he could be sure.

They sat in silence for a while. No need to fill the space with words. Sometimes, presence was enough. And Caleb understood that.

Outside, the city moved as usual—cars honking, people rushing, lives unfolding.

But in that room, something shifted.

Trust.

A clear opportunity for Caleb.

---