“My daughter just needs a bed,” Marcus whispered, holding roses for his dead wife. The clerk smirked, “Try somewhere cheaper.” She had no idea the exhausted man she humiliated owned the entire hotel.

Marcus Whitfield entered the Aldridge Grand Hotel with his six-year-old daughter asleep on his shoulder and a crushed bouquet of red roses in his hand. The lobby glittered like money—marble floors, brass lamps, polished guests laughing near the bar—but Marcus looked like a man who had barely survived the day. His brown leather jacket was creased from the flight, Sophie’s pink coat was twisted under his arm, and the stuffed bear tucked against her cheek had one ear hanging by a thread.

Tomorrow was the third anniversary of his wife Elena’s death. Every year, he and Sophie placed roses in a vase before breakfast, not because grief became easier, but because rituals gave it somewhere to stand. Marcus had bought the flowers during a rushed airport connection, promising himself that no matter how tired he was, the tradition would survive another year.

At the front desk, a blonde clerk named Clare looked him over before he finished saying his name. Beside her, another employee, Renata, folded her arms as if Marcus had already become a problem.

“Reservation under Whitfield,” Marcus said softly, keeping his voice low so Sophie would not wake.

Clare typed for five seconds, then stopped. “I don’t see anything.”