The words landed harder than they should have. Marcus looked at Clare, then at the roses bending in his hand, and realized this was no longer about a room. It was about who deserved kindness when nobody powerful seemed to be watching.
Before Marcus could ask for the manager, a housekeeping supervisor stepped out from the side corridor carrying folded linens against her chest. She was around fifty, with silver threaded through her dark hair and a burgundy vest buttoned neatly over a tired uniform. Her name tag read Dolores Alvarez. She paused when she saw Sophie sleeping against Marcus, the roses crushed in his fist, and the two clerks standing behind the desk with the cold patience people reserve for strangers they have already dismissed.
“Excuse me,” Dolores said, setting the linens on a luggage cart. “Is everything all right here?”
Clare’s eyes flashed. “We’re handling it.”
Dolores did not move away. She looked at Marcus instead. “Sir?”