I remove them, Security, escort these unpaid guests out of my property
The Grand Sapphire Resort did not merely exist; it reigned. Perched upon a jagged Mediterranean cliffside, its white marble facade pulsed with a luminous, ethereal light that seemed to emanate from the stone itself. It was a cathedral of opulence, a sanctuary for the world’s most powerful and refined. Within its gilded halls, every detail—from the scent of Mediterranean citrus in the vents to the precisely engineered spectrum of the chandeliers—was the result of a singular, uncompromising vision.
I sat in the lobby lounge, watching the afternoon sun fracture through my crystal glass. Opposite me sat Jason, my fiancé of six months, who was currently preoccupied with the theatrical adjustment of his shirt cuffs. He wanted to ensure his watch caught the light. It was a Patek Philippe, or rather, a convincing counterfeit that he had bought to signal a status he had never actually attained.
“Can you believe this monstrosity?” Jason whispered, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk. “Look at that chandelier. It has to weigh a ton. Probably acrylic, though. These Mediterranean tourist traps are all flash and no substance.”
I tilted my head back, gazing up at the four thousand hand-cut Austrian crystals cascading from the ceiling. I knew for a fact they weren’t acrylic because I had personally signed the purchase order for them three years ago. “It’s breathtaking,” I murmured.
“It’s tacky,” Jason corrected, a dismissive shrug lifting his shoulders. He picked up the leather-bound menu and his face contorted into a scowl. “Twenty dollars for a bottle of water? That’s highway robbery, Clara. Don’t order another one. Back in the trailer park, water came from a hose, right?”
He laughed—a sharp, barking sound that caused heads to turn at nearby tables. He believed he was being charming, playing the role of the benevolent prince who had plucked a commoner from the mire of poverty. He loved the narrative of his own generosity. He had no idea that my “trailer park” days had ended on my eighteenth birthday, the day my proprietary encryption software sold for a nine-figure sum. He didn’t know that I had spent the last decade architecting a real estate empire that spanned three continents. And he certainly didn’t know that he was sitting in the lobby of my flagship hotel.
“My mother has exacting standards, Clara,” Jason continued, wagging a spoon at me. “She comes from old money. Real money. Not whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at my simple linen dress. “So, try not to bring up your background. Or your job. Just smile and look decorative.”
My phone buzzed in my clutch. A text from the General Manager appeared: Welcome home, Madam Chairwoman. The Penthouse is prepped if you need an escape. I suppressed a smile. Jason announced he needed the restroom, but as he walked away, I watched him bypass the facilities and head straight for the lobby bar, where two women were laughing over mojitos.
I waited two minutes, then followed. Concealed behind a large potted palm, I watched as Jason inserted himself between the women with the practiced confidence of a mediocre man.
“What about that girl you were sitting with?” I heard the brunette ask.
Jason scoffed, his face twisting into a mask of disdain. “Her? No, no. That’s Clara. She’s the help—my sister’s nanny. She’s a bit slow. Comes from a rough background. Trailer trash, you know? I let her tag along so she can see how the other half lives. It’s charity, really.”
A cold, clean anger settled in my chest. It wasn’t heartbreak; it was the clarity of realizing I had been dating a parasite. I walked back to the table and sat down before Jason returned, smelling of cheap cologne and hollow triumph.
“Sorry about that,” he said, dropping into his chair. “Line was long.”
Just then, a white stretch limousine pulled up to the entrance. Out stepped Mrs. Gable, a woman wearing enough jewelry to sink a small ship, draped in a fur coat despite the Mediterranean heat. She swept into the lobby like a hurricane of perfume and entitlement.
She didn’t hug her son; she offered him her cheek. Then, she turned her gaze to me, lingering on my beige dress with open scorn. “And you brought her,” she said, as if I were a stray dog. Before I could speak, she shoved her heavy carry-on bag into my arms. “Hold this. It’s Hermes. Be careful.” It was a fake—a decent one, but the stitching was uneven.
“I don’t want to be seen with a frump,” Mrs. Gable snapped. “We are going to the VIP pool party. I need a drink.”
Jason looked nervous. “Mom, I don’t know if we can get in. It’s exclusive.”
“Nonsense,” she replied. “I am a Gable.”
I walked behind them, carrying her bag. I pulled out my phone and texted Henri, the head of service: Let them in. Put them at Cabana 1. And send the most expensive bottle of champagne they order.
We sat at the prime cabana. Mrs. Gable sprawled out, drinking heavily and becoming increasingly venomous. The couple in the next cabana—the CEO of a major European bank and his wife—looked over in shock. The CEO opened his mouth to greet me, but I stared him down until he understood my silence.
“You know,” Mrs. Gable announced loudly, “Jason is a saint. He found this one in a trailer park. She should be washing my feet for being here. Look at her. She thinks she belongs.” She turned to me, eyes glassy and cruel. “You’re a stain on this scenery, Clara.”
She stood up, swaying, holding a full glass of red wine. “In fact,” she said, a wicked smile spreading, “you look thirsty.”
She feigned a stumble. The glass tilted, and dark red wine cascaded down onto the pristine white marble of the cabana, splashing onto my dress and feet. The glass shattered with a sharp crack that silenced the ambient music of the pool deck.
“Oops,” Mrs. Gable said, looking delighted. “Well? Don’t just sit there. Get on your knees and clean it up. You’re used to filth, aren’t you? It should be second nature.”
I stood up slowly. I didn’t reach for a napkin. Instead, I wiped a drop of wine from my arm and looked directly at Henri, who was standing ten feet away with two security guards. I didn’t need to say a word. The signal was in my posture.
“Henri,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I believe the resort has a policy regarding guests who intentionally damage the property and harass the staff.”
Jason jumped up. “Clara, shut up! You’re embarrassing us!”
Henri stepped forward, his face a mask of professional coldness. He didn’t look at Jason. He looked at me and bowed deeply. “Indeed, Madam Chairwoman. Our policy is quite strict regarding such behavior.”
The color drained from Jason’s face. Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped. “Madam… what?”
“Jason,” I said, stepping out of the spilled wine. “I told you I was used to the details. Here is one you missed: I don’t work for your sister. I own this hotel. I own the land it sits on, and I own the company that manufactured the watch you’re currently wearing.”
I turned to Henri. “The Gables are no longer welcome at the Sapphire. Cancel their reservations. Void their ‘discount codes.’ And Henri?”
“Yes, Madam?”
“I remove them,” I said, my voice echoing off the marble. “Security—escort these unpaid guests out of my property. Ensure they are barred from every resort in the Sapphire group, globally.”
As the security team moved in, Jason began to stammer, pleading, trying to grab my hand. Mrs. Gable was screeching about her “reputation,” her fur coat sliding into the puddle of red wine on the floor. I didn’t stay to watch the end of the performance. I walked toward the elevators, the shattered glass crunching under my Louboutins, finally heading toward the penthouse for the peace I had earned.
