At the lobby, Anita saw her dear husband devouring the distance like a man marching to war – shoulders squared, jaw clenched, fire dancing in his eyes.
She didn't stop him. Didn't hide from him either. But he was so preoccupied, so tunnel-visioned on whatever performance he was about to give upstairs, that he failed to notice her standing right there – calm, poised, a storm in silk heels.
Let him keep charging into battle without realizing the war had already shifted.
Instead of leaving, Anita turned on her heel and walked over to the concierge desk with quiet purpose. The receptionist, a young woman barely out of college, straightened nervously the second she met Anita's gaze.
"I'd like to lay a formal complaint," Anita said smoothly, her voice dipped in grace and iron. "About your VIP policies. And your failure to vet your guest lists properly."
The girl blinked. "Ma'am, I–I'm so sorry. Can I ask what happened?"
