Rain clung to the city like a silk veil, misting the glass of the luxury Crown Heights Hotel. The gleaming chandelier in the lobby reflected on the polished floors, shimmering like a thousand eyes watching from above. Beneath them, Arya Mehra stepped inside for the first time, clutching her staff ID like a lifeline. Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was it—the fresh start she'd been craving since the night that ruined everything.
"You must be Arya," the front desk manager smiled, tight-lipped, her eyes sharp. "Welcome to Crown Heights."
Arya bowed slightly. "Thank you. I'm really excited to be here."
She was led through orientation with practiced efficiency. The uniforms were crisp, the halls quiet except for the whispers of elegance. Staff members moved with urgency, always alert, always aware. Every step inside the hotel whispered secrets—some rooms breathed wealth, others danger.
"One rule," her supervisor said firmly as they stood before the service elevator. "Never approach Room 306. Never look for its guest. If you see a request from that room, report it to me. Understood?"
Arya blinked. "What's in Room 306?"
The woman's jaw tensed. "Nothing you need to know. Just follow protocol."
She nodded, though curiosity itched behind her eyes.
---
By evening, she was already exhausted. Her shoes pinched, her arms ached from carrying trays, and she'd spilled espresso on a businessman's $800 tie. Still, she was determined not to give up.
She sat in the staff kitchen, sipping lukewarm coffee, when the call came through the radio.
"Wine service requested. Penthouse. Room 306."
Her heart skipped.
"I'll take it," she heard herself say before anyone else responded. It was her chance to prove herself. Maybe they'd see she could handle more responsibility. Maybe she'd finally feel... in control.
The wine was already in a silver bucket, its neck sweating. She grabbed the tray, straightened her collar, and stepped into the private elevator with her pulse humming in her ears.
As the lift rose, so did her nerves. She knew the stories whispered in the break room. No one had seen the guest of 306. No one had spoken to him twice. Some said he was a prince. Others said he owned the hotel. One girl swore he once tipped her ten grand just to walk away without a word.
The elevator stopped with a soft chime.
The penthouse floor.
Arya stepped into a hushed corridor wrapped in gold and shadows. Her shoes barely made a sound on the velvet carpet. Room 306 stood at the end, its black door tall and commanding.
She took a breath and knocked.
A pause. Then, the soft click of a lock.
The door opened, just enough.
Eyes. Ice-gray. Sharp as glass and twice as cold.
"Wine," she said, her voice betraying her nerves.
He said nothing.
The door opened wider.
Lucien Moretti leaned against the frame, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up. His presence hit her like a sudden storm—dark, magnetic, terrifying. His gaze dipped to the tray she held.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said quietly, voice like velvet laced with menace.
"It was assigned to me by mistake, sir. I didn't—"
He took the tray from her hands, then his fingers brushed hers—intentionally.
Arya's breath caught.
"Mistakes have consequences."
Her lips parted. "I... I didn't mean—"
He stepped aside. "Come in."
She hesitated. Every instinct told her to run. But something else—curiosity? Defiance?—kept her rooted.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, warm with flickering shadows. Expensive. Masculine. Dangerous.
She took a cautious step inside.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Lucien poured the wine slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "What's your name?"
"Arya."
He offered the glass. She took it with trembling hands.
He smirked. "Arya... the intern."
Her name on his lips sounded like sin.
"Do you always follow orders so blindly?"
She blinked. "No. Just trying to be good at my job."
"And what if your job requires more than you're prepared to give?"
The question hung between them like smoke.
She set the untouched glass down. "I should go."
He moved closer.
"You stepped into my world, Arya. I didn't ask you to. But now that you have... I decide when you leave."
She looked up at him, breath quickening.
Something shifted in the air—a promise of chaos wrapped in charm.
His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was possessive, as if claiming her in silence.
"You made a mistake," he whispered, voice low, lips near her ear.
Arya's spine stiffened.
"I'll report to my supervisor," she said, finding some ground beneath her.
Lucien smiled faintly. "Do that. And let's see how long they let you stay..."
Her stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"
He leaned in again, breath hot against her neck.
"This hotel doesn't run without my approval."
The truth settled like lead.
He was no ordinary guest.
Arya turned, heart racing, and opened the door.
"Good night, Mr. Moretti."
Behind her, Lucien's voice chased her down the corridor—soft, lethal, and seductive.
"You'll be back, Arya."
His voice made her legs weaken...
And as the elevator doors closed, sealing her in safety once more, she realized something chilling.
She wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of how he made her feel.
And that... was the real mistake.
To be continued.....