I recognized my ex-husband Marcus the second he stepped out of room 1402 at the Grand Monarch Hotel, holding hands with his new fiancé.
Part 1
I stood frozen in my faded room service uniform, pushing a heavy stainless-steel food cart while seven months pregnant with a child he knew nothing about.
When Marcus caught my eye, his face went pale, his voice trembling as he asked how I ended up working room service after disappearing three years ago.
I didn’t answer him, nor did I explain that his stepfather Duke had forced me into hiding after murdering my younger brother.
I simply asked him to step back into his room, pushed my cart down the hallway, and prepared to finish the war Duke thought he had won.
The plush carpet of the Grand Monarch muffled the usual sounds of the luxury hotel, making the silence between us feel unnervingly vast. Only the soft hum of the air conditioning broke the tension.
Marcus’s eyes, once so warm and familiar, were now wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief. He looked from my swollen belly to my worn uniform, then back to my face.
His grip on Tasha’s hand tightened, almost imperceptibly, as if for reassurance.
Tasha Williams, chic in a fitted cream suit, glanced at me with an impatient flicker in her dark eyes before looking pointedly at Marcus. Her expression clearly asked him, “Who is this?”
He seemed to forget she was even there. His gaze was locked on me, searching for something he’d lost three years ago.
“Lisa?” His voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of the man who once called my name with tenderness. “What are you doing here?”
He took a hesitant step toward me, his hand reaching out.
I instinctively took a step back, my hand resting protectively over my stomach. The heavy food cart acted as a physical barrier between us.
“Marcus, please,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “You need to return to your room.”
My instruction was a reflex, a shield I had perfected over years of living under a false name, Maria Johnson. Lisa Washington-Gaines was a dead woman, officially.
“But… room service?” He gestured vaguely at my uniform, then at the cart. “I thought you… they said you just left. Vanished. With the money.”
His confusion was genuine, the accusation unspoken but heavy in the air. He didn’t know the truth, not fully.
Tasha cleared her throat, her designer heels clicking softly on the carpet as she pulled Marcus gently backward, a warning glance in his direction.
“Darling, is there a problem?” she asked, her tone sweet but with an edge of steel.
Marcus barely registered her. He was still staring, piecing together a reality that defied every lie he’d been fed.
“Seven months pregnant,” he muttered, his eyes tracing the curve of my belly. “Lisa, talk to me. What happened?”
My resolve hardened. This was not the time or place for explanations. Every second I stood here, my cover as Maria Johnson was eroding.
Duke had eyes everywhere in this city, a network that stretched from the South Side streets to the highest floors of corporate hotels. This chance encounter was too dangerous.
“I have a delivery to make,” I stated, my voice firm. I pushed the heavy cart forward, forcing Marcus to step aside or be run over.
He moved, but his eyes never left mine, a desperate plea for answers burning in their depths.
I didn’t give him any. I simply maneuvered the large cart past him, down the long hallway, toward the service elevator at the far end.
The elevator doors hissed open, revealing a cramped, empty space. I wheeled the cart inside, the stainless steel clattering slightly against the metal floor.
I turned back, catching Marcus’s eye one last time before the doors began to slide shut. He looked lost, abandoned, just as I had felt when I fled three years ago.
Then the gap narrowed, and he was gone, replaced by my own reflection in the polished metal doors.
As the elevator descended, I pulled out the small burner phone hidden in my uniform pocket. My fingers flew across the keypad, dialling a familiar number.
It rang once, twice, before a low, gravelly voice answered.
“D-Train,” I whispered, keeping my voice low, even though I was alone.
“Lisa? What’s wrong? You never call this line unless—”
“My cover’s blown,” I cut him off, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Marcus saw me. At the Grand Monarch. As Maria Johnson.”
A beat of stunned silence followed.
“He knows I’m alive,” I clarified, a cold dread seeping into my bones. “Which means Duke will know soon enough.”
Part 2
The elevator doors closed, leaving Marcus alone in the opulent hallway. Tasha stood beside him, her hand still linked to his, but he barely registered her presence. His mind reeled. Lisa, seven months pregnant, working room service. It defied everything he thought he knew.
He stared at the spot where she had been. The $400,000. The syndicate money Duke had insisted she stole. It didn’t add up. Why would she be pushing a cart, wearing that uniform, if she had absconded with all that cash?
“Marcus, what was that?” Tasha’s voice was tight, her patience clearly worn thin.
He didn’t answer her. He pulled his hand free and walked straight into their suite, room 1402, without a word. The luxury of the room felt sickeningly hollow.
He grabbed his phone, his fingers trembling as he dialled a number he hated to call.
It rang twice before Duke’s smooth, dangerous voice answered. “Marcus. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Duke, I just saw Lisa,” Marcus blurted out, his voice hoarse. “Here, at the hotel. She’s working room service. And she’s pregnant.”
A beat of chilling silence stretched across the line.
“Pregnant?” Duke’s voice was low, laced with an anger that made Marcus flinch. “I told you she was long gone. Buried under some alias in Miami. This is… unexpected.”
“She didn’t take the money, did she?” Marcus pressed, a terrible realization dawning on him. “She looked… poor.”
“She plays a good game, Marcus,” Duke said, his tone devoid of warmth. “Stay in your room. Do not leave. We’ll handle this. I’m sending some people over to the hotel right now.”
The line went dead. Marcus stared at his phone, a cold dread twisting in his gut.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit service elevator, I pressed the button for the basement. My heart still hammered, but my mind was already racing, planning my next move. Duke’s people would be here soon.
The doors opened to the industrial hum of the hotel’s laundry and staff areas. I wheeled the cart past mountains of soiled linen and industrial washing machines, the smell of bleach filling the air.
I found my designated locker, number 187, in the quietest corner of the employee changing room. It was a metal box, scarred with dents and old stickers.
Quickly, I stripped off the faded room service uniform. My movements were practiced, efficient. I reached into the locker, feeling for the false bottom.
My fingers found the hidden catch. It clicked open, revealing a small, waterproof pouch. Inside, nestled among a few spare coins and a broken pen, was the encrypted flash drive.
I palmed the drive, securing it in my jeans pocket. This was my leverage. My last hope.
A shiver ran down my spine, a primal instinct warning me. I needed to move.
Outside the hotel, a sleek black sedan glided silently into the employee parking bay. The driver, Andre “Dre” Barksdale, Duke’s enforcer, cut the engine. He scanned the rows of beat-up staff cars, a grim look on his face.
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