Story code: ST-001232
Part 4: Bitter Release
The lobby fell quiet, save for the hum of the cooling fans on the production lights. The guests near the VIP lounge had stopped talking, their heads turned toward the reception desk. Marcus stepped toward the producer, his hands raised, fingers twitching.
‘We can do a retake,’ he said, his voice losing its theatrical resonance and turning thin. ‘The microphone must have picked up background feedback. Elena and I were just discussing administrative details.’
The producer did not hand him the tablet. She turned it so he could see the interface. ‘The stream had four thousand live viewers, Marcus. The clip of you telling her she’s replaceable is already trending locally. We are not doing a retake.’
Arthur looked down at the gold-trimmed card in his hand. He stepped to the elevator bank, tapped the wall sensor, and waited. When the doors opened, he stepped inside. Five minutes later, the elevator doors opened again. Arthur walked back to the reception desk, his leather bag slung over his shoulder. He laid the keycard on the marble.
‘The reader outside Room 102 green-lighted,’ Arthur said, his voice steady but quiet. ‘But that is a standard room behind the laundry chute. My reservation receipt was for 402.’
I pressed the keycard against the reader on my desk. The terminal screen refreshed, displaying the card’s active directory.
‘The card is programmed for Room 102, Mr. Pendelton,’ I said.
Marcus reached over the counter, his hand slamming flat onto the plastic casing of the reader. ‘I will handle this. Elena, step away from the terminal.’
‘The transaction log shows your login ID, Mr. Vance,’ I said, pointing to the line on the screen. ‘The change was made at 18:45.’
Arthur looked at the screen, then looked Marcus in the eye. He did not raise his voice. ‘My wife and I spent thirty years coming here. You used my name to look good on television.’ He picked up his leather bag, turned, and walked toward the sliding glass doors of the lobby, leaving the keycard on the desk.
The next morning, the GM’s office was silent. The blinds were drawn, letting in thin strips of gray morning light. The human resources director sat behind the desk, a blue folder open before her.
‘Marcus Vance’s employment has been terminated, effective immediately,’ she said, her voice brisk. She slid a document across the desk toward me. ‘This is a standard separation agreement and non-disclosure form. It outlines a severance package for your cooperation.’
I read the document. It barred me from speaking about the reservation logs or the broadcast incident.
‘I will not sign this,’ I said.
The director’s face hardened. She took the document back and replaced it with a second file. ‘If you resign without signing, you are in breach of the early-departure clause of your twelve-month training contract. The buyout fee is two thousand five hundred dollars, payable immediately to release your certification and references.’
I took my checkbook from my purse. I wrote the check for two thousand five hundred dollars, signed it, and pushed it across the desk. The director stamped the contract release form with a red ink pad, signed the receipt, and slid the carbon copy to my side of the table.
I took the receipt, walked out of the GM’s office, and crossed the empty lobby. The digital displays were blank. I pushed through the glass doors into the morning air, the receipt folded flat in my pocket.