First, my flight was delayed by a storm that decided to reach its dramatic crescendo exactly fifteen minutes before take-off, leaving me wedged in a middle seat in economy for three fucking hours. Chatty Cathy occupied the window seat, FaceTiming every man and his dog about the tragic derailment of her Parisian holiday. On my other side, a chronic manspreader had fallen asleep the moment his ass hit the chair, snoring loudly enough to rival an entire sty of pigs. And behind me, a toddler was staging a full-scale rebellion, using the back of my seat as a kickboard, because clearly they were strapped in too tightly to aim their rage at their actual parents.
I couldn’t vape on the plane, and even if I’d wanted to say, “Fuck my sobriety,” the cabin crew were only handing out bottles of water and stale tubs of Pringles while we waited. I briefly considered hiding in the toilets for a moment of peace, but the queue stretched halfway to bloody Brussels. I’d have been booted out after sixty seconds by someone desperate for a piss.
So instead, I sat there, regretting both my lack of noise-cancelling headphones and my decision to accept this job before it had even bloody started.
When we finally took off, it was still pissing it down outside, and the turbulence would give a roller coaster at Thorpe Park a run for its money. My hip was aching like a bitch, but the seatbelt sign stayed on the whole time, so stretching in the aisle was a no-go. The only decent part was the tailwind the storm gifted us, meaning we landed at Charles de Gaulle a bit earlier than the revised landing time.
Originally, I was supposed to land before Noctis’s first show and meet the band before they went on. My actual job wouldn’t start until Amsterdam, but I wanted to make a good impression or whatever. Instead, thanks to the flight from hell, I missed the show entirely and didn’t stagger into the hotel until just before midnight.
Considering they were only in Paris for a blink, I was shocked the manager had booked somewhere so bougie. A quick Google search told me it wastechnicallyfour stars, but only because it lacked a spa and someone to fold your duvet into a swan every night. I guess when you were as big as Noctis apparently was, it didn’t matter if you were staying for twelve hours or twelve months. Comfort trumped everything.
Not that I was complaining. My feet were killing me, my clothes were soggy from the bad weather in both London and Paris, and at this point I was dying for a shower and anything that resembled a bed. Luxury bedding and a rainfall showerhead were just bonus points on top of my steadily declining will to live.
The lobby was spacious, decorated in that minimalist but still eye-wateringly expensive way. White-and-grey marble tiles led towards the reception desk, and an artsy chandelier made of twisted copper strips hung above it, bathing everything in a warm, flattering glow. Various nooks and alcoves branched off the main space, each furnished with armchairs and plush loveseats, perfect for canoodling, plotting an affair, or quietly crying into an overpriced cocktail.
To the left, an arched doorway framed by ornate pillars caught my eye. Vertical blinds hid most of the view through the glass panes, but from the soft lighting and the glint of bottles, I could tell it was a lounge or a bar. After the day I’d had, a large drink with a stronger accompaniment was dangerouslytempting. For a second, I considered skipping check-in entirely and swan-diving straight towards it.
But I’d survived the trip without relapsing, which meant I was at least capable of getting myself to a luxury suite in one piece. Or just about.
I dragged my battered suitcase and makeup trolley through the lobby, feeling like a peasant trudging through a king’s palace. My well-worn Dr Martens squeaked against the marble, slicing through the peaceful atmosphere guests probably paid more money to enjoy than I’d ever earned in a month. Luckily, at this hour, the place was practically empty, just me and a balding concierge behind the desk, watching me like I might steal one of their designer lamps and leg it.
“Bonsoir, comment puis-je vous aider ce soir?”
I blinked at him, mouth dangling open like a confused fish. I wasn’t sure why I’d expected him to greet me in English—we were literally in France—yet I still felt like an idiot. All that private schooling my parents had forked out for, and years of intense training with one of the world’s top ballet companies, but what did I have to show for it? A vague ability topliéon command and absolutely zero useful French.
“Um... I... uh...” I stammered, growing increasingly flustered as I tried to work out what he had said. I could only guess it was a question based on the tone, but beyond that, I was clueless.
Thankfully, he seemed to pity my linguistic incompetence enough to offer a polite, if slightly smug, smile before switching to heavily accented English.
“How can I help you?”
“Yeah, um, hi.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve got a room booked under Iggy Preston.”
The concierge raised a thick, bushy eyebrow—the kind oflook that said, “Seriously?” without speaking a word—and reached for the keyboard. He clicked around for a moment, eyes scanning the monitor, then looked back at me with a blank expression.
“There is no booking with that name.”
I frowned. “It might still be under Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t make it, so I’m here in her place.”
He turned back to the screen, tapped a few more keys, and nodded. “There is a booking for Sasha Davidson.”
“Okay, great,” I exhaled in relief. “I’d like to check in, please.”
“Identification, please.” He held out his hand.
I blinked, not having expected that, though it made sense. This wasn’t exactly a Holiday Inn, so of course they wanted proof I wasn’t some random bloke who had wandered in off the street.
I slid the strap of my bag from my shoulder and tugged it around to my front, unzipping the main section and rooting around for my passport. Between immigration and the taxi ride, it had somehow fossilised itself beneath all the rubbish I’d shoved in there to save room in my suitcase, and I pretended not to hear the impatient sigh drifting across the desk while I dug for it.
“Ah!” I exclaimed when I finally spotted the shiny brown cover. “There you are, you little shit.” I yanked my passport free and slapped it onto the desk, nudging it towards the concierge with a triumphant grin. “Here you go.”
He picked my passport up between his thumb and index finger, like he might catch the poor if he touched it too much, and flipped it open to the photo page. He inspected it for a moment before dropping it back on the desk and glancing at me, voice flat. “This is not Sasha Davidson.”
Behind me, the hotel’s revolving door spun, and the sound of voices—this time in words I could actually understand—told me a group had entered the lobby and were probably heading back to their rooms.
I narrowed my eyes at the concierge, who seemed to be enjoying his power trip. “Listen—” I peeked at his name badge. “Michele. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand. I’m supposed to be in the room reserved for Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t make it, so I’m staying here instead.”
The approaching voices grew louder, but I was too busy being locked in a stare-down with this French gatekeeper to care about a bunch of strangers I didn’t know. Michele, meanwhile, wore a look that said fighting with a pink-haired intruder was the highlight of his week. And it was only Wednesday.
