Damien approached the marble reception desk with the casual confidence of a man who literally owned the world.
Every inch is the self‑made sovereign.
His leather‑soled shoes clicked in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat, a quiet reminder that he owned every step he took.
The receptionist, offered him a polite smile as she tapped at her touchscreen.
"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?"
Damien stared at her chest and saw the name tag before replying.
'Mireille' he thought
"I want the top floor," Damien said, voice smooth.
"The penthouse ballroom?" She asked for confirmation
"Whatever it's called" Damien replied
Mireille's fingers paused.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but it's fully booked tonight. There's an exclusive gala..."
He held up a single manicured finger, silencing her.
Then, with a small flourish, he placed his phone, which highlighted his business card, on the desk.
The virtual card gleamed under the chandelier light.
Mireille blinked.
She swiped the touchscreen to check her display, then looked back at the gold card as if it were a mythical talisman.
"I...I can't, our policy requires a 72‑hour cancellation notice," she stammered.
Damien leaned in, letting the soft aroma of his bespoke cologne drift toward her.
"I'm not canceling; I'm overriding the booking of whosoever is up there," Damien replied.
"So you are in no way related to the person who booked the Penthouse if I may understand?" She asked professionally
"Policies," he said tiresomely
"are for people with rigid imaginations. I prefer solutions." He tapped the gold card against the desk.
"Charge me the cancellation fee, the overtime for staff, the extra champagne, everything on the night's tab. Then kindly show me upstairs."
Her breath caught.
Suddenly every expensive detail of his ensemble was on display: the faint sheen of Italian silk, the whisper of gold‑thread stitching at his cuff, the engraved platinum clasp of his watch.
She hesitated, then raised her head, met his eyes, and quietly thumbed her screen.
Taking his device and swiping against her screen.
"Mr. Voss, the ballroom is yours," she announced, voice strained but compliant.
She stepped aside.
"The elevator is to your right. Fourth up."
Damien offered her a slow, satisfied smile.
"Thank you, Mireille. Enjoy your evening."
As he turned, a murmur rippled through the lobby.
Staff and guests alike had witnessed the transaction; no one was happy at how the hotel treated their guests just because of a man, but they all couldn't say anything.
They had also heard the name
Mr Voss.
Even as she swiped the card to proceed with payment, the screen popped up a notification of maximum Clearance, and despite his bill that should amount to billions for breach of policy and customer satisfaction, his card wasn't charged.
It was as though she didn't see well; the accounting was just showing that they suffered a debut of countless billions, but the credit from his card was charged at zero dollars.
It was as though the company took on the charges.
"Is this what they call exclusive access" the receptionist whispered and looked at the back of the man
Damien passed into the mirrored elevator, the doors gliding shut behind him, leaving stunned guests to wonder how one man could rewrite a hotel's evening in a heartbeat.
Inside the elevator, the cab was cloaked in soft amber light with hand‑stitched leather panels and a gleaming brass control panel.
Damien pressed the highest button.
"Vee," he murmured,
"confirm I'm on the list."
"Of course, Master Damien. I've overlaid your credentials across the hotel's entire security network."
He allowed himself a small smile as the doors slid open on the top floor.
He was welcomed by two personnel who were most likely security, and before they could check for his access, he walked past, looking at their screen again. They saw all they needed to know.
The hallway was lined with oil‑painted portraits of past dignitaries, some gilded, some cracked at the edges.
Damien's footsteps echoed.
He paused to inspect a grandiose painting of a long‑dead count.
"Taste… ambitious," he murmured.
"But unimaginative."
Further along, sconces of polished onyx cast warm pools of light onto a row of arched windows.
Beyond them lay the city lights, a glittering sea of possibility. He paused, lifting a hand to the glass.
"Now that's worth a damn," he said, before continuing.
He soon reached the end of the corridor and was welcomed by a door.
Without stopping, The doors swung open into a riot of color and sound.
Crystal chandeliers rained light over men in tailcoats and women in silk gowns, all dancing to a live jazz quartet.
Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes.
Damien paused on the threshold, cigar unlit at his lips, and took it all in. He smirked, half amusement, half contempt.
'I need to act the role and be the role' he thought to himself as his demeanor adjusted