The grand entrance doors of the Royal Star Hotel slid open as Khloe stepped inside, her worn sneakers silent against the pristine marble floor. The smell of roasted coffee and fresh orchids greeted her. Though exhaustion tugged at her bones from the night before, she forced a small smile.
"Khloe, you're early," said Mrs. Smith, the kitchen supervisor, stopping her near the service counter. She was in her usual spotless uniform, clipboard in hand.
"Yes, ma," Khloe replied with a polite nod, already tying her apron around her slim waist.
"Good. Please attend to that couple near the glass. They're waiting for someone."
Khloe gave a small bow. "Right away, ma."
She approached the elegant couple sitting near the window with practiced ease, took their order, and returned to prepare their tray. Her movements were swift, efficient — the result of months of repetition. Minutes later, she delivered their food, offering a gentle smile before turning back toward the kitchen.
"Khloe!" Mrs. Smith's voice came again, firmer this time. "We've got VIPs on the top floor. Here — their order's ready. Set the table up."
Khloe grabbed the covered silver tray, nodded without a word, and made her way to the private elevator. Her heart beat a little faster — the top floor was strictly for high-end guests and high-powered men who practically breathed wealth.
As she stepped out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway, the hotel felt different — colder, more intimidating. She reached the wide double doors of the penthouse suite and gently nudged it open with her foot.
There, seated at the center of a long mahogany table, were two men. Their heads were close, voices low, discussing something intently. The dimmed chandelier above gave just enough light to reflect the edge of one man's sharp jawline and the faint glint of a signet ring. But their faces were still veiled in shadow.
Khloe cleared her throat softly and stepped forward, tray balanced in one hand. Just as she approached, disaster struck.
Her hair — the stubborn blond curls she had loosely pinned up earlier — tumbled free in a waterfall of soft waves. Strands fluttered across her face, blinding her just as she reached for the plates.
"Here is your or—" she began, trying to speak and tame the wild strands all at once.
In her flurry, her hair brushed across the hand of one of the men.
Oh. No.
"Oh God—I'm so sorry!" she stammered, hurriedly setting down the plates with one hand while the other clumsily attempted to tuck her hair back into place.
There was silence. Heavy. Cold. The kind that made your lungs forget how to breathe.
Without looking up, Khloe bowed slightly and turned on her heel. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, heart racing.
She didn't stop until she'd slipped back into the kitchen, chest heaving. "This hair will land me in serious trouble some day," she muttered to herself, tying it up tightly with a hairband she snatched from her pocket.