Chapter 2 - The Backstage Arena
The service corridor behind the Grand Ballroom was a stark, utilitarian contrast to the gold-leaf splendor out front. Here, exposed pipes ran along gray cinder-block walls, the floor was sealed concrete scarred by heavy equipment cart wheels, and the air smelled of industrial dish soap, steam, and roasting prime rib.
Ethan led Walter past a stack of folding tables and guided him toward a small, stainless-steel utility desk near the ice machine. He pulled out a metal folding chair and urged Walter to sit.
"Sit here, sir. Let me grab that coffee," Ethan said, his movements brisk and efficient. He vanished into the pantry alcove, returning a minute later with a thick porcelain mug filled with dark, steaming coffee and a paper packet of sugar.
Walter took the mug with both hands, letting the heat soak into his stiff knuckles. He took a cautious sip. It was bitter, cheap diner coffee, far inferior to the estate-grown Blue Mountain brew waiting in his private study at home, but at that moment, it tasted remarkably alive.
"You shouldn't have done that, Ethan," a voice muttered from behind a stack of linen crates.
It was Sarah, a veteran pantry cook whose hair was pinned up in a messy net. She was wiping down a metal prep table with a damp rag, her eyes wide with nervous energy. "Miller’s got a direct line to Mr. Vance. If Marcus Vance finds out you stopped a security escort to play nursemaid to a stray, you won't just lose your tip money—you’ll be blacklisted from every hotel catering service in the tri-state area."
Ethan leaned against the metal table, crossing his arms, though a flicker of doubt crossed his face. "What was I supposed to do, Sarah? The guy looked like he was about to fall over. He’s seventy years old. Since when does a muddy coat mean someone loses their right to stand indoors?"
"Since Marcus Vance took over operations," Sarah hissed, lowering her voice. "The man cares about two things: aesthetic perfection and corporate sponsorship. If you don't look like you own a hedge fund, you're invisible. If you look like you cost the hotel money, you're a liability."
Walter, sitting quietly in the folding chair, listened to the exchange. He took another slow sip of the bitter coffee. "Marcus Vance," he murmured, tasting the name like something foul. "He's running the evening's program, isn't he?"
Ethan turned his attention back to the old man, offering a sympathetic half-smile. "Yeah. He’s the executive vice president of Bennett-Vance Logistics. Well, technically he’s marrying into the family—he’s engaged to Miss Cynthia Vance, old Walter Bennett’s granddaughter. Ever since the old man stepped back from public life two years ago, Marcus has been running the show like he owns the whole damn city."
Walter’s eyebrows twitched upward. "Has he?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sarah chimed in, tossing her rag into a bucket with a wet splash. "Ruthless, they say. Cuts staff budgets, squeezes suppliers, and fires people via automated email while they’re sitting in the parking lot. But the board loves him because the stock price keeps climbing. Nobody dares cross him—least of all a kid trying to pay his tuition like Ethan here."
Ethan shook his head, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "Don't worry about it, Sarah. I’ll finish my shift, collect my envelope, and keep my head down. Just... make sure Mr. Old Timer here has a safe way home when the buses run."
"I'll be fine, son," Walter said, his voice carrying a strange, resonant certainty that made Ethan look at him twice. "In fact, I think I'm going to stick around for the speeches. I'm particularly interested in hearing what Mr. Vance has to say about corporate integrity."
Sarah snorted a laugh. "Well, bring popcorn. You're about to hear a lot of fancy words about charity from a man who wouldn't give a starving dog a bone unless there was a tax write-off attached."
Before Ethan could reply, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor swung open, and a sharp, metallic voice echoed down the hall.
"Ethan Parker! Get out here! Table four needs water service immediately, and the dessert trays are backing up!"
It was Miller, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, glaring down the corridor. He spotted Walter sitting by the ice machine and scowled. "And you—still here? I told you to—"
"He's staying right where he is, Miller," Ethan interrupted, pushing off the metal table and stepping into the aisle. His voice had lost its defensive tremor, replaced by a cool, hard edge. "He's my guest. If anyone has a problem with it, tell Marcus Vance to come down here and tell me himself."
Miller’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You've got a lot of nerve, kid. Enjoy your last twenty minutes in this hotel."
With a final, venomous glare, Miller spun on his heel and stalked back toward the ballroom.
May you like
Ethan let out a long breath, running a hand down his vest. He looked down at Walter. "I gotta go. Stay put, alright? Don't let Miller see you."
"I won't move an inch," Walter said softly, his eyes glinting in the fluorescent light. "Go do your job, Ethan. I think you're going to find the rest of this evening... very educational."
