Twenty-Eight

The Waldorf Astoria is one of Chicago’s most expensive and luxurious hotels. Not that I know that firsthand. Well, not until now.

Two doormen, clean-cut and dapper in their tailored uniforms, swing open the glass front double doors. I step onto the lobby’s gleaming marble floors that stretch out like a polished sea and reflect the crystal chandeliers dangling from the high ceilings. Plush velvet sofas are artfully scattered throughout, inviting guests to sink into luxury while they’re lulled by the soft hum of classical music piped in through hidden speakers.

I stride to the front desk, the credit card practically burning a hole in my pocket. Behind the slab of black marble with veins of gold, the front desk attendant stands at attention.

McDougall!

His posture is perfect, his uniform immaculate—a dark suit complemented by a crisp white shirt and a gold name tag that reads VIC . His perfectly groomed mustache twitches slightly as he smiles, both welcoming and assessing.

I want to run behind the desk and hug him and tell him I’ve been to another world and met his mirror image and that this is the first time I’ve been genuinely happy since I’ve been home.

Instead, anticipation settles in my chest, and I’m not completely sure what to do with my hands, so I grip the edge of the tall counter.

“The presidential suite, please. Just for tonight,” I say, my voice steady and confident.

Vic eyes me, his bushy white brows lifting ever so slightly while his fingers fly across the keyboard with soft clicks. “You’re in luck. The presidential suite is available. Since the room is open, and it’s so last minute, we can offer you a rate of—”

“It doesn’t matter.” With a smile every bit as dazzling as a teeth-whitening ad, I slide the credit card across the counter, my heart racing. Not once has the price not mattered.

“She knows what she wants.” A mischievous grin lifts his salt-and-pepper mustache. “I’m more than happy to oblige.” He swipes the card, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. “Can I get a bellhop to help you with your luggage, park your car…?”

“No luggage. No car,” I reply, flashing him another grin. “Just me.”

The wrinkles around Vic’s brown eyes deepen with curiosity, but he simply nods and rounds the counter, a brass key card in hand.

“Follow me, and I’ll lead you to your manor,” he says, motioning to the wall of elevators with a flourish.

“First,” I say, holding up my credit card, “I need an ATM.”

“A woman on a mission. I respect it.”

Our footsteps mingle with the melody of classical music and hushed conversations from other hotel guests as Vic guides me through the lobby. When we reach the machine, he sidesteps to the elevator bay as I insert my card into the slot, the ATM whirring to life. The screen glows, reflecting off the gold veins in the marble walls.

I try not to look guilty, like I don’t actually have any money or business being here, as I punch in my details and max out the card’s cash advance. The machine dispenses crisp hundreds, the bills stacking neatly in the tray, more money than I’ve ever seen at once, much less held.

I fold the stack in half and meet Vic at the elevators, a wad of crisp hundreds fattening my pocket.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says, holding the elevator doors open with a theatrical flourish, and I can’t help but grin as I step inside.

Every surface gleams, and the subtle scent of jasmine floats in the air as the elevator smoothly ascends.

“What brings you to the Astoria, business or pleasure?” Vic asks, his tone light and curious as he leans against the polished brass railing.

“Pleasure,” I reply, longing for a place far from here bubbling up inside me. “But only after I’ve dealt with someone first. You know, take care of a little business.”

His smile is warm and infectious. “And who are we beheading, Queen Hannah?”

“Do I have to choose just one?” I quip, a sly smile curling my lips.

Vic’s laugh is rich and genuine. “Wealthy, powerful, fabulously unapologetic.” He ticks off on his weathered fingers, one by one.

The elevator dings softly as it reaches the correct floor, the doors sliding open to reveal a corridor lined with sumptuous carpeting and gilded sconces that cast a warm, inviting glow. Vic steps out, and I follow him down the hallway the same way I did McDougall through the Palace of Pentacles.

As we reach the door to the presidential suite, Vic slides the key card into the lock with a practiced flick of his wrist. The door opens with a soft click . The room is a stunning blend of opulence and comfort, with rich fabrics and plush furnishings that could be straight out of Towerfall. My heart skips with fear, anticipation, and desire. It’s a rush that makes me dizzy, and I flatten my palm against the doorframe to steady myself.

“Welcome to your humble kingdom, Queen Hannah.” Vic offers a mock bow, his grin widening.

“Thank you, Vic.” I sink into a dramatic curtsy Queen Lockhart of Pentacles would be impressed with and step into the suite.

“Would you like me to show you around? It’s over three thousand square feet with terraces, your own private bar, fitness space. Pretty much everything you need in a room.”

I shake my head, a genuine smile spreading across my face. “I think I’ve got it from here. But thank you for the grand entrance.” I take out a folded hundred and offer it to him.

“It’s my pleasure. Enjoy your night of grandeur.” He winks, his wrinkled cheeks pinkening. “And, remember, if you need anything or anyone to help you fill this palatial room, I’m only a call away.”

The door closes behind him, and I stand there for a moment, stunned, absorbing the sheer luxury around me. The luxury I bought and paid for myself. At least, if I were staying in this realm, I’d have to pay for it.

But this suite is just a means to an end. I’ve seen firsthand from working with companies whose CEOs have their own private jets that getting a room like this in a hotel like the Astoria comes with a whole list of perks that have nothing to do with the sheets’ high thread count.

I allow myself a moment to revel in the sheer indulgence of it all, spinning around in a little happy dance, the plush carpet like a cloud beneath my feet. I brush past the couch, dragging my hand along the velvet throw draped over the back. The fabric, the luxury, the grandeur of the room, everything sends my thoughts straight to my arrival in Towerfall, and I can’t help but wish that Kane would appear.

The Empress vibrates against my hip, bringing me back to the task at hand. After pulling the card from my pocket, I trace her intricate gold crown. Energy pulses through my fingertips as her serene gaze meets mine, urging me forward.

“Focus, Hannah,” I remind myself, slipping the tarot back into my jeans.

I do a final twirl as I head to the secretary’s desk set up in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretches out beneath me, twinkling like stars. I pick up the phone and take a deep breath, savoring the moment before I press the Guest Services button.

Vic answers almost immediately, his voice as smooth and welcoming as McDougall’s. “Hello, Queen Hannah. I knew that wouldn’t be the last time we spoke. What can I do for you—send up a masseuse, get some champagne, book a table at Bar Mar?”

“I, uh, I need a makeover.”

“I adore a transformation moment. Let me bring up some salon information and take down your availability,” he responds, already tapping away at his keyboard.

“No, I mean, I need to become someone else.” The urgency in my voice is unmistakable.

“I completely understand, Hannah. In the eighties, I moonlighted as Ms. Candy Bush at the Pussycat Club. I can orchestrate a makeover.”

“This is sort of like that.” Biting my lip, I catch my reflection in the window, my face blending into the nightscape beyond. “I want to look completely different. Wig, contacts, the whole thing. And money’s no object. I’ll pay whatever I have to in order to get the best. You called me ‘Queen Hannah,’ and now I want to look the part.”

These are the perks I need—the perks that are doled out quickly and without question when you book the presidential suite and have money to spend.

“Why do I suddenly feel like an alliance with you will end with me in handcuffs—the bad kind?”

“What can I say?” I shrug, my reflection mimicking the motion. “I guess that’s the risk you take when dealing with someone wealthy, powerful, and fabulously unapologetic. Oh, and this is going to sound a bit strange, but I need a very fancy Renaissance-era dress. One fit for—”

“A queen,” Vic says, finishing my thought. “Give me forty-five minutes. An hour max.”

I hang up the phone, ending the call, and click it back on to dial in-room dining. Champagne is a great idea—the perfect send-off for my last night in Chicago.