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Walking into The Cortez was like something out of a flicker. The ceiling seemed to never stop, the chairs and red carpet sparkled with elegance, and the faintest smell of illegal champagne lingered in the air. It was nothing compared to the hotels in your hometown of West Virginia. A sharp ring broke you out of your daze, and you glanced around the hotel lobby for the source of it.
"Over here, miss!" Looking over to the voice, you grinned when you found the reception desk with a young gentleman behind it.
Hurrying over, you plopped your suitcase to your feet and gave him a gentle wave. "Hello! I'm here to visit my sister, Elizabeth Johnson," you smiled.
"Oh, yes, of course. Miss (Y/N) Johnson, I presume?"
You nodded, "Yes. Though you must forgive me, I am a few hours early."
"That's quite alright, we've assured your room has been ready since yesterday," he said, shaking his head. "There's no fee, and here is your room key. Room 72 is where you shall be staying."
"Thank you very much!" The man was quick to give you directions to your room before sending you on your way.
Navigating the hotel was much more difficult than the gentleman made it out to be. Once you had stepped out of the elevator and onto your floor, you were amazed by the twisting hallways and various doors. Gripping your suitcase tightly, you began to march down the hall, reading each of the numbered doors carefully. You took a right, and then a left, and then another right until you found yourself in a door-less hallway.
"Oh bother," you sighed, doing a 360-turn in hopes of redirecting yourself. "Where is that room?"
"May I be of assistance?"
You jumped and let out a loud yelp at the unexpected voice, immediately lifting your suitcase as a form of defense. "Who are you?" you immediately questioned when you turned and saw the strange man that had been speaking to you. However, the more you looked at him, the less strange he became. He had perfectly styled jet-black hair, a mustache lining his upper lip, deep brown eyes, a suit, and a cane he was twirling in his hand.
"James Patrick March, owner and creator of this hotel," he introduced, holding out his hand for you to shake. "I meant not to scare you, my dear. This hotel is tricky, and I wouldn't want someone as beautiful as yourself getting lost."
You shook his hand as a blush danced across your cheeks. "Oh, my apologies, sir. I meant no disrespect."
He laughed softly, "None taken." Lifting your hand to his lips, your blush deepened as he grazed the back of your hand with a gentle kiss. "What room are you staying at, my dear?"
