Suite Belief

Serena Hart had only been working the front desk at the Renford for three weeks, but the polished young Black woman had already created a mental gallery of strange guest pairings burned into her brain: the ninety-year-old in Versace loafers with the influencer barely legal enough to order room service, the tech bro with three silent goth girls in latex, the frantic woman checking in under her husband’s name while texting someone named "Jasper" to hurry. In her short time, she'd seen enough to know that her job required a certain professional numbness—smile, check ID, run the card, move on.

Still, the couple who walked in that Saturday morning gave her pause.

The woman—stunning, mid-to-late thirties, maybe older—looked like she had stepped out of a music video: bubblegum-pink crop top clinging like a second skin, microscopic shorts, sparkly platform sandals, legs that shimmered with oil or lotion, and pigtails that bounced like she was twenty. The guy holding her hand looked like he'd just finished a high school calculus exam. Short and skinny. Soft. Shy eyes. Barely eighteen, if that. Not particularly attractive in any way that she could see.

Serena had done some modeling in her time—catalog, commercial, even a few runway shows. As a Black model, she’d seen the worst of the beauty industry up close: the coded language, the assumptions, the limits of "acceptable" beauty. Her time in the industry had taught her to spot sugar babies, escorts, and role-playing couples within a few seconds. But this? There was something about this that didn't quite fit. The woman was the one paying—no hesitation as she handed over the black card. The boy looked overwhelmed, but not surprised. Like he was used to it.

"Enjoy your stay," Serena said with a smile as she handed over the keycard. Her time as a model had taught her how to control her face, not give away what she was truly feeling. Serena's face was a perfect example of warmth and welcoming. On the inside, though, she wanted to roll her eyes.

Walking away from her first career had been difficult. She had really thought she would make it, that she'd end up on the cover of every magazine, walk every runway. Instead, she had chosen mental health over that life. The modeling lifestyle had been eating away at her, chipping away at her self-confidence, making her hate herself.

And so she quit. Of course, not coming from wealth, Serena had realized immediately that she would need to work. She wanted to give up her career, not her apartment, her friends, her life. The Renford had been the first offer that paid well enough for her to stay in the city, so she jumped at it. It was anything but glamourous, so far removed from her former life that she sometimes wondered how she could reconcile such a big change.

And it was hard work. Much harder than she had imagined. The work meant long hours on her feet, handling rude customers, and cleaning up problems other staff should've dealt with. But when you don't have money, you don't get to choose.

The woman giggled and winked. The boy gave Serena a brief nod—shy, but with something simmering beneath it. Confidence?

As they turned to walk away, Serena let out a quiet breath. The lifestyles of the rich and ridiculous. When you could pay for it, you could live however you wanted. And then, too softly for most to hear but apparently not softly enough, she muttered:

"Must be nice to be rich and freaky."

The couple stopped.

Joey turned around.

His eyes locked on her, darker than she'd noticed before. Not angry, exactly—just focused. Unblinking.

"Um... actually..." he began, his voice low but sharp, the tone oddly firm for someone who looked like a boy playing dress-up in his dad's jacket.

"There's nothing freaky about this. Hot girls want me. Always have, always will. Isn't that right?"

He turned to the woman.

She giggled. Full-bodied, giddy. "Oh my God, yes," she said, throwing her arms around his waist and nuzzling his shoulder. "So totally true. You're, like, my perfect guy. I can’t keep my hands off you."

Joey gave Serena one last look, then turned back around and walked with Donna toward the elevator.

Serena blinked.

She watched them—watched the woman cling to him like a schoolgirl with a crush, watched the boy walk like he owned the place.

There's nothing freaky about this.

It sounded ridiculous. Narcissistic. Pathetic.

And yet...

Serena frowned.

Why had she been so judgmental? Her job was to welcome people for a lovely stay at the hotel, not make judgement calls on their life choices. Not that there was anything questionable about the couple who she'd just checked in.

Of course, at first she'd thought there was. Serena's eyebrows bent down as she tried to think it through. He was young, she was older. He was boring, she was spectacular. He looked like he rolled off the schoolbus, she looked like she rolled out of a porno mag.

Nope. Nothing freaky. She just couldn't see it! If anything, a couple like that should be celebrated! What were the odds of a beautiful couple, so obviously good together, of finding each other like they had. Serena wished that one day she'd find a good match like that.

Hot girls want me. Always have, always will.

Serena blinked. There was something about what he'd said that she couldn't shake. Hot girls? Wanting him? He was so...

Meh.

And yet...

She was hot. That was undeniable. Serena's whole career had been built on it. Even now, at thirty, with warm brown skin and legs for days, she got looks, numbers, proposals. So if she was hot, and hot girls wanted him, then...

Oh.

Oh no.

Her stomach dropped, but something else lifted. A heat. A giddiness. A sense of rightness.

Of course she wanted him. Of course she always had. She just hadn't realized it until now. Something in the way he said it—so confident, so certain—tore through the fog. The truth had always been there. She could feel it clicking into place, snapping together like magnets.

She watched them reach the elevator. They were still laughing. The woman—her credit card had said her name was Donna—was whispering something into his ear, tugging at his hand like she couldn't wait another minute.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened. They stepped inside.

Serena leaned over slightly, craning to catch a glimpse.

Floor nine.

She glanced down at the registry, noting the room number. Suite 914.

She tapped the counter, thinking.

She wasn't on shift break for another hour, but maybe she could find a reason to head up. Deliver a courtesy gift basket. A bottle of wine. Extra towels. Something.

This was her chance. Her big break.

She wasn't going to let it slip away.