The crest on the door
928 Words
THE CREST ON THE DOOR
The next morning, I’m dressed up and sitting in the back of a cab, heading straight to the hotel I used to work at. My palms are sweaty, my heartbeat loud, but I need answers. When the driver drops me off, I step out and immediately my eyes lift to the hotel’s massive front wall.
And there it is again — the Royal Crest.
Bold. Gold. Familiar in a way that unsettles my stomach.
I stare at it a little too long, trying to remember where I’ve seen it before, but the memory swims away the moment I reach for it.
Before I can think too hard, someone screams my name.
“Melissa? Oh my God!”
I turn to see one of my former colleagues, Sandra running toward me. She hugs me tightly and pulls back with wide, dramatic eyes.
“What are you doing here? I thought you resigned? And you never told us the real reason you left…”
If there’s anything irritating about working here, it’s the fact that this place feeds on gossip like oxygen. I force a smile and say, “It was a personal choice.”
We walk into the hotel together, her heels clicking annoyingly fast beside me.
I try to be casual as I ask, “Did you… notice anything off that night?”
She sighs. “Off? Melissa, you were acting weird. After you spilled that drink on the customer, the supervisor told you to go home. And when I finished my shift, I went to the dressing room and it reeked of alcohol. There were liquor cups everywhere. You must have been very stressed.”
My heart clenches.
She keeps talking. “That’s all I remember. You had already left by the time I went home.”
I thank her quietly and step into the elevator. As the doors close, I exhale shakily. When I step out again, I’m about to walk away when she suddenly blurts:
“I heard your boyfriend cheated on you. Was that why you were acting weird that night?”
I freeze. Slowly, I turn back.
“Where did you hear that?”
She shrugs casually. “Just rumors.”
Typical.
I quickly remember I no longer have my pass card. Panic spikes in my chest. I spin around and rush back to her.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need your card. I really need to check something.”
She jerks back, shaking her head violently. “No! Melissa, if anyone sees you using my card, I could get fired!”
I swallow hard. I didn’t want to do this. But desperation makes people ruthless.
“If you don’t give me the card,” I say quietly, “I will tell your older sister that you’ve been f*****g her husband.”
She freezes. Her mouth drops open. Her eyes lose all color.
“M–Mel—Melissa, please—”
“Give me the card,” I repeat.
She fumbles through her purse with trembling fingers and finally hands it to me.
I scoff, pocket it, and walk off without another word.
When I’m sure she’s no longer watching, I veer off in the opposite direction, my heart hammering.
I need to scan the room doors. If I can find the exact room I stumbled into that night, maybe, just maybe, I’ll remember something.
I go building by building, floor by floor.
When I step out on the last floor, something in my body shifts.
A jolt.
A flash.
I grab my head as pieces of memory, blurry, drunken, disjointed, push upward.
My feet move on their own.
I walk past the VVIP suites, my eyes scanning each door until I reach **one door**.
A single door.
Dark wood. Heavy gold handle.
And on it — **the same crest**.
My breath catches.
Yes.
YES.
This is the door.
This is the room I walked into that night.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the handle, but the card buzzes red. Denied.
Right. Sandra’s card isn’t high-level enough.
Before I can think of another plan, I hear footsteps behind me.
A security guard.
Shit.
He approaches, brows furrowed. “Ma’am? What are you doing on this floor?”
I can’t implicate Sandra. I can’t get caught.
So I drop to the floor and burst into tears.
“I—I lost my necklace,” I sob. “My mom gave it to me. I lost it the last night I worked here. Please, I’m just trying to find it—”
He softens instantly and bends to help me up. “Oh… I’m very sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll inform the cleaners to look for it. If they find anything, I’ll let you know.”
I sniff dramatically, wiping fake tears. “Thank you. I just… I didn’t mean to lean on the door. God, I hope I didn’t break anything. This door must be for someone really important.”
He sighs. “Not just someone important. A king. And the owner of this entire hotel.”
My head snaps up.
“A WHAT?”
“A king,” he repeats casually. “He owns the hotel.”
I scream. Literally scream.
“A KING?!”
My voice echoes down the hall.
And suddenly everything hits me at once, the crest outside, the crest on the door, the forbidden floor, the secrecy.
And my world tilts.
Because if a king slept in this room…
Then the stranger I slept with that night..
Oh. My. God.
- Writer
