"Natia Dali?" I asked, my eyes lifting from the stack of documents in my hand. The name had been mentioned in passing, but now it carried weight, an echo of a life that had ended too soon.
"He's... a poet," the man across from me replied, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, "And a famous one at that." There was a pause, a weight of recognition in his tone, as if speaking the name aloud made the tragedy more real.
"That's right. He stayed in one of our suites for 28 days," a hotel employee added, stepping forward. Her voice was soft, tinged with an unease that spoke of long hours spent recounting the details. I could sense that this was a story she had relived in her mind more than once.
I listened intently as she continued, the details unfolding like a slow, mournful rhythm. "For the last week, he hadn't left his room, and refused all meals and housekeeping services." Her words painted a picture of a man slowly retreating from the world, isolating himself in a silent struggle. It seemed he had withdrawn completely, shutting out even the faintest glimmer of human connection.
"But he hadn't answered our calls in the last few days," she went on, "so the staff entered his room to do a safety check… and found him." Her voice faltered slightly, betraying the gravity of what she was about to reveal. "He hung himself with a tie and left a note, along with some of his personal belongings."
The room felt suddenly heavier, the air thick with a somber stillness. It was not a common occurrence, yet the man in the military-style uniform sitting across from me let out a long, weary sigh. "There are always people who take their own life at a hotel," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I was hoping it wouldn't be the case, but..." His words trailed off, leaving the weight of inevitability in the silence that followed.
"May I see the note?" I asked, my voice almost a whisper, a mixture of curiosity and a need to understand the final thoughts of someone who had carried so much unseen pain.
"Yes, here," he replied, offering a small, folded piece of paper with care, as though it were a fragile relic. I took it gently, feeling the texture of the paper beneath my fingers, and began to read.
The words were haunting in their simplicity, carrying a raw, almost tangible sorrow. It spoke of longing for a homeland left behind, the emptiness of solitude, and the torment that came with the gift and curse of being a writer. I could feel the poet's anguish seeping through each line, a silent plea for understanding that would never be answered.
Was he feeling melancholic as a poet? I wondered, reflecting on the delicate intersection of creativity and despair. There was a haunting beauty in the way his words bled honesty, yet it was a beauty steeped in loneliness and sorrow.
Another hotel staff member, standing nearby, broke the silence. Her tone was more pragmatic, tinged with frustration, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of guilt. "I certainly feel bad for the deceased," she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. "But… I can't help but feel it's selfish. This causes so much damage to our hotel."
Her words struck me oddly. Though harsh, they were a reminder that life—even in its most tragic and intimate moments—did not exist in a vacuum. There were repercussions, practical consequences, and an echo that reached far beyond the walls of a single room.
I folded the note carefully, holding the poet's final words close, as though by doing so I could carry a fragment of his existence forward. Outside the window, the city continued in its indifferent rhythm, lights flickering, cars passing, unaware of the silent tragedy that had unfolded just floors above.
And in that quiet, I felt the weight of humanity—its beauty, its despair, and the fragile line that so many walked between the two.
I looked down at the suicide note, the paper feeling heavier than its weight should allow in my gloved hands. The ink seemed slightly smudged, as if the poet's trembling had seeped into the strokes. "He did express thoughts about his homeland," I murmured, tracing one line with my eyes, "which makes me wonder if he's from outside the kingdom."
The hotel staff exchanged glances before one stepped forward. "On top of that, his balance hadn't been settled yet," he reported with an apologetic bow of the head. "He left everything he had… but it only covers about thirty percent of the bill."
I exhaled slowly. Not out of irritation—but the complexity of the situation was becoming a labyrinth. A tragedy was already a burden; complications made it a storm.
"We need to contact his family first," I said firmly, closing the note between my fingers. "He must have a home or someone who needs to know."
The man in the military-style uniform nodded, though his brows were knit with weariness. "As you know, he was a famous poet in the kingdom… but he wasn't really doing it for the money." His sigh lingered in the air like smoke.
"Understood." I straightened, forcing myself to focus on what mattered now. "We'll handle this one step at a time, but the problem is that he was famous." I let the truth hang between us. A scandal involving a celebrated writer—found dead in one of our suites—could ripple through the aristocracy, the arts, and every tavern in the capital. "If this becomes public, the backlash will be severe."
"And the staff who found him are in shock," another employee added quietly. "We'll do our best to keep word from getting out, but… it will surely harm the reputation of the hotel."
"I know." My voice was gentler this time. Their fear wasn't just about reputation. They had walked into that room. They had seen what I hadn't. And that trauma had no easy place to be stored. "I will look into that."
Turning to the nearest employee, I instructed, "Please have the police handle everything and leave as soon as possible. A lengthy investigation is unnecessary. This isn't a murder, and we cannot expose the other guests to distress."
"Yes, Lady Serena," he responded, bowing instantly.
"And once they're done… clean the suite," I continued. "The staff who discovered the body are clearly shaken. Give them time off. They shouldn't return to work until they've recovered."
Another staff member approached carefully, eyes lowered in respect. "Yes, Lady Serena." They reached out with both hands. "Please keep this in a safe place," they said as they accepted the suicide note from me. They held it as though it were sacred, or cursed—perhaps both. It would be stored securely for the police… or the family he left behind.
As the paper left my grasp, a strange coldness settled over my fingertips.
As Uncle Logan always said… a guest taking their own life in a hotel room happens from time to time.
The words echoed in my mind, but this time, they felt different. More real. More terrifying.
Though it's the first time I've ever seen it happen…
A shiver crawled down my spine.
I lifted my gaze to the assembled staff, their faces pale, their composure brittle. They were waiting for reassurance—for direction—anything to cling to.
"This may not be the end to our problems…" I said quietly.
And every person in the room seemed to hold their breath.
I met the worried gazes of the staff. Their unease was palpable, a mixture of fear, sympathy, and uncertainty. "I'll try my best to keep any rumors from spreading," I assured them, forcing a calm I didn't entirely feel. "We'll do everything we can to maintain discretion."
A tense silence followed. I knew the quiet would likely be temporary; news, especially scandalous news, had a way of finding its way into whispers. "Alright," I continued, shifting to the practical matters at hand. "Can you let me know when you get in touch with the family? Once we hear from them, we'll discuss further measures to properly settle the late poet's account and belongings."
"Yes, of course," the staff member replied, bowing before retreating to carry out the instructions.
A Few Days Later
The brief calm that had settled over the hotel shattered like fragile glass. Eiser, seated at his grand mahogany desk, looked up as his assistant approached, carrying the unmistakable weight of urgent news.
"Sir Eiser, this is today's newspaper from Mackin," the assistant said, presenting a folded copy of the kingdom's most influential publication.
Eiser took the paper, his fingers brushing the edges with careful precision. His expression tightened as he scanned the headline. The calm he usually exuded flickered under the weight of unwelcome developments.
"I just got off the phone with Mr. Logan," Raul, the assistant, continued, his tone uneasy. "He said things at the hotel are looking grim. Guests keep canceling their bookings, and the financial impact is substantial. Will it be okay to just observe for now?"
Eiser flipped the newspaper with a sharp, deliberate motion, a gesture that commanded attention despite the tension. He remained outwardly calm, but his narrowed eyes betrayed a mind already calculating consequences and strategies.
"Let her handle it in her own way," Eiser stated finally, his voice steady and measured. His gaze returned to the page, unwavering. "Serena must gradually take over the operation of the hotel. This is the time for us to focus on our own priorities, Raul."
"Yes, Sir Eiser," Raul replied, bowing slightly, the conversation abruptly moving away from the looming crisis at the hotel.
"Oh, and the president finally contacted us," Raul added, a hint of relief in his voice. "We've been waiting for about a month now."
Eiser's face softened for a brief moment, a flicker of relief passing across his features. "You have a phone call scheduled with him in thirty minutes," he said, returning to his commanding composure.
Raul acknowledged the sudden timing. "Yes, Sir. Don't worry, I understand how busy your schedule is."
Eiser picked up the ornate phone on his desk, the weight of the hotel's scandal temporarily receding as he shifted focus to higher stakes—the political maneuvers and influential connections that defined his world. "I very much appreciate that you didn't forget to contact me," he said into the receiver, listening for a moment. "Yes… a dinner? That sounds excellent. We'll discuss everything then."
He hung up with precise, deliberate movements, already plotting his next steps. For now, the hotel's troubles were in Serena's hands, but Eiser knew—calm as he appeared—the ripples of the poet's death would be felt far longer than anyone imagined.
?
I was deep in discussion at the hotel, reviewing documents with a contractor. The morning light streamed through the elegant windows of the sitting room, casting soft patterns on the polished floor. The scent of fresh ink and polished wood lingered in the air, grounding me amid the lingering chaos of recent days.
"I heard that Eiser reviewed the final draft of the contract at the hotel yesterday," I remarked, my pen gliding across the papers as I signed them. "He said he'll leave the signing to me, so this should do."
The contractor, a man in a crisp uniform, nodded respectfully. "Yes, Lady Serena. Then we'll proceed with the tile construction as agreed." His voice carried a subtle note of relief, as if the certainty of progress helped ease the tension that had settled over the hotel.
This renovation wasn't just about aesthetics—it was a statement. A way to move forward, to restore order after the tragedy that had cast a shadow over the establishment. Yet, even as we focused on the work, the poet's suicide, Natia Dali, refused to fade from public memory. Headlines and whispers lingered, a reminder that some events refused to be contained.
Later, I received a detailed report on the deceased. "Oh, and… about the poet, Natia Dali…" The clerk hesitated briefly, as though the words were heavy even in a report. "…As you suspected, Natia Dali wasn't from our kingdom. He emigrated from the Republic of Buiterberg several decades ago."
A flicker of understanding passed through me. His melancholy, his longing for a homeland he had left behind, was no longer just a poetic motif—it was a life lived in quiet exile, and one that had ended tragically.
Meanwhile, in his study, Eiser was concluding his call with the President's associate. "Yes, a dinner? That sounds wonderful. We'll discuss everything then," he agreed, hanging up with measured calm. He turned to Raul, who was meticulously managing the logistics.
It occurred to Eiser that it might be more fitting to invite the President to the hotel itself, to see the renovations firsthand. Yet he acknowledged the complications: the poet's death had stirred public attention, and numerous articles had already circulated, stirring gossip and speculation.
"Yes, sir," Raul responded, noting the political and logistical weight behind every decision.
Eiser's mind wandered as he considered the practicalities. "More importantly, the President has difficulty traveling. Even if we drove, his residence is at least a two-day journey from the manor…"
Then came an unexpected proposal from the President's side, a twist in the otherwise procedural planning.
"Ah… you want to invite my wife as well?" Eiser asked, brow arching slightly, concealing a spark of curiosity beneath his calm exterior.
"Yes, certainly. I'll inform her, and we'll attend together," came the reply.
Eiser allowed himself a moment of private contemplation. I wonder if Serena will agree to go, especially if it's just the two of us. The thought passed like a shadow over his mind before he refocused.
Back on the line, he navigated the conversation with his usual precision. "Oh, I see. My wife would be delighted to be invited in person, but… she is currently at the hotel, working." His voice held the polite firmness of someone accustomed to balancing etiquette with reality.
The President's associate would have to accept the unconventional nature of Eiser's wife—a woman as independent as she was capable, who thrived in the heart of the hotel's operations.
As Eiser ended the call, he leaned back in his chair, eyes briefly distant. The political dance had only just begun. It would not take long before Serena, entrenched in the delicate web of running the hotel and managing its delicate reputation, would be drawn into it as well. And in that inevitability, he felt a mix of anticipation and quiet resolve, knowing that the coming days would demand strategy, composure, and, inevitably, courage.
I sat in the parlor, sunlight pooling over the table as I received the final report on Natia Dali. Despite the elegance of the room, the atmosphere felt weighted—like the remnants of grief still clung to the air.
"Oh, and… about the poet, Natia Dali…" the hotel manager began cautiously.
The same man who had first reported the tragedy stood before me, his expression respectful yet somber.
"As you suspected, Natia Dali wasn't from our kingdom. He emigrated from the Republic of Buiterberg several decades ago. Since Buiterberg is unstable, he came here and eventually became a successful poet." The manager's tone softened. "But… it seems he longed for his home even after all these years."
His eyes dimmed. "He was also probably very lonely. He came alone, lived alone… and left alone."
"Oh…" My voice trailed into the quiet. I folded my hands on my lap, absorbing the weight of his words. "I heard people from that republic come here from time to time."
"Yes," he confirmed, "but it's a very closed-off country. It's been difficult—nearly impossible—to get in touch with any family he may have left behind. It looks like this may take a while."
I sighed softly and reached for one of the documents on the table. "I understand."
The financial loss of the unpaid balance was bothersome, yes—but a distant concern compared to the human tragedy.
"The police took the body and his belongings," I continued, "so they'll handle the next steps. I wanted to ask his family about the suicide note… but if we can't find them, then there's little we can do." I shrugged slightly, resigned. "Honestly, I didn't expect to receive the rest of the payment for the suite anyway."
Then my expression hardened.
"Now the only problem that's left…" I lifted the day's newspaper between two fingers, as though handling something contaminated, "…is this."
I held it up for the manager to see. His face went pale.
The front page of Mackin was an abomination.
The Soul of a Poet, Forever Asleep at Serenity
Natia Dali, a Poet of the Kingdom, Takes Own Life in Serenity Hotel Suite
The headline screamed across a massive, full-width photograph of the hotel façade.
It was theatrical, sensational—and deliberately harmful.
A cold, ominous chill slid down my spine as I skimmed the article's lurid phrases:
"The Last Breath of the Deceased Lies Here."
"Where the Poet's Soul Will Breathe Forever."
My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. My hands tightened around the edges of the page until the paper crumpled.
Inside my mind, a controlled but violent fury ignited.
"Why these… BASTARDS!!!"
My thoughts roared.
Why not just advertise the hotel as a grave?!
They were destroying the Serenity name with theatrical filth—revealing the exact details, the exact suite, even photographing the building.
Malicious. Intentional. Disrespectful—to us, and to the deceased.
A dangerous, calculated thought slithered through my mind:
Should I just take them down with the eight families?
The threat was tempting. Frighteningly so.
The manager swallowed as he looked at the newspaper. "I'm so sorry… I tried to stop them. Truly. But the newspapers…" He exhaled shakily. "They turned it into a massive scandal."
This wasn't just bad press.
This was a public gutting of our reputation—an open wound bleeding in front of the entire kingdom.
A terrible crisis… and one that demanded a response.
Not from the hotel staff.
Not from Uncle Logan.
From me.
I looked out the window, a tiny, hard-won calmness settling over me. The morning sunlight glinted off the marble façade of the hotel, but the crowd of reporters milling about the entrance cast long, uneasy shadows across the steps. They were hungry for a story, for scandal—and I would not give them the satisfaction of watching me falter.
Clenching my fists lightly, I turned back to the manager. "We need a strategy," I said, voice steady and cold, though my mind raced a thousand steps ahead. "This isn't just about empty suites or canceled bookings. This is about controlling the narrative before they twist it further."
The manager swallowed nervously, nodding. "Yes, Lady Serena… but how? Even if we tell our side, they'll just… they'll just—" His words faltered under the weight of the reality I already knew.
I cut him off with a firm hand gesture. "We'll contain this first. Remove the reporters. Do it quietly, without drawing attention. Then, contact our allies in the press. We have connections who can publish a proper statement: respectful, factual, and professional. No sensationalism."
He nodded, relief flickering briefly before worry returned. "And the guests?"
I leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished table, my gaze sharp. "Offer apologies personally to the ones affected. A small gesture—flowers, a letter from me. Make them feel valued, not like intruders in a tragedy. Reassure them that their experience is our priority."
The manager hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Lady Serena. And… the suites?"
"Block off the five suites for now," I said. "Renovate them if necessary. Make them fresh. Guests shouldn't even think of the previous incident when they enter our hotel."
I stood, smoothing the silk of my yellow dress. The soft rustle of the fabric was a small comfort amid the storm of my thoughts. The Lady of the Todd Family is behind this… they think they can corner me because of politics. They misjudge me.
I inhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my shoulders just enough to focus. "Prepare a statement for the press. Brief, dignified. Nothing emotional, nothing inflammatory. Highlight our respect for the deceased and our condolences to his family. Make it impossible for anyone to accuse us of negligence."
The manager scribbled notes frantically, sensing the urgency and the calculated precision in my tone.
"And," I added, my eyes narrowing as I considered the broader implications, "start compiling a list of potential allies within the kingdom—people who can support us if the Todd Family tries to escalate. We cannot let them dictate our reputation, not through tragedy, and certainly not through lies."
He nodded, the lines of worry still etched on his face but tempered now with a spark of determination. "Understood, Lady Serena. We'll act immediately."
I allowed myself a brief moment of satisfaction. The storm outside the hotel was raging, but inside, control was still possible. They want to see us crumble. They want to see fear. They want chaos.
Not today.
I turned back to the window, my reflection staring back at me from the glass. Calm. Composed. Resolute. The world could try to burn me, smear my name, and unsettle my hotel—but I would meet every challenge head-on.
Let them try.
The battle for the hotel's reputation—and for the respect I commanded—was only beginning.
A hush fell over the room. The idea I'd just spoken aloud settled between us like a heavy velvet curtain — bold, risky, and impossible to take back.
The man across from me shifted uneasily. "Use his fame…? Lady Serena, if this goes wrong, people will accuse us of exploiting his death."
I rested back against my chair, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate grace. "They're already accusing us," I said calmly. "They're writing whatever they want anyway — twisting facts, inventing motives, dragging our hotel's name through the mud. If we remain passive, the Todd Family's influence will bury us."
His jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
I leaned forward just slightly, my voice dropping into a cool, confident cadence. "We don't need to exploit him. We simply highlight the truth. He was a beloved celebrity — talented, admired, adored by the public. So instead of letting shady tabloids spin this as a scandal, we frame it as a tragedy the entire kingdom mourns."
Understanding flickered in his eyes. "A memorial?"
"More than that," I replied. "A tribute. A heartfelt, dignified event hosted by the hotel. Not for us — for him. For his fans. For the industry. For the community."
A slow smile curved across my lips. "And in doing so, we show that our hotel is not a place of scandal, but a place of respect."
He blinked, taken aback. "A public gesture that honors him… instead of hiding from the situation."
"Exactly." I tapped the table lightly, the sound sharp as a spark. "We host it in the main hall. Invite respected figures from the entertainment world. Donate a portion of proceeds to a cause he cared about. Let the public see sincerity instead of silence."
His earlier hesitation began to melt into cautious hope. "And the Todd Family…?"
I allowed myself a short, humorless laugh. "They can't attack a memorial without looking monstrous. If they try to smear us during an event meant to honor the dead, the public sentiment will turn on them, not us."
The man drew a long breath, the enormity of the plan finally setting in. "It's bold, Lady Serena."
"It's necessary," I corrected gently. "And it's the only way to reclaim the narrative."
A moment passed — heavy, decisive.
He finally nodded. "Very well. I'll begin preparations immediately."
I stood, smoothing the fabric of my dress as warm sunlight washed across the room. My reflection in the polished cabinet looked determined, calculating, and unshaken.
"Good," I said softly. "If the kingdom wants a story… then we'll give them one worth remembering."
chapter 22 end
Story Art Ina
Tip's
Tip's
THE SIGNATURE COLOR OF THE SERENITY HOTEL IS YELLOW.
IT'S BECAUSE IANSA LIKES THE COLOR YELLOW.
A SENSITIVE LADY
HOW DID YOU KNOW IT WAS MS. SERENA JUST BY HEARING HER FOOTSTEPS?
SERENA IS THE ONLY ONE THAT WALKS AROUND THIS MANOR CLACKING HER HEELS THAT LOUDLY.
WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU TWO?