The revolving glass doors of the Grandeur Continental Hotel spun smoothly as a man in his early fifties stepped into the opulent lobby. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors that reflected every movement like still water. The man who entered looked entirely out of place.
His skin was deeply tanned and weathered, etched with lines that spoke of decades spent under an unforgiving sun.
He wore a faded brown work shirt with soil stains around the collar and cuffs, pants that had been mended more than once, and a pair of rubber slippers so worn that the soles had compressed paper-thin. His hands were calloused and rough, the hands of someone who worked the earth for a living.
He moved slowly across the lobby, his worn slippers making soft shuffling sounds against the gleaming marble—a stark contrast to the click of expensive heels and leather shoes that typically graced these floors. Several well-dressed guests glanced his way, their expressions ranging from mild surprise to thinly veiled distaste.
The Grandeur Continental wasn’t just any hotel.
It was the hotel—the kind of establishment where foreign dignitaries stayed during state visits, where business moguls closed million-dollar deals over scotch in the lobby bar, where a single night’s stay could cost more than some people earned in a month. The lobby alone spoke of wealth: imported Italian marble, hand-carved wooden panels, art pieces that belonged in museums, and staff trained to anticipate a guest’s needs before they were voiced. The farmer approached the reception desk, where a young woman in her late twenties stood behind the sleek granite counter.
Her name tag read “Miss Whitmore.” She was impeccably dressed in the hotel’s signature navy uniform, her makeup flawless, her hair pulled back in a perfect chignon.
She had the polished look of someone who took pride in maintaining standards—and in knowing exactly who belonged in her hotel and who didn’t. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” the farmer said quietly, his voice carrying a rural accent that immediately marked him as an outsider.
“I’d like to book a room for tonight, please.”
Miss Whitmore looked up from her computer screen, and her professional smile faltered the instant she took in his appearance. Her eyes traveled from his weathered face down to his dirt-stained shirt, lingering on his worn slippers.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
