Chapter 6 Caleb
CALEB
Icalled Francois the next day from my office. I needed to show I wasn’t just some arrogant executive parachuted in to cause chaos. I wanted him to see that I respected what he did—even if part of me still believed my instincts were right.
“Francois,” I said over the phone. “We didn’t get an opportunity to chat yesterday in the bar. I’d like to invite you over to my club tonight. What do you think?”
“Sure, Mr. Evans. I’m honoured.”
After the incidents in the hotel bar and with housekeeping, I’d been thinking about how I could redeem myself with Nyah.
Not apologize—at least, not outright. But prove I wasn’t incompetent.
Prove I could lead. I still didn’t subscribe to her idea that I needed to scrub floors or serve drinks to understand how the hotel worked, but maybe she had a point about spending time talking to the team.
Listening didn’t mean surrendering. It meant gathering information. That was leadership, too.
That evening, when Francois walked into Temptations, I took him around the club.
“Bit busier than the hotel bar,” I shouted over the music. “And this is just a midweek crowd. You should see it Friday and Saturday night.”
We watched a bartender pour drinks with one hand and make change with the other while taking an order from the next customer.
“This is how it should be at the hotel bar, don’t you think?”
“I understand your intention,” Francois replied, nodding, “but a hotel bar and a club—they are different businesses. The ambiance here…” he paused, lifting his Old Manhattan.
“A hotel bar is more refined, no?” He took a sip, then continued.
“But I will concede one point. I do envy your Friday and Saturday crowds. The restaurant performs well, but those are our slower nights in the bar because many of our business travellers have gone home.”
I nodded thoughtfully. This was what Nyah had been talking about. I needed to listen—really listen—for opportunities.
Francois enjoyed another drink with me, thanked me for my hospitality, and left.
I realized I’d probably been a poor host; I couldn’t stop thinking about the empty hotel bar on Friday nights.
Francois was right—you couldn’t turn it into a club—but since clubs didn’t get busy until ten or later, the hotel could cash in on the earlier time slot.
Louisa’s idea came back to me. A cocktail hour from seven to ten on Fridays. Catch the after-work crowd before they went out to party.
That night, I headed back to the hotel and went straight to Francois’ office to review the restaurant and bar rosters for Friday evening.
Cross-referencing the staff list, I picked out a group of attractive young waiters and waitresses and reassigned them to the evening shift, moving the others back to daytime.
I was taking control—just like my mother had suggested. And I’d done it by following Nyah’s advice. That irony pleased me more than it should have. This time, she’d have nothing to complain about.
Friday morning, I received a phone call in my office.
It was Nyah.
“Could you please come to my office?” She didn’t sound happy.
“Sure. I’ll be right in.”
She must have found out about cocktail hour. But that was fine. She’d see the logic once I explained it.
I’d messaged Francois earlier, asked him to put it on the chalkboard out front and promote it on social media. I’d promised to do some private promotion myself, draw in a few recognizable faces. This was initiative. This was value. She was going to eat her previous words.
“I’ll just be in with Nyah,” I said to Amy as I stepped out of my office.
“I’ll hold your calls until you’re done,” she replied with a smile.
I knocked and entered Nyah’s office.
Francois was there, breathing noisily, sweat visible on his brow.
Nyah looked pretty much the same—nostrils flared, eyes blazing. “Have a seat,” she said through gritted teeth.
Uh-oh. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a congratulatory meeting. What did Francois tell her? I sat opposite her desk.
“Under no circumstances should you say anything for the next half hour.” Half an hour? What is she planning? “Do you understand?”
My chest constricted, heat rushing through me.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, forcing an even breath. “I understand. But—”
She raised her hand, cutting me off. Then she pressed a button on her phone.
“Amy, send the first one in.”
A few seconds later, a knock sounded, and a young woman entered. She looked distraught.
I recognized her from the restaurant staff list, though the photo hadn’t captured the puffy eyes or mascara streaks. She looked past me to Nyah and Francois.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Rodriguez,” she said. “It’s like I told Monsieur Boutier—I can’t work evenings. I just can’t.” Her voice broke. “I’m trying to earn my diploma and go to class at night. If I can’t stay on the breakfast shift, I’ll have to quit and go back to waiting tables at the diner.”
I shifted in my seat, realizing I was the cause of her distress. “I… um—”
Nyah silenced me with another raised hand. “Don’t worry, Katherine,” she said. “You can still go to college in the evenings. Good luck with your diploma.”
“Thank you,” Katherine said, sniffling.
“I’ll come in early next week for breakfast and see how you’re going.”
“Thank you so much.” She left with a teary smile.
Nyah pressed the button again.
This time it was an older woman, maybe in her forties—one who’d undoubtedly been on Friday nights before I’d changed the roster.
Her voice was thick with emotion as she explained that if she worked days, she’d never see her three young children.
She’d taken the job specifically because evenings allowed her to spend the whole day with them before handing them over to her office-working husband for bath time and bed.
Her posture sagged, her chin trembling. “A babysitter for three kids will cost more than I make here.”
My stomach dropped. I’d screwed up—badly.
“Greta,” Nyah said, “don’t worry about the babysitter. You’ll be back on evenings, just like before. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
Greta looked up slowly, relief spreading across her face. “Thank you so much.” She left.
“Okay,” I said. “I get—”
“Not a word,” Nyah hissed. “I’m not finished.” She buzzed Amy again.
“Ms. Rodriguez, Monsieur Boutier,” said the muscular bartender I recognized, his eyes passing over me without a hint of recognition.
“I gotta thank you for letting me work the bar midweek. It’s been a blast, and I’ve learned a ton, especially from you, Monsieur.
” He nodded at Francois. “But I can’t shift to Fridays.
I’ve been working this other gig—it’s dancing, not bartending—at a ladies’ club.
” He shrugged. “The tips are pretty generous.” He sighed deeply.
“If I have to choose between here and there… I’m sorry, but you understand. ”
My jaw clenched. This was turning into a public dismantling. Each person felt like another nail being driven in, slow and deliberate.
“We understand perfectly, Milos,” Nyah said. “And I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t come visit you at your club.”
Milos reddened and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I reckon that might be for the best, Ms. Rodriguez.”
“Your schedule will remain as before.”
Thanking her, the built man turned and headed out the door. Francois exchanged a silent look with Nyah and did the same.
The room felt smaller once they were gone. My ears pounded, and my throat felt raw. She hadn’t directly called me out, but everyone in that room knew who’d done it. I’d never been embarrassed like that—paraded in front of staff.
“That was humiliating and unnecessary,” I said, standing and slamming my hands on her desk.
“Parading these employees in front of me—you could have just discussed it with me in private, in my office. You know this is a good idea for the hotel, and if it doesn’t work with the existing staff, we could have worked together and hired new staff.
But this... this... production! Are you opposed to all new ideas, or is it just mine?
“I can’t believe you,” Nyah snapped, standing to face me. “I tried subtlety. I tried being direct. I thought showing you how your actions impact real people might open your eyes. I mean, I didn’t expect an apology, exactly, but some kind of acknowledgement of your own mistakes...”
She came around the side of the desk and stood facing me, arms and heels crossed.
“It’s not your ideas that are the problem—it’s your execution.
You’re out of touch, Caleb. You don’t stop to think about other people.
You’re a rich, self-centred man who has no idea how the real world works.
You’re so impressed with your own ideas, but so blind to your faults; otherwise, you would’ve consulted with Francois to see how your changes would affect his staff. ”
She took a step towards me and said, “Maybe it would be better for everyone if you just go back to your stuck-up club and surround yourself with entitled celebrities and bootlickers because that’s what you seem to enjoy.”
Each word hit like a slap. Self-centred.
Out of touch. Stuck-up. I’d heard it all before from my father, but coming from Nyah, it hit me hard.
She didn’t know me. She thought she did—and that was unbearable.
The women in my life had always told me what I wanted to hear.
This one... was different. Rage burned through me, my veins tight beneath my skin.
“Out of touch?” I scoffed. “You’re the one out of touch with upscale clientele.
You’ve really got a chip on your shoulder, haven’t you—bowing and scraping to rich people every day?
You never wanted to give me a chance—I saw that the morning I arrived.
Because I got your dream job, didn’t I? Instead of helping me implement positive change, you’re deliberately holding me back to prove a point to my father.
” I moved slowly towards her. “You’re judging me not on who I am, but how much I’m worth.
And now I know why. You’re jealous of me, jealous of my job, jealous of my money.
” Even as the words left my mouth, something twisted uncomfortably in my gut—but pride shoved it down.
“I’m jealous of you?” she spat out. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“You’re not fit to be an employee here,” I said, matching her tone. “You’re fired. Don’t bother coming back on Monday.”
The moment the words landed, a sharp thrill rushed through me—power, clean and intoxicating. Finally. A line drawn.
“You cannot fire me,” she snapped back. “You don’t have the authority. Only your father can do that.”
“Oh, you’ve got my father wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you?
” I said, twirling my finger. “What did you do to become GM of this hotel exactly... especially with your experience? Women like you love using men to gain power, and that’s exactly what you’ve done to my father.
Short skirt, soft voice, a little bit of perfume and a shy smile.
You’re a waitress, Nyah! Go back to the diner where he found you. ”
The room felt electric—volatile. I was too far in to stop now.
“You are a spoilt and ungrateful brat. You haven’t earned the title of being a man.
” She stepped toward me. “You throw temper tantrums like a child. You think you know me, but have no clue who or what I am. You are a selfish, arrogant, and stubborn teenager who cares about no one but himself. You are not the owner of this hotel. You are not even an employee right now.”
Her words cut deep. Not because they were loud—but because part of me recognized echoes of things I’d tried not to hear before. “You cannot speak to me like—”
“Who the hell do you think you are? What do you have that is yours? You think I’m jealous of your money?
The wealth you enjoy belongs to your father.
You haven’t earned a single penny with your own two hands, and you surely don’t know how to respect it.
You accuse me of using my appearance to get up in life, yet that’s all you’ve ever done.
The models you’re photographed with, the girl-band starlets—to them, you’re a handsome face and an Amex Black card.
But one day, when your looks fade, and Daddy closes the chequebook, you won’t seem nearly so appealing. ”
My chest seized. This was spiralling. Too personal. Too close to truths I refused to examine.
“You will be an empty shell of a man with nothing to show for yourself. How despicable and disgusting do you need to be to think of me as someone who uses men? You should take a good, hard look at your life and realize how many women are using you and wrapping you around their fingers because you are ‘Randall’s son.’”
I felt my cheeks burn with shame. Hot, undeniable, and humiliating.
“Do not, and I repeat, do not speak about me in that manner ever again.” She marched out of her office, slamming the door.
The sound echoed long after she was gone. I stood in her office, unable to believe what had just happened. My hands were still clenched as my heart raced. And for the first time since walking into this hotel, I wasn’t certain I’d won anything at all.