Their Human Receptionist (Whispers from the Imperial Cage #3)

Chapter 1

AN ALMOST MISSED OPPORTUNITY, EVE

I'm cursing morning traffic while firing off a desperate text:

Sorry, I'm going to be late.

I hit send to my boss, Cal.

When will you be here?

I don’t know.

Flashing lights and sirens surround the crowded bus. I look out the window at the unmoving cars around us. “Unbelievable,” I say under my breath.

“There's been an accident,” the woman next to me says, like she’s offering some grand revelation.

“It could be much worse. You young people are always rushing. Never waiting. Never seeing the signs. If you want my advice, relax and let fate find you naturally. If you push too hard, you might end up with the darker side of the fate you deserve. Trust me, I know.”

I force a smile. “Sorry, unless you're the Oracle of Delphi, I'm not really looking for a lecture on destiny right now. My only concern is paying my bills this month. Something that must concern you too, since you’re sitting on this bus, just the same as I am.”

She presses her lips into a thin line and looks away, leaving me to stew in the endless brake lights. I tap my black heels against the floor as I wait for a reply from Cal. When my phone pings, it's not the message I want to see.

That's a pity. You were my first choice for this promotion.

Shit! I want this promotion more than I've wanted anything in years.

I've excelled in my three years at the Terra Sanctum hotel, the “hidden jewel,” so exclusive it doesn't even have a sign.

I'm a natural at working for the rich and powerful, and I want to see how far I can go in this exclusive world, even if I’m just the staff.

The bus driver's deep voice crackles over the intercom. “Looks like there's been an accident.”

What the hell, man? I look at him through his reflection in the mirror. Did he just wake up and realize he’s at work? We’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes surrounded by sirens. Why is everyone on this bus so content just to sit here?

I look out the window at the emergency services going by and try to console myself that this isn't the only promotion, but deep down I know better. At Terra Sanctum, coveted promotions only come around every few years, and nothing is transparent about the company’s hiring practices.

But one thing is always the same; it’s always a move to another city and another hotel.

So the next time one rolls around, my life might have morphed into something I can't escape. I might have settled for some mediocre relationship or taken on debt I can't afford and be trapped in the same hand-to-mouth existence that's haunted me since I left the system.

My eyes sweep over the other people on the bus, my peers. Everyone is lost in their own digital world, faces bathed in the blue glow of screens, thumbs scrolling endlessly through feeds.

I don't have any social media accounts to lose myself in. I like my privacy. No, I obsess over my privacy like a dragon and its hoard. It's the one luxury I've managed to afford in a world that wants to know everything about everyone.

But it’s no surprise I’m not active on social media.

For the first twenty years of my life, I shared air, blankets, and heartbreak with a carousel of girls at St. Catherine's.

There, privacy was only a myth, and everything was “borrowed.” My purple barrette, which was a secret gift from Sister Agnes for my eighth birthday, just vanished one day.

My dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables went missing for months only to reappear with all the Gilbert Blythe scenes ripped out.

Even the cheap spiral diary where I poured my heart into fantasies about being adopted became communal entertainment, thanks to my bully, Briar, and was passed around for laughs.

Even my file hadn’t been my own. The sterile biography of my whole existence belonged to strangers who never met me, never even cared to meet me, and yet rubber-stamped every decision that shaped my life until I reached adulthood.

At eighteen, I finally gained legal access to said file, and I spun dangerous daydreams while I waited for it to be mailed to me.

I imagined tragically sentimental stories, like my mother died while giving birth to me and my father was unaware I even existed.

Then I would take a DNA test, and a match would trigger a tearful reunion with a man who swore he would have never put me up for adoption if he’d only known I existed.

But the reality hit harder than any orphanage mattress. Two signatures. Two checked boxes: NO CONTACT.

Sister Agnes had watched me rip the manilla envelope open in her office, so she was there for my complete collapse. She told me, “People leave babies for a thousand reasons. Most of them aren't about the child at all.”

“Not about me?” I'd snapped with tears streaming down my cheeks. “This was entirely about me. I’m a person, a human being, and they weren’t even curious about the life that they had created together. Even without any strings attached. They rejected me without even knowing me!”

It was like finding out I was an orphan all over again; even though I had always been an orphan, seeing it in black-and-white made it real. It made it permanent. I cried for weeks until my state-assigned roommates finally lost their patience and gave me the tough love I needed to survive.

“My file said, 'parental rights terminated due to substance abuse.' Briar's said, 'abandoned at hospital.' We all have an ‘unwanted’ sign stamped on our foreheads, Eve. Yours just uses different words. You’re not special.”

They were right. I learned to forget my dreams of ever having parents or a family. I looked away when I saw lucky girls with their parents on the street. I kept reminding myself that that kind of life wasn’t for me.

So, I have one app on my phone; Email.

The woman next to me on the bus, who I've subconsciously named Pythia, shifts, her shoulder pressing against mine for a moment before she pulls away with a subtle grimace. The feeling is mutual, babes. Bad luck is a communicable disease on this side of town, and Pythia definitely has it in spades.

The driver's voice crackles over the PA. “Sorry folks, it doesn’t look like we're going anywhere for a while.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is this man glitching or something? I look at him through the rearview mirror again and watch him lower his forehead to the wheel as if the morning has finally broken him.

Enough.

I pull my faux Chloé Marcie onto my lap, stand, and edge into the aisle.

Every shuffled foot and stray tote feels like a lifetime of permission slips I've waited for.

Throughout my life, it was always someone else deciding when I was allowed to move or speak.

Not today. If the nuns were right and the Devil is the one who always whispers “rebellion,” then fine; I'm fucking listening, Satan. I want that promotion. I want to have enough money to be in control of my life, and I’m not just going to sit on this bus and let that opportunity pass me by without at least trying.

When I reach the front of the bus, I rap on the scratched plexiglass of the driver's box. “Could you pop the door?”

The driver barely lifts his head. “Lady, we're stuck in gridlock.”

“We're parked,” I point out. “And so are all the cars around us.”

He gestures toward the CCTV above the door. “Cameras. If I open up, I could lose my job.”

I tap the glass again, harder this time, and fish out everything in my wallet; two fives, a single, and a fistful of nickels. I slide the bundle under the window. “It's all I have. Please, I can't be late for work. Not today.”

The scent of paper and metal does what empathy couldn't. He studies me, studies the money, pockets it with a heavy hand, and then sighs and pulls the release. The bus doors wheeze apart, and I bolt like my life depends on it.

My overworked black heels pound against the pavement as I run, each step a declaration: I will not be passed over for this promotion. I feel like I’m running from invisibility. Ever since I read my file, specifically the checked boxes: NO CONTACT, I have let those two words define me.

But something changed me on that bus. Maybe it was the combination of everyone else just sitting there and Cal’s passive-aggressive text. I don’t know. I feel different somehow. I am awake now, and I realize I have a choice. I am not my parents’ mistake. I’m not invisible.

It's not long before I discover what held us all up. A serious accident between three cars is sprawled across the road. Twisted metal, emergency vehicles, and police officers are all on the scene. I give the wreckage a wide berth, but find myself slowing, unable to look away as I get closer.

I know it's terrible to stare at someone else's misfortune.

Basic human decency says to avert your eyes and respect their pain, but I can't. In moments like these, I always wonder if God really exists. Sister Agnes said doubt made me a temptress for the Devil, but if that’s true, the Devil has been ignoring me for years.

As I pass the accident, I notice two body bags on stretchers.

Black cocoons that signal life's abrupt end. A common enough sight when you live in the poorer areas of the city. I look for any sign of a soul leaving their body or an angel in the background securing their way to Heaven. I see neither—just the overworked first responders. There’s not even a stray angel feather.

Once I'm past the emergency vehicles, I begin running again, and I reach the next bus stop just as a replacement vehicle pulls up. A small mercy in an unmerciful morning. I board and slam my transit card down with more force than necessary, making the reader beep twice.

The driver doesn't even glance up. Passengers running onto buses and slamming down their cards the way people used to hang up the phone on each other in old movies must happen all the time on his eight-hour shift.

So who is the NPC here? Me or him? Or all of us who live like this, working so hard just to live hand-to-mouth existences?

I take a seat as the bus starts moving and carefully type a new message to Cal:

I still want to be considered for the promotion. On my way now.

“Please, please, please don't give it to anyone else,” I say while I hit send.

The bubble hangs on the screen. One grey check, delivered, and ignored. My pulse races while the second check refuses to appear.

No reply.

Shit.

When the replacement bus reaches my stop, I burst through the doors and run like I'm being pursued by everything I'm trying to escape; my lack of parents, my lack of friends, my lack of belonging. I’m running so fast it’s like I’m being chased by everything I’ve spent my life trying to outrun.

I sprint three blocks to the hotel's service alley.

The two guards in dark uniforms barely get a breathless, “Good morning,” from me as I swipe my badge through the scanner.

The two seconds it takes for the doors to open seem like an eternity.

When the panel finally flashes green and the metal doors part, I run into a world of luxury most people never see.

I walk as quickly as I can until I reach the staff room, every step echoing with the same silent chant:

Please God, don't let me be too late.