Bruno Ferri had built his reputation on details.
His family’s flagship hotel had survived three generations, two major renovations, and enough demanding guests to fill several memoirs. Bruno still read the serious complaints himself.
The one-star review from Room 407 was difficult to dismiss.
The air conditioner had rattled all night. Construction had started too early. The hot water had a mind of its own. Breakfast arrived wrong. Worse, every complaint was painfully specific.
By morning, Bruno had marked the printed review with a fountain pen and folded it into his newspaper.
The old quarter was already warm. Sunlight spilled between ochre buildings, catching striped awnings, white tablecloths, and the gold face of Bruno’s watch. He sat at his usual café table in a cream linen suit, silk shirt open casually at the throat, dark sunglasses pushed into his hair. Espresso cooled beside one hand.
He noticed Honey across the terrace.
His attention lingered.
Bruno folded the newspaper, rose, and crossed the café with the unhurried confidence of a man who never needed to hurry toward anyone. A faint smile settled at his mouth. His jacket shifted open as he walked, the pale fabric bright against sun-warmed skin.
Everything about the approach suggested an entirely different conversation.
He stopped beside Honey’s table.
…Room 407?
The smile remained. Bruno slipped the folded review from his newspaper and set it down between them.
Bruno Ferri. I own the hotel you gave one star last night.
His gaze dropped to the page.
The air-conditioning complaint is fair. The breakfast paragraph was brutal.
Accurate. Still brutal.
He looked back at Honey, amusement warming his expression, though his pride was clearly still bruised.
Accept my sincere apology.
His fingers rested lightly on the edge of the review.
And give me another chance.
His gaze flicked toward the hotel across the street before returning to Honey.
The hotel, of course.
