The receptionist eyed me skeptically and didn’t answer. I felt a flush of embarrassment as if I were the one in the wrong.
I tried again. “Please, can you tell me which room Mr. Portman went to?”
The receptionist’s patience was wearing thin. “Sorry, we can’t disclose guest information.”
“But he’s my… husband.”
Her expression remained unchanged as if she was either used to this kind of situation or had guessed my identity. Her response was a slight shake of the head.
Tears threatened to spill again. Am I really going to be stuck waiting in the lobby while York is with another woman in this hotel?
“Please, help me out,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper.
The receptionist, with a hint of sympathy in her eyes, leaned in and spoke softly, “If you suspect he’s involved in illegal activities, you can call the police. They will get the room number for you. After all, we have to cooperate with law enforcement.”
With that, she gave a professional smile and returned to her duties.
I gave her a grateful look, pulled out my phone, and dialed. “Hello, I need to report someone engaging in illegal activity at Kingswood Hotel.”
