Novel & Cerita The Literary Hotel

He said with a chuckle, “That’s why I’m clarifying before we even get there. You’re not walking into a trap, Emelia. I promise.” His voice held no mockery, no teasing this time, just calm reassurance. But still… a hotel? I turned back to the window, watching the looming structure draw closer. The Majestic Crown wasn’t just any hotel, it was one of the most luxurious in the city, known for housing celebrities, dignitaries, and people with deep pockets. Everything about it screamed secrecy, discretion, and expensive hush-hush conversations. I narrowed my eyes at the grand white pillars standing like sentries at the entrance.

Yafe and Cheryl exchanged a look, then both erupted into sinister cackles. Meanwhile, Liam and Sunniva arrived at the Starlit Hotel. The Starlit Hotel was also a highly luxurious five-star hotel in Drunham City, not unlike the Luxoria Hotel, but the two places were quite a distance away from each other. The entire second-floor had been booked for the night's events, and the moment they arrived, they could see the hotel entrance and the elevators being guarded by throes of guards in black suits. Sunniva and Liam took the elevator to the second floor, where they were stopped by two burly, solemn-looking men. They said coldly to Sunniva, "Ms. Bristow, apologies for the inconvenience, but we nee

The blonde woman's voice shattered the silence by saying, "We'll be at the hotel shortly." I nodded, but remained deep in contemplation, unsure of Camilla's true feelings. It wasn't all work. It was was me. Finally, we arrived at the hotel, a luxurious, five-star hotel that shone in the city lights. The entryway had large glass doors that slid open as we approached, revealing a lobby with marble floors and a brilliant chandelier suspended above like a cluster of diamonds. The exquisite decor made everything feel opulent, and a gentle buzz of calm talk filled the air.

Right then and there, I wanted to slap myself for being so clueless. God, it was written in bold letters—Lucien owned this hotel, too. Damn.

I love how romantic it is to be intimate with the man you have feelings for in the middle of the water, surrounded by colours and old Italian music. We wake up after a long nap which we needed because of the jetlag. I open the curtains of our room to see the dark sky above us. We’re staying at a Venetian hotel named Locanda Hotel, it’s part of the city’s history as it’s located in the oldest area, and apparently, there was a writer called Ernest Hemingway who wrote his book at this same hotel in the forties. I sigh when I feel Tiger’s strong arms around me. He rests his chin on my shoulder and kisses my neck. “How do you feel?” he asks with that hoarse voice that always succeeds to run shive

“She died two years ago in an attack. That is when I started working for the council, to get out of my pack, Damian’s pack.” “And the full circle.” I said. We had pulled up to a hotel. “Why a hotel?” “Not just any hotel, the hotel that Jonathan will be staying at tomorrow.” The hotel was massive. I looked more like an office building than a hotel but the numerous greeters with bell carts confirmed it was indeed a hotel. The beige stucco siding made the building look plain but there was marbling on the canopy and columns that helped out the curb appeal. A large chandelier hung from the canopy that swayed gently in the wind.

he agreed. The hotel bar moved around them the quiet professional noise of it, people conducting their own evenings, the city outside doing its September things. The light through the window was the specific London autumn light she'd been missing, the honest northern quality of it, the light that didn't flatter but told the truth. She put the letter in her bag. He put hers in his coat. "Dinner," he said. "There's somewhere near here that isn't the tourist version." "Is it the kind you're supposed to want or the kind you actually want," she said.

****** Day Two — Paris, France The hotel was not a hotel. I mean technically it was. It had a lobby and a concierge and a man at the door in a uniform who had taken our bags without being asked. But calling it a hotel felt like calling the ocean a puddle. It was the kind of building that made you slow down when you walked through the entrance because your brain needed a moment to process what your eyes were seeing.

It smells like so many different things compacted together in a mix; delicious aroma of roasting chicken, rain soaked bricks, freshly cut grass, wafts of sweet perfume, stale food, salty chips, and expensive leather. The hotel itself is a glittering skyscraper, standing proudly with all of its transparent glass, complex design, and simple fancy spiraling up to the sky. A security guard —or at least he’s dressed like one, glances at Bibah and I as we walk through the double glass doors. I’d expect the reception to be bustling with activity, but it’s peaceful, save for some of our classmates who are eagerly taking pictures and collecting the key cards for their various reserved rooms.

"If that's all right. Nothing elaborate. Just your name. So the book knows where it comes from." Dante looked at the Roman afternoon light on the wall of the hotel room. "Yes," he said. "That's all right." "Good," Elian said, and picked up his book. Dante went back to the essay collection. The Roman afternoon continued its slow gold work, and outside the window the city was being its two-thousand-year-old patient self, and the hotel room was warm and quiet and entirely enough.