BOSS UNDERCOVER

By 7:23 on Saturday morning, our hotel had already lost a groom, mixed up a memorial luncheon with a child’s birthday party, and killed a carp.

To be fair, the carp had not arrived in particularly good health. But our head chef insisted that the hotel refrigerator had finally robbed it of all hope.

I stood in the middle of the banquet hall with a phone in one hand, someone else’s bridal veil in the other, and a pin clenched between my teeth as I tried to pull it free from my sleeve.

“Eva,” Olia, our front-desk administrator, said over the phone, “don’t panic.”

Olia used that phrase in two situations: when she was already panicking, or when it was too late for anyone else to start.

“I’m perfectly calm.”

“You’re talking through your teeth.”

“There’s a pin in my mouth.”

“Oh. Fine, then.”

I spat the pin onto the table.

“What happened?”

“We found the groom.”

“Excellent.”

“He’s in the laundry room.”

“Less excellent.”

“He isn’t wearing trousers.”

I closed my eyes.

Around me, servers were arranging glasses, the florist was sobbing over the wedding arch because the fresh peonies “weren’t connecting with the composition,” and near the stage, Serhii from maintenance was trying to explain to the DJ that smoke coming from an electrical socket was not a special effect.

A normal Saturday morning.

“Why isn’t the groom wearing trousers?” I asked.

“He says the iron caught fire.”

“And the trousers?”

“Also caught fire.”

“Was he wearing them at the time?”

“No. He took them off first.”

“Clever man. The marriage might survive the honeymoon.”

“Eva, the best man is in there too.”

“Is he wearing trousers?”

“Yes.”

“Then he can give them to the groom.”

Olia went quiet.

“What will the best man wear?”

“His underwear. It isn’t his wedding.”

I ended the call before she could object and turned back to the florist.

“Inna, do the peonies understand the composition now?”

She raised red, tearful eyes to me.

“No.”

“There you are. Neither do you.”

“They’re all facing different directions.”

“They’ve had a difficult morning.”

“They’re flowers.”

“Exactly. Lucky them. No one expects them to find trousers for the groom.”

I hooked the veil over the back of a chair, although I suspected it belonged on the bride’s head.

The bride was currently sitting in her room, drinking prosecco through a straw and refusing to speak to her mother. She would not need the veil for at least another ten minutes.

Olia rushed into the hall.

She was twenty-four, wore flawless makeup, remembered every room number in the hotel, and could report a catastrophe with the air of someone who had personally arranged it.

“Eva, the cake is here.”

“Finally, some good news.”

“It isn’t ours.”

I looked at her.

“Whose is it?”

“The inscription says, ‘In Loving Memory of Anatolii Semenovych.’”

We both turned towards the main table.

A large white box sat in the centre.

A black sugar rose was visible beneath the lid.

“Where is our cake?”

“It went to the memorial.”

I slowly placed my phone on the table.

“So somewhere right now, twenty-seven grieving people are staring at a three-tier pink wedding cake that says, ‘Together Forever’?”

“Maybe they’ll think it’s symbolic.”

I looked at her.

“Find the driver.”

“He isn’t answering.”

“Find a car.”

“They’re all busy.”

“Find someone who owns a car.”

“Serhii has a moped.”

“I said a car, not a creative way to finish the cake off.”

Olia pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

I wanted to laugh too. Unfortunately, whenever I started laughing before half past seven in the morning, it usually ended in a nervous breakdown before lunch.

Our head chef appeared in the doorway.

Borys was large, bald, and always looked as though he had just buried someone in the woods but remained dissatisfied with the quality of the soil.

“We have no salmon,” he announced.

“We had some yesterday.”

“Yesterday, it still believed in the future.”

“Borys.”

“The supplier delivered thirty kilos of something that is legally described as salmon and smells like humanity’s final mistake.”

“What are we replacing it with?”

“Chicken.”

“The menu says salmon on a bed of spinach.”

“We’ll put the chicken on the spinach. The bed remains.”

Olia snorted.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

“The bride is vegetarian.”

“She ordered salmon.”

“She’s a vegetarian who eats fish.”

“That isn’t a vegetarian. That’s someone who dislikes chicken.”

“Borys, please do something.”

“I already am. I’m hating people.”

He turned and left.

“He’s in a good mood,” Olia said.

“Yes. Yesterday he threatened to quit and burn down the restaurant.”

“And today he only hates people.”

“Personal growth.”

My phone rang again.

Viktor Pavlovych.

The hotel director.

I stared at his name for several seconds, hoping he might reconsider.

He did not.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Eva Andriivna, where are you?”

“At the hotel.”

“More specifically.”

“In the part that isn’t on fire yet.”

A pause.

Viktor Pavlovych did not like humour. Especially when he could recognise the truth inside it.

“A specialist from head office has arrived.”

“My condolences.”

“This is serious.”

“Then my condolences to all of us.”

“His name is Danylo Koval. He is a consultant for internal operations. You will meet him, show him the hotel, and give him any information he requires.”

I looked at the black rose on the memorial cake.

“Today?”

“He is already here.”

“Viktor Pavlovych, we have a wedding for one hundred and forty guests, no salmon, a groom without trousers, and the wedding cake has gone to mourn Anatolii Semenovych.”

The director remained silent.

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I haven’t even mentioned the carp.”

“Head office is unhappy with our performance.”

“Perhaps head office should start by finding our cake.”

“Eva Andriivna.”

He pronounced my name as though it were a disciplinary offence.

“Meet the consultant. Be polite. And don’t tell him anything unnecessary.”

Now that was interesting.

“What exactly counts as unnecessary around here?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“No. We have so much of it, we should probably make a list.”

“Just show him the hotel.”

“And if he asks questions?”

“Answer within the limits of your position.”

“So, everything?”

Viktor Pavlovych ended the call.

I lowered the phone.

Olia was watching me with interest.

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s a stress spasm.”

“What did the director say?”

“Head office has sent us a consultant.”

“Is he handsome?”

“I don’t know.”

“Married?”

“Olia.”

“I’m gathering information.”

“You haven’t even seen him.”

“That is why I’m gathering it in advance.”

I lifted the box containing the memorial cake.

“Where are you going?”

“To exchange the dead man for the bride.”

“And the consultant?”

“If he really specialises in internal operations, he’ll find me.”

The service elevator stopped between the third and fourth floors while I was holding twelve kilos of someone else’s grief decorated with black roses.

The light flickered.

The elevator shuddered.

“No,” I said.

It shuddered again.

“I’m serious. Not today.”

The doors remained closed.

I pressed the emergency-call button.

Something crackled through the speaker and died.

“Wonderful.”

The cake remained silent.

At least someone in this hotel knew how not to make things worse.

I called Serhii.

“Yes?” he answered.

“I’m in the elevator.”

“Congratulations.”

“It’s stuck.”

“Less good.”

“Between the third and fourth floors.”

“I’m on the roof.”

“Come down.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“The groom launched a drone carrying the rings. It landed on the ventilation unit, and the rings fell into the gutter.”

I rested my forehead against the metal wall.

“Who allowed the groom to launch a drone?”

“The bride.”

“She wanted to leave him ten minutes ago.”

“She must have changed her mind.”

“Find someone who can open the elevator.”

“Mykhailo is off today.”

“Call him.”

“He’s at a funeral.”

I looked down at the cake.

“Anatolii Semenovych’s?”

“How did you know?”

“Instinct.”

The call cut out.

I exhaled and placed the box on the floor.

There was nothing to do but wait.

I hated waiting. Waiting served no purpose except to give you time to consider how badly you had organised your life.

A minute later, the elevator jerked.

The doors opened about eight inches.

A man stood outside.

First, I saw black shoes. Far too clean for our staff corridor. Then dark trousers, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a watch that probably cost enough to repair the elevator and compensate everyone who had ever been trapped inside it.

The man crouched and looked through the gap.

Dark hair. Composed face. Grey eyes belonging to someone who was not accustomed to finding women sitting on elevator floors beside funeral cakes.

“Do you need help?”

“No. I live here.”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Comfortable?”

“City centre. Excellent transport links.”

He crouched lower and gripped the doors.

“Move back.”

“Are you a technician?”

“No.”

“Then this is a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because if the elevator kills you, I’ll have to complete an incident report.”

“Are you always this concerned about people?”

“Only about paperwork.”

He pulled the doors apart.

The gap widened.

I picked up the box.

“Cake first.”

The man looked at the inscription on the lid.

“Anatolii Semenovych?”

“Don’t ask questions.”

“Is he inside?”

“Only in spirit.”

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.

He held out his hands.

I passed him the box.

“Careful. He isn’t our deceased person.”

“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“Good instinct.”

I squeezed through the opening.

The elevator was below floor level, so I had to brace one hand against his shoulder.

His shoulder was firm and warm.

Information I did not need at this particular moment.

I climbed into the corridor and straightened my jacket.

The man was still holding the cake.

Strangely, he looked perfectly natural doing it, as though expensive men regularly stood in staff corridors carrying memorial desserts.

“Thank you,” I said. “You can put it down.”

“Where?”

“Keep holding it for now.”

“Why?”

“I need to decide whether you can be left unsupervised.”

“How long does the assessment take?”

“Depends on the candidate.”

He studied me.

Not arrogantly. Not rudely. Just carefully.

I did not like it.

When a man looked at you rudely, everything was simple. You could tell him where to go, step on his foot, or announce that you had something contagious.

But when he looked carefully, you had to wonder what he was seeing.

“Are you Eva Hran?” he asked.

“Depends who wants to know.”

“Danylo Koval.”

I waited.

So did he.

“And?” I finally asked.

“Consultant from head office.”

I looked at the expensive watch again.

“That was my guess.”

“Because of the shirt?”

“Because of the way you’re holding the cake.”

“How am I holding it?”

“Like it owes you money.”

“It’s heavy.”

“Anatolii Semenovych was probably a difficult man.”

Danylo glanced at the box.

“I was told you would show me around.”

“You were lied to.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t want to damage your relationship with management in the first five minutes.”

“Is it a good relationship?”

“Not yet. Give them time.”

Olia appeared around the corner at speed.

She saw me.

She saw Danylo.

She saw the cake.

Her gaze remained on Danylo slightly longer than was strictly necessary for a professional assessment.

“Eva, we found the driver.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Promising.”

“He’s bringing our cake back. But there’s a problem.”

“I assumed there would be.”

“The topper is missing.”

“From the driver?”

“From the cake.”

“Where is it?”

“The widow has it.”

I took a slow breath.

“Why?”

“She said the bride and groom looked exactly like her and Anatolii Semenovych when they were young.”

“So she took the figurines?”

“She took the bride. The groom is still there.”

“Symbolic.”

Danylo coughed quietly.

I turned towards him.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Your eyes are laughing.”

“I’m controlling them within the limits of my position.”

Olia turned away sharply, but her shoulders shook.

I pointed towards Danylo.

“This is the new consultant.”

“From head office?” Olia immediately straightened.

“Yes.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

It clearly was.

“Olia, take the cake.”

She accepted the box.

“Where do I put it?”

“In the refrigerator.”

“The carp is in there.”

“The carp has nothing left to lose.”

Olia walked away.

Danylo watched her go, then looked at me.

“Do you really keep a memorial cake beside a dead fish?”

“No. We usually store deceased guests separately.”

He smiled.

Properly this time.

That was also information I did not need.

He had a good smile. Not a polished, advertising smile. It was slightly crooked, as though he had not used it in a long time and was checking whether it still worked.

It did.

Unfortunately.

“Come on,” I said.

“Where?”

“I’m showing you our internal operations.”

“You just said I’d been lied to.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“I want to see how much you can survive.”

The first internal operation was a fight between two waiters in a storage room.

Strictly speaking, only one of them was fighting. The other stood against the wall holding a decorative ice swan.

“Put it down,” I said.

“She started melting!” the waiter shouted.

“The swan?”

“Maryna!”

“Who is Maryna?”

“My girlfriend!”

The other waiter lunged forwards.

Danylo caught him by the shoulder.

Not violently. He simply stopped him.

The young man turned in surprise, as though he had only just discovered that the world contained people stronger than him.

“Let go!”

“No,” Danylo said.

Calmly.

Without raising his voice.

The waiter struggled for another second, reconsidered his options, and went still.

I looked at Danylo.

Interesting.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He slept with Maryna!”

“That’s not true!” the waiter holding the swan protested. “She only stayed at my place!”

“With no clothes on!”

“She was hot!”

I looked at Danylo.

“Make a note. Internal process number one: staff members should not resolve relationship disputes beside ice sculptures.”

“Why?”

“It is dangerous and bad for the décor.”

“What about the moral issue?”

“The moral issue isn’t in the budget.”

The waiter holding the swan looked at me guiltily.

“Eva Andriivna, I can explain.”

“Please don’t. I have a weak stomach and an active imagination.”

I pointed at the door.

“Both of you to the kitchen. One puts the swan back. The other takes a bucket and checks the emergency exit.”

“Why a bucket?”

“So your hands have something useful to do.”

They left.

Danylo released the other waiter.

“You aren’t going to punish them?”

“For what exactly? Fighting, cheating, or poor choice of location?”

“Fighting.”

“I’ll collect written explanations after the wedding.”

“And now?”

“Now I need two waiters.”

“Even after one tried to hit the other?”

“We have one hundred and forty guests. By the end of the evening, everyone will want to hit someone.”

He watched me with that same attentive expression.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“You look as though you’re grading me.”

“I’m still collecting information.”

“Be careful. People here may slap your hands if you collect their things without permission.”

“Are you threatening a representative of head office?”

“I’m warning you. A threat would be more specific.”

“For example?”

I stepped closer.

“For example: if you get in my way today, I will put you in room 117.”

“What is wrong with room 117?”

“Sometimes a child cries in there.”

“Do the guests have a child?”

“No.”

He went quiet.

I let the silence settle.

“Is that a joke?” he asked.

“Depends how superstitious you are.”

“Not very.”

“Then it isn’t a joke.”

I continued down the corridor.

His footsteps followed behind me.

He did not fall back.

That was either a good sign or the beginning of a problem.

Experience suggested the second.

Over the next hour, Danylo witnessed:

the bride locking herself in a toilet because her mother had described the wedding dress as “a brave choice”;

Borys refusing to prepare a vegan dish containing bacon;

the hotel director personally ordering staff to hide a cracked vase in a guest’s room so the guest could later be charged for it;

a housekeeper crying in a supply closet because her bonus had been withheld over a complaint about noise caused by the ventilation system;

and me returning her money from the petty-cash drawer without asking anyone’s permission.

That was when Danylo stopped joking.

“You had no right to do that,” he said after we were alone in the staff office.

“To do what?”

“Give an employee money from the hotel’s cash.”

“It was her money.”

“Not according to the records.”

“According to the records, our salmon is fresh.”

“There are rules.”

“There are.”

I locked the safe.

“And there are also people earning minimum wage who pay more to rent one room than you paid for today’s shirt.”

He glanced down at his shirt.

“Do you often estimate the cost of other people’s clothes?”

“Only when they start lecturing me about rules.”

“What happens if the money isn’t returned to the cash drawer?”

“I’ll put it back myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I took it.”

“I asked why you’re taking the risk for her.”

“Because she did nothing wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I work here.”

“That isn’t evidence.”

“Not to you.”

I turned the key in the safe.

My mood had changed.

Ten minutes earlier, Danylo had seemed interesting. Now his voice carried the familiar tone of someone from an office where another person made the coffee and employees’ problems existed only as numbers in a spreadsheet.

“Listen,” I said. “You can follow me around, ask questions, and write down every rule I break. But the moment you try to blame a housekeeper for a broken ventilation system, the tour is over.”

He looked at me.

Not angrily.

As though he were making a decision.

“Do you always speak to representatives of head office this way?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Sometimes I’m worse.”

A smile appeared briefly on his face but did not reach his eyes.

“I see.”

“I doubt it.”

I left the room.

He did not follow immediately.

For some reason, that bothered me more than it should have.

Perhaps I had already become accustomed to his presence.

Perhaps he really was attractive.

Or perhaps I had not eaten all morning, and hunger regularly led me to make emotionally questionable decisions.

I reached the stairs before his voice came from behind me.

“Eva.”

I stopped.

He stood at the far end of the corridor.

Serious. No smile.

“What?”

“What is the housekeeper’s name?”

“Why?”

“I want to find out who withheld her bonus.”

“You said there were rules.”

“Exactly.”

I was silent.

“Halyna Tkachuk,” I finally said. “But if you make things worse for her—”

“You’ll put me in room 117?”

“No. That was before you started irritating me.”

“And now?”

I looked at him.

“Now I’ll think of something better.”

For the first time all morning, Danylo Koval smiled as though that was exactly what he had wanted to hear.

By evening, the wedding had somehow begun.

The groom was wearing trousers.

The bride was wearing her veil.

And on top of the cake stood one lonely plastic groom.

The bride looked at it and burst into tears.

“It’s a sign,” she whispered.

I did not ask what kind.

Sometimes professionalism meant knowing when to remain silent.

I left through the service door, sat on a crate of empty bottles in the back courtyard, and took off my shoes.

My feet were throbbing.

So was my head.

The door opened.

Danylo appeared beside me.

He carried two cups of coffee.

“Is that a bribe?” I asked.

“Payment for the tour.”

He offered me one.

I accepted it.

“No sugar?”

“No sugar.”

“How did you know?”

“You drank coffee three times today.”

“Were you watching me?”

“Collecting information.”

I took a sip.

The coffee was good.

That was suspicious.

“Well?” I asked. “How many violations did you find?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Before lunch, or in total?”

“Before lunch.”

“Weak result. I’ll try harder tomorrow.”

He leaned one shoulder against the wall.

“Why do you work here?”

“Love of humanity.”

“Seriously.”

“Money.”

“You could find another job.”

“Do you say that to every employee during an inspection?”

“I never said this was an inspection.”

“You’re a head-office consultant who asks questions, reads documents, and carries funeral cakes. Either it is an inspection, or you have a very strange hobby.”

He drank some coffee.

“What is happening here, Eva?”

There was no humour in his voice.

I stopped smiling too.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The director orders complaints to be hidden. Staff are fined without explanation. Some deliveries do not match the invoices. Guests are staying in rooms that are marked as vacant.”

I slowly placed my cup on the crate.

He had noticed more than he was supposed to.

Far more.

“You should not ask those questions out loud.”

“Why?”

“Because Viktor Pavlovych doesn’t like people taking an interest in his internal operations.”

“And you?”

“I don’t like new arrivals trying to save the hotel on their first day.”

“I’m not trying to save it.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He looked at me.

Behind the door, the wedding waltz was playing. Somewhere in the ballroom, the guests were applauding two people who had been unable to agree on a pair of trousers that morning.

“I’m trying to find out who is sinking it,” Danylo said.

And in that moment, I knew one thing for certain.

This man was not who he claimed to be.

The problem was that I had not yet decided whether I wanted to expose him.

Or help him.