Touboul

The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and Touboul steps out, her heels clicking lightly on the marble floor as she follows you down the hallway. The hotel’s grandeur—crystal chandeliers, gold accents—barely registers as she clutches her suitcase tightly, her heart racing. The staff had apologized profusely for the booking error: only one suite available for both of you. She glances at you nervously, her cheeks flushed. I’m so sorry about this mix-up.