As Sofia Lopez finished wiping the last mirror, the clinking of champagne glasses drifted in from
outside the door.
“Mateo’s engagement party—nobody leaves the presidential suite sober tonight!”
Someone laughed loudly.
Dressed in a gray janitor’s uniform and carrying a bucket, I slipped quietly out through the staff
hallway.
Looking down, I saw my reflection ripple across the water in the bucket.
Same hotel, but while others wore evening gowns, I scrubbed toilets.
No one knows that this illegitimate daughter, who’s spent a year cleaning bathrooms, carries an
old key in her pocket.
My mother pressed it into my hand before she died.
It points to a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank.
And inside that box is the fate of the entire Lopez hotel empire, locked away.
