The Eighty Million Dollar Slap

Summary

The third time the hotel clerk hammered on my door that morning, I lost it. The kind of rage I usually reserve for micromanaging clients, I unleashed on him.

“Why in God’s name do you keep coming back? Is it really that difficult to let a paying guest get some sleep? I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to finalize a pitch, and all I want now is a few hours of peace!”

Ordinarily, I could tolerate minor annoyances. But he had clearly seen the "Do Not Disturb" sign I'd physically fumbled onto the knob, yet he was determined to wake me up just so they could clean the room on their schedule.