Six days ago. While Lucía was still hugging me and asking about restaurant reservations.
I looked at my passport on the table.
At my suitcase in the corner.
And I asked the manager to make several changes.
He paused. His voice got serious.
“Mrs. Ríos, once I confirm this, they will not be able to enter the suite, use your transfer, or charge anything to your account.”
“Confirm it,” I said.
My voice didn’t shake.
The hotel manager was silent for three seconds.
“Mrs. Ríos,” he said carefully, “I need to tell you something else. The woman who called six days ago also attempted to add charges to your card. Museum tickets. A private yacht tour in Capri. Spa appointments. Over four thousand euros.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you approve them?”
“No. We require verbal confirmation from the cardholder for amounts over five hundred. She became quite upset when I refused. She said you were elderly and had trouble using phones and that she had your full permission.”
My hand tightened around the receiver.
Elderly.
I am fifty-three years old.
“She also asked,” he continued, “if we could remove your name from the booking entirely and issue the suite key to her mother, Blanca Vega, upon arrival.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
He went on.
“I informed her that was not possible. She hung up on me.”
I sat down at the kitchen table.
The pastries were still sitting there. Steam rising. Untouched.
“Mrs. Ríos, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What would you like me to do?”
I exhaled slowly.
“Cancel the suite. Cancel the airport transfer. Remove my card from the account entirely. If they arrive, tell them the reservation has been voided due to fraudulent activity.”
“Understood. And if they ask to rebook?”
“Tell them the hotel is fully booked.”
Another pause.
