“There… there must be a misunderstanding with the bank,” Beatrice stammered, her voice high and reedy, devoid of any of her usual aristocratic bite. “My daughter-in-law, Elena, she arranged this. She’s just being spiteful.”
“Madam, the account holder explicitly reported this booking as identity theft and grand larceny,” the manager replied smoothly. “As of this moment, you have accumulated over four thousand dollars in incidentals, champagne, and spa treatments today alone. We require an immediate, alternative form of payment to cover the balance, or we will be forced to take alternative measures.”
“I… I don’t have my cards with me,” Beatrice lied, her voice cracking. “My son will wire the money! Julian Sterling, he’s a very famous artist in New York. Let me just call him!”
“Madam, this is a private island,” the manager stated, his patience clearly evaporating. “We do not operate on promises. If you cannot produce a valid credit card with a sufficient limit in the next five minutes, I will have no choice but to contact the Maldivian Maritime Police in Malé to report a case of international fraud.”