Charlotte Reid woke before dawn, as she always did now.
For a moment, in that hazy space between sleep and waking, she forgot where she was. The sheets were too soft, the silence too complete. No baby monitor crackling, no little feet padding down the hall. Just the muted hush of the city outside and the distant hum of the hotel’s boilers far, far below.
Then it all slid into place.
Penthouse suite, Reid Manhattan. Twenty-eighth floor. The crown jewel of her family’s flagship hotel. Not home, exactly, but close enough for tonight.
Her eyes opened to the view. Floor-to-ceiling glass angled around the corner of the building, black sky just beginning to go gray, the Hudson a flat strip of pewter. Manhattan was blurred by a film of condensation on the outside of the windows; inside, the room was perfectly climate controlled, a perfectly curated fantasy: low modern couches, a gas fireplace, white orchids in a heavy glass bowl on the coffee table.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She flinched and grabbed it, heart thudding.
Not an alarm.
A text from her mother.
> Eleanor: Remember 8 a.m. board preview. Do not be late.
No good morning, no kiss emoji, no “how’s my grandson?” Just an order.
Charlotte rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling for a count of five, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. The panic she’d woken with eased out on the exhale. Muscle memory by now.
Eight a.m. Board preview.
Nine a.m. Investor breakfast.
Ten thirty: design walkthrough for Reid Aspen.
Two: call with Milan team.
Four: pick up Milo.
Everything slotted into place inside her head, neat and tight and controlled.
Just the way it had to be.
She swung her legs off the bed, toes sinking into the thick cream rug. A quick glance in the mirrored wall made her wince. Blond hair in a lopsided knot, faint crescent shadows under her blue-gray eyes, one strap of her silk camisole twisted, exposing a bare shoulder. Not exactly intimidating-CEO material.
“Whatever,” she muttered to herself. “We’ll fix it.”
The room was still, the quiet of it pressing. She was used to a small voice greeting her at this hour.
*Mommy. Sun up?*
A slice of warmth moved through her chest. Guilt followed, as it always did when she was away from him.
She grabbed the phone again and opened her photos, thumb hovering over one particular picture.
Milo at the beach last month, grinning around a fistful of sand, hair sticking up damp and wild. Light brown hair, not her pale blond. Dark, stormy eyes, not her blue-gray.
Eyes that never failed to make her stomach clench.
She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the day she’d first seen those eyes on an ultrasound screen, but she wouldn’t trade the exhaustion for anything.
Not even for the one thing she’d once wanted more than anything else: her mother’s approval.
Charlotte pushed up from the bed, padded across to the Nespresso machine, and started a double shot. As the coffee dripped, she walked to the glass and laid her palm against the cool surface.
Two years ago, she’d stood at another window like this. Different hotel, different city, the world blurring out in the rain. Her hand had been pressed to glass then too, her breath fogging a small circle as she’d watched a man in a black coat walk away down a wet London street.
She hadn’t known his last name.
He hadn’t known hers.
She’d thought that was the point.
She closed her eyes now, forcing that night back into the vault in her mind marked *London – Do Not Open*. The problem with some doors, though, was that they never stayed locked as neatly as you wanted them to.
The coffee finished with a soft hiss. She poured oat milk into the tiny porcelain cup with a hand that only trembled a little.
No time for memory. No time for regret.
Today, the Reid board would see her plan.
Today, she would prove she wasn’t just Eleanor Reid’s daughter or the pretty face for the marketing campaigns. She was an executive, a strategist, the future of the company.
If only her mother believed it.
***
The boardroom on the forty-fifth floor was already half full when she walked in at 7:57. That earned her a faint lift of Eleanor’s penciled brows. Not late. But not early enough to be praised, either.
Of course.
“Good morning,” Charlotte said, pitching her tone pleasantly neutral.
“Good morning, dear,” her uncle Henry boomed, already halfway through a croissant. He was one of the few people in the family who still offered genuine warmth without an agenda attached. “Looking sharp.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her navy sheath dress and dropped her leather portfolio on the chair beside his. “I brought updated numbers for Aspen.”
Her mother’s gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering just a beat too long on the simple gold necklace at her throat.
“Is that new?” Eleanor asked.
It wasn’t the question; it was the dangerous mildness in her voice.
Charlotte reached up, fingers brushing the round pendant. Inside, hidden, was a tiny engraved M.
*A foolish indulgence,* she could almost hear Eleanor say.
“It is,” Charlotte said evenly. “A gift.”
“Ah.” Her mother’s mouth flattened. “From whom?”
“From me, actually.” She gave a small shrug. “A birthday present to myself.”
Henry chuckled low in his throat. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “Lord knows no one else buys us what we want.”
Eleanor’s eyes slid to him in cool reproof. “Some of us are focused on the company this morning, Henry.”
He subsided, butter knife clinking softly against his plate.
The rest of the board filtered in: two outside directors in identical charcoal suits, a family cousin who’d somehow fallen upward into a seat at the table, the CFO, the COO. They shuffled papers, murmured greetings, sipped coffee.
Charlotte opened her portfolio and ran through her notes one last time. She knew this deck inside and out. Had built it herself over too many late nights, analytics and projected ROI dancing behind her eyes long after she’d shut the laptop.
Reid Aspen wasn’t just another luxury ski property. In her mind, it was more. A test. A way to prove that the future of the brand was experience-driven, more personal, more…human.
Less like her mother, in other words.
And if Aspen succeeded, if the board saw what she saw, then maybe—*maybe*—Reid Europe could be next. Her vision. Her strategy. Her legacy, not just Eleanor’s.
“Let’s begin,” Eleanor said, voice cutting through the low hum of conversation like a knife.
Laptops flipped open; chairs squeaked, settled.
“First item,” the corporate secretary said. “Reid Aspen preliminary review. Ms. Reid will present.”
There was a beat of silence, then her mother added, “Charlotte.”
It wasn’t affection. It was a prompt. *Do not waste my time.*
Charlotte rose, smoothing her skirt again. Old habit, hard to break.
“Thank you,” she said. “We’re at a critical point with Aspen. The site acquisition is complete, permits finalized, and the local partnerships are on board. What I want to show you today is how Aspen can be a model for our next decade of growth.”
She clicked the remote. The first slide came up on the enormous wall screen: a sweeping photo of the mountains, glass and stone interrupting the snow only minimally in the rendering of the future property. She saw it as if she’d already stayed there. The lobby with its double-height fireplace. The kids’ adventure club with rope swings and reading nooks. The restaurant where the chef knew your name by your second night there.
As she spoke, the words came easier. Numbers she’d tested six times. Demographics she’d pored over. Anecdotes from conversations with families who’d outgrown the flashy, impersonal idea of “luxury” and craved something warmer.
“Aspen isn’t just about a high ADR,” she said. “It’s about loyalty. We’re competing not only with other hotels but with private residences and home shares. Our guests don’t want to feel processed. They want to feel…seen. Like someone has anticipated what *this* family, *this* couple, *this* solo traveler needs. A kids’ hot chocolate bar at four p.m. A quiet coworking lounge for the parent who still has to take a call. Heated boot racks that actually work.”
That got a small ripple of amusement around the table. Skiers. She had them.
“Initial modeling shows a payback period of six years,” she continued, clicking to a slide with neat graphs. “But if we price experience properly and cross-sell to our existing loyalty base, we can shorten that to five. And if Aspen is used as a pilot for a more flexible staffing model—which I’ve outlined on page twelve—we could see margin improvements we can take global.”
She finished and took a slow breath, resisting the urge to look at Eleanor first.
Silence.
Then Henry cleared his throat. “It’s…impressive,” he said. “I like it. I think the mountain market is hungry for something like this.”
The outside director on the left nodded slowly. “Your guest research is solid.”
The CFO, Marie, tipped her head. “I have questions about the staffing model. But the payback period is realistic, assuming no major downturn in high-net-worth travel.”
“We can’t assume that,” the other outside director said. “We need to stress test it. What happens if there’s a recession in year two?”
Charlotte answered, fielding the questions crisply, grateful for every long night she’d spent running worst-case scenarios. This part, at least, felt like something she could control.
When the others had asked theirs, all eyes slid, almost as one, back to Eleanor.
Her mother steepled her fingers beneath her chin. It was a familiar pose, one that always reminded Charlotte of a judge delivering a verdict.
“You’ve worked hard on this,” Eleanor said at last.
The backhanded compliment landed like a stone.
“But?”
“But.” Her mother’s gaze settled on the slide with the rendering of the kids’ adventure room. A tiny boy in the sketch stood on tiptoe to reach a shelf of books.
The boy’s hair was a smudge of light brown. She’d added that detail herself when the designer’s drafts came back too sterile.
“My concern is that we’re leaning too far into this…family narrative,” Eleanor said. “Reid has always been about aspirational luxury. Exclusivity. Adults who want to escape *children*, not trip over them.”
Henry snorted. “Half our repeat guests have kids now, El.”
“And half don’t. Why are we privileging one at the expense of the other?” Eleanor’s eyes flicked to Charlotte again. “Are we doing this because your research supports it, or because you’re—”
*Because you’re a mother now.*
The word hung there, unspoken but heavy.
Charlotte’s spine went cold.
“—personally interested in the concept?” Eleanor finished, lips pressed thin.
“I’m interested because the market is there,” Charlotte said, quieter now but no less firm. “Millennial wealth is different. They travel with their kids. They want to make memories together.”
“And what about the couples dropping ten thousand dollars for a long weekend who don’t want to hear someone else’s toddler screaming down the hall?”
“They’ll have space too,” Charlotte shot back. “The top floors are entirely adults-only. Spa access and a private bar.”
“So we split our focus,” Eleanor said. “Confuse our brand promise. Try to be everything to everyone and please no one. That’s not strategy.”
Heat crawled up Charlotte’s neck.
“You’re always saying we need to evolve,” she said. “Here it is. An evolution.”
“Aspen is already looking expensive,” Marie murmured. “If we alienate any segment of our base—”
“We won’t,” Charlotte cut in. “We’re careful with zoning, with floors, with programming. We make it clear. Aspen is—”
Her phone vibrated against the table, loud in the charged room.
Everyone looked at it.
Her stomach dropped.
Mila.
Her nanny almost never called during meeting hours. Texts, yes. Photos, little updates. But not calls.
She snatched the phone up, pulse spiking.
“I’m sorry, I need—”
Eleanor’s eyes were steel. “We’re in the middle of a presentation.”
“It might be an emergency.” Her voice came out too high. “It’s about—”
She couldn’t say his name here. Not in this room, not in front of people who had no idea he existed.
Charlotte fumbled to silence the call, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “I’ll call her back,” she said quickly. “After.”
“You’ll call *now*,” Eleanor said coolly, “after you leave the room. We’re trying to decide whether to support a risky capital investment. If your attention is…divided…”
The cruelty in that little pause made Charlotte’s belly clench.
She swallowed.
“I’m not divided,” she said. “I’m committed to Aspen. Completely.”
“I’m sure your child will understand,” Eleanor said.
No one else at the table moved. Some wouldn’t meet her eyes. Others watched like this was a live theater performance, waiting to see if the lead actress would start to cry.
She didn’t.
“I’ll be right back,” Charlotte said.
***
She made it as far as the corridor before she answered, pressing the phone so tight to her ear it hurt.
“Mila? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Charlie.” The nanny’s soft Brazilian accent wrapped around her name. “I am so sorry to call. I know you’re in big meeting.”
“It’s okay, just tell me.”
“He is all right,” Mila rushed to say. “Do not panic. He is okay now.”
The floor tilted anyway.
“Now?” Her voice came out hoarse. “What happened *before* he was okay?”
“Small accident. The Lego—he put one in his nose. I took it out, but he…he was crying, and there was a little blood, and—”
“Is he breathing fine?” Charlotte pressed a hand against the cool wall, nails biting into her palm. “Any trouble? Wheezing?”
“No, no. I checked. He is breathing. Talking. Laughing now, actually. He wants to tell you that the Lego spaceship is ‘broken forever.’”
At that, Charlotte’s knees almost gave.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Good. Thank you.”
“I just… I thought, I better tell you. In case you see a little dried blood when you come home and get scared.”
“Thank you,” she said again, sucking in a shaky breath. “Can you put him on? Just for a second?”
There was a shuffle, a small protest, then the sound of her son’s voice, bright and familiar.
“Hi, Mommy!”
She smiled, the tightness in her chest loosening. “Hey, bug. I heard you had an adventure.”
“I put the bwue Lego in my nose,” he announced. “It got stuck. Lina got it out.”
“It’s not funny, Milo. You scared me.”
“I’m *okay*,” he said gravely. “My nose is fine. But the Lego is dead.”
She almost laughed, right there in the empty corridor.
“We’ll buy the Lego a nice funeral,” she said. “No more putting things in your nose, okay?”
“‘Kay. Where are you?”
“Work,” she said. “I have to go now, but I’ll call you after lunch. We’ll talk about your nose some more.”
“‘Kay. Bye! Love you, Mommy!”
The words landed in the center of her chest like sunlight.
“I love you too,” she whispered, but he’d already handed the phone back.
“Sorry again,” Mila said. “He is okay, I promise.”
“No, you did the right thing.” Charlotte pulled in a breath, straightened. “If anything like that happens, you call me. Anytime. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She hung up and stood there a moment, phone still pressed to her ear. Then she tucked it into her bag, smoothed her hair, and walked back into the boardroom.
She felt every eye swing to her.
“Everything…under control?” Eleanor asked in that deceptively mild voice.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “He’s fine. It was nothing.”
The slip was so small most people might have missed it, but her mother’s nostrils flared.
*He.*
Charlotte smiled, unfazed. “Shall we continue?”
Her mother held her gaze for three long seconds, something furious and complicated and unfathomable in her eyes. Then she looked away.
“Very well,” Eleanor said. “Let’s.”
By the time the preview ended an hour later, Charlotte’s blouse was damp under her arms, and her jaw ached from clenching it. The board hadn’t rejected Aspen. But they hadn’t committed either. It was “promising, pending further analysis,” which was code for yet another round of presentations, concessions, compromises.
As everyone rose to leave, Eleanor said, “Charlotte. A word.”
Of course.
Henry gave her a sympathetic half-smile and patted her arm as he passed.
She waited until the room emptied before she spoke.
“You think I’m being sentimental,” she said, not bothering to soften it. “You think Aspen is about Milo.”
“I think,” her mother said, folding her hands, “that you are trying to build the business around your personal life.”
“I’m not the only one with a personal life.”
“But you are the only one who has rearranged her entire schedule around it.” Eleanor’s gaze was cool. “You refuse evening events. You leave cocktails early. You insist on working from home two days a week.”
“From my office at home,” Charlotte said tightly. “I’m still working.”
“Appearances matter, Charlotte,” Eleanor said. “Especially for you. People already think you’re here because of your last name, not your competence. If they see you rushing off to…to story time…”
The word was twisted in her mouth, like something distasteful.
Charlotte swallowed.
“Are you saying I have to choose?” she asked quietly. “Between my son and the company?”
Eleanor’s eyes briefly flicked to the window, the skyline beyond. When she looked back, her expression had shuttered into something polished and empty.
“I’m saying,” she replied, “that Reid Hotels comes with expectations. Sacrifices. You knew that when you asked me to take you seriously.”
“And being taken seriously,” Charlotte said slowly, “means pretending he doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Eleanor snapped. “It means not letting him disrupt your work. It means not bringing your…domestic entanglements…” She waved a hand. “Into the boardroom. Like that little slip just now. ‘He’s fine.’ Who, exactly? The press would enjoy that, don’t you think, if they knew the golden girl of Reid had a secret child tucked away?”
Heat burned Charlotte’s eyes.
“He is not a *secret*,” she said, voice shaking.
“To the world, he is.” Eleanor’s lip curled. “And it should stay that way. Why invite scandal? Questions about paternity. About your judgment. About the night you—”
“Stop.” Her stomach lurched. “You don’t get to throw that at me again.”
“I will throw whatever I like,” her mother said softly. “You disgraced this family, Charlotte. You’re lucky I didn’t—”
“Disgraced?” Her laugh was jagged. “Because I had sex, Mother? Because I refused to get rid of him when you told me to? Because I chose my child over your PR strategy?”
The air between them crackled.
Eleanor’s voice cooled another ten degrees. “This is why you are not ready.”
“For what?” she whispered. “For the job I’m already doing?”
“For leadership,” Eleanor said. “For control. You’re emotional. Impulsive. You attach yourself to things. To people. You don’t think with your head.”
“That’s rich,” Charlotte muttered. “Coming from you.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. “You want Aspen? You want me to greenlight your little experiment?” She leaned forward, diamonds at her ears catching the light. “Prove to me that you can put the company first. Prove you can focus. Be present. No more phone calls in meetings. No more rushing off because someone bumped his nose. The next month is crucial. If you want this, you will be here. *Fully* here.”
“And if Milo needs me?”
“Hire another nanny.”
The words hit her like a slap.
“You are unbelievable,” she whispered.
“And you are naive.” Eleanor stood, smoothing her immaculate jacket. “Call me what you like when you own fifty hotels across three continents. Until then, you have a choice to make.”
Charlotte watched her walk to the door.
“I already made my choice,” she said.
Her mother paused, hand on the handle. “Yes. You did. Two years ago, in some nameless room with some nameless man. And we are all still paying for it.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Charlotte stood alone in the boardroom, the city sprawling out in all directions, the future she wanted starting to feel like something slipping, just slightly, from her grasp.
Her phone buzzed again.
She pulled it out with numb fingers.
A photo this time.
Milo, frowning fiercely at the camera, a tiny smudge of dried blood under one nostril, clutching a blue Lego brick like it had betrayed him personally.
Below it, Mila had written: *We are okay. He is brave.*
Charlotte sank into the nearest chair, the leather sighing beneath her.
“What am I doing?” she whispered.
Dividing herself in half. Trying to be two different women in two different worlds that did not want to intersect.
On the screen, those dark gray eyes—so much like another pair she tried never to think about—stared back at her.
What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t possibly know, was that somewhere across town in a glass tower bearing another name, a man with those same eyes was looking down at the Manhattan skyline and planning to walk, uninvited, right into her divided world.
***