The first thing Dominic did when he got back to his office was pour two fingers of whiskey into a glass.
The second thing he did was not drink it.
He stared at the amber liquid as if answers might float to the surface.
They did not.
Maya walked in without knocking, took one look at him, and shut the door behind her.
“Well?” she asked.
He looked up.
“He’s mine,” he said.
She sprinted across the room, nearly tripping over the rug, and flung her arms around him.
He froze for half a second, then hugged her back, the glass still clutched in one hand.
“Okay,” she said into his shoulder. “Okay. Okay. I need to sit.”
She plopped onto the sofa, grabbed a cushion, and hugged it to her chest.
“Tell me everything,” she demanded.
He set the glass on his desk, untouched, and dropped into the armchair opposite her.
“She named him Milo,” he said. “Milo James.”
“That’s cute,” she said. “I approve. Very bookish. Not a ‘Jaxon with an X’ in sight.”
“He’s three,” Dominic went on. “Born in April. She…called the hotel. After. To find me. They told her I’d checked out.”
Maya winced.
“Oof,” she said. “Not our proudest family moment.”
“She thought about…not having him,” he said quietly. “For five minutes. Then she heard his heartbeat. And she…couldn’t.”
Maya’s eyes shone.
“I like her,” she said thickly. “So much.”
“She’s…done this alone,” he said. “With her nanny. With her uncle. With…no help from me. Or her mother.”
“Her mother hid her,” Maya said, piecing it together. “From the press. From…everyone.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you…” She searched his face. “How do you…feel?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he said.
She nodded.
“But also…” he added, surprising himself, “weirdly…relieved.”
Her brows rose.
“That’s not the word I expected,” she said. “Explain.”
“I’ve been…waiting,” he said. “Since I saw that photo. For confirmation. For…impact. It’s…done now. The…knowing. I don’t have to guess anymore.”
“And the guilt?” she asked gently.
“Still there,” he said. “But…sharpened. Focused. I know what I’m guilty *of* now. Not just…failing some abstract future.”
“And what are you guilty of?” she pressed.
“Leaving her alone that night,” he said. “Walking away. Not…being someone she could find. Not…asking for her last name. Treating her like…interchangeable ‘company.’”
He looked at his hands.
“And?” she prompted softly.
“And missing three years of his life,” he said. “First steps. First words. First…everything.”
She reached across and squeezed his knee.
“You didn’t know,” she said again. “You can’t flog yourself forever for something you couldn’t…control.”
“Can’t I?” he asked wryly.
“You *will* try,” she acknowledged. “But it won’t…change anything. The only thing you can change is…from here.”
He nodded slowly.
“We’re going to talk to a family lawyer,” he said. “Together. After Aspen.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s good.”
“She said I can’t…just appear,” he continued. “In his world. That I’d be…a stranger.”
“She’s right,” Maya said. “You’d freak him out. You’ll have to…ease in.”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“She’s afraid,” he said. “Of…losing him. Of me…using him. Of her mother…using him. Of the press. Of…everything.”
“Of you,” Maya added gently.
He winced.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of me.”
“Well,” she said, “you are very scary.”
He glared.
She shrugged.
“You are,” she said. “In a suit. In a boardroom. Across a negotiating table. But with a three-year-old? You’ll be…ridiculous. In a good way.”
“You sound very sure,” he said.
“I’ve seen you with kids,” she said. “Remember that charity thing in Chicago? The one with the playroom? And the face painting? You had glitter on your ear for a week.”
“That was not my fault,” he said. “The painter was overenthusiastic.”
“You let a six-year-old paint a dragon on your cheek,” she reminded him. “Don’t tell me you’re not secretly soft.”
“I’m not soft,” he grumbled.
“Your exterior is…crunchy,” she conceded. “Your interior is…marshmallow.”
He threw a cushion at her.
She caught it, laughing.
“Have you told Grandma?” she asked.
He stilled.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
“When?” she asked.
“After I figure out how to get through one conversation about it without…falling apart,” he said.
“She’ll be…happy,” Maya said. “In her way.”
“She’ll be furious,” he corrected. “At Charlotte. At me. At fate. At herself. Then she’ll…knit something and lecture me about wills.”
Maya smiled.
“You should tell her before the tabloids do,” she said. “She deserves that.”
“I know,” he said. “One thing at a time.”
“Speaking of tabloids,” she added. “PR.”
He groaned.
“Don’t,” he said.
“We have to,” she said. “You think no one will notice if Reid’s golden girl and Steele’s dark prince co-parent a tiny gray-eyed human? Please.”
“I want to keep him out of it as much as possible,” he said.
“So do I,” she said. “So does she. So does…probably even Eleanor, in her cold, terrifying way. That means we have to be…proactive. Or at least…strategic.”
“Gillian suggested the same,” he said. “One of her many bullet-point plans.”
“Listen to her,” Maya said. “And to me. For once. Don’t try to…fix this by yourself. You’re good, Dom. You’re not…God.”
“Breaking news,” he muttered.
She threw the cushion back at him.
He caught it.
“What about…you?” he asked suddenly. “Are you…okay with this? Me…having a kid. You…not being my only dependent anymore.”
She blinked.
“Are you asking if I’m jealous?” she said. “Of a toddler?”
He shrugged helplessly.
She laughed.
“Idiot,” she said fondly. “I’m…thrilled. I’ve always wanted to be an aunt. Now I get to spoil a small human and then hand him back to you when he’s sticky. It’s perfect.”
His shoulders loosened.
“Good,” he said.
She sobered.
“It will…change things,” she said. “Your time. Your focus. Your priorities.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s…why it’s terrifying.”
“You can handle it,” she said. “We can handle it. Steele can handle it. We built this company to survive worse than…you having a life.”
“A life,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “Beyond EBITDA.”
He snorted.
She leaned forward.
“What about her?” she asked. “Charlotte. How does she…fit?”
He thought of her in the war room, eyes wet, chin high. The way she’d written *Dad?* on the whiteboard when she thought no one was watching.
He didn’t know how he knew she’d done it.
He just…did.
“She’s…” He searched for a word. “Complicated.”
“You keep saying that,” Maya said. “Be more specific.”
“She wants to do the right thing,” he said. “For him. For the company. For her mother. Those don’t always…align.”
“She’ll have to choose,” Maya said. “Eventually.”
“So will I,” he said.
“Between…what?” she asked. “The deal and the kid? The company and…her?”
“Between…how I do this,” he said. “Am I just…his father? Or am I…also…hers?”
Her brows rose.
“Do you *want* to be ‘hers’?” she asked.
He thought of London.
Of last night’s call.
Of the way his pulse still picked up when she walked into a room.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “And no. And…yes.”
She smiled.
“Now who’s complicated,” she said.
He rolled his eyes.
“Shut up,” he said.
“Make me,” she retorted.
He laughed.
Then sobered.
“The Aspen closing dinner is in three weeks,” he said. “Eleanor’s insisted. Press. Photos. Champagne. The whole…circus.”
“Of course,” she said. “She has to crown her heirs. You. Charlotte. A nice photo for the ‘legacy’ section of the annual report.”
“Do we…” He hesitated. “Do we…say anything there? About…him.”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Are you insane? You want his first introduction to the world to be as a bullet point on a press release?”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Good,” she said. “You’ll have enough to deal with keeping your hands off her in public.”
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I will be…professional,” he said.
“You say that like it isn’t…a lie,” she said.
He thought of Charlotte’s boundary in the war room.
> Don’t kiss me.
“For now,” he echoed under his breath.
“What was that?” Maya asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly.
She eyed him.
“Just remember,” she said. “Every move you make with her now…has ripple effects. On him. On Aspen. On us. Don’t…sleepwalk through this. Even when you…want to.”
“I don’t sleepwalk,” he said. “I pace.”
“And call your lawyer at four a.m.,” she said dryly.
He couldn’t argue.
She stood.
“I have to go terrorize Procurement,” she said. “They’re trying to cut the kids’ welcome kits. Again.”
“Fight them,” he said.
“Always,” she replied.
At the door, she paused.
“One more thing,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If you break her,” she said quietly, “I will break you.”
He blinked.
“Noted,” he said.
She smiled, small but fierce.
“Good,” she said, and left.
He picked up the whiskey glass again.
This time, he drank.
It burned all the way down.
He welcomed it.
He needed something to focus on besides the image of a little boy in a striped shirt, toy dinosaur in hand, looking up at him and saying, *Hi. Are you late for your meeting?*
***
Across the river, a very different meeting was happening.
“Absolutely not,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte resisted the urge to bang her forehead on the table.
“It’s not a saccharine tagline,” she said. “It’s a positioning statement. ‘Reid Aspen: Where Luxury Feels Like Home’ speaks directly to—”
“—our guests’ desire for us *not* to feel like home,” Eleanor cut in. “They come to us to escape. To be…transported. Not to be reminded of their laundry piles and their sticky children.”
“Sticky children are exactly who we want at Aspen,” Charlotte said. “At least some of the time.”
They were in a marketing review meeting that had, nominally, nothing to do with Milo.
But for the past hour, every phrasing, every image, every suggestion felt loaded.
It didn’t help that James sat at one end of the table, quietly observing like a kindly therapist, while an agency team shuffled mockups and tried very hard not to look terrified of Eleanor.
“We can test different taglines,” he said diplomatically. “See what resonates.”
“Fine,” Eleanor said. “Test them. Kill the home one.”
“We won’t know until we—” Charlotte began.
Eleanor held up a hand.
“I know,” she said. “Focus on the experience. The mountain. The…activities. Not…feelings.”
“Feelings are the experience,” Charlotte muttered.
“What was that?” Eleanor asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Charlotte said.
They moved on.
Lobby scent concepts. Social media hooks. Influencer partnerships.
At one point, an eager junior creative suggested a “Family First” campaign.
Charlotte’s heart lifted.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.
“No,” she said. “Not ‘first.’ Equal. Or…included. We are not turning Aspen into a daycare center.”
“It’s not a daycare center,” Charlotte said, exasperated. “It’s a hotel. Where families happen to be treated like valued guests, not nuisances.”
“They *are* nuisances,” Eleanor said. “Have you eaten in a restaurant with a toddler lately?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Frequently. He is…messy. He is also…joyful. And loud. And unexpected. That’s the point.”
“Messy and unexpected are not things I typically associate with the Reid brand,” Eleanor said.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Charlotte shot back.
The room went very still.
Eleanor’s gaze snapped to her.
“Everyone out,” she said, voice calm in a way that made the agency team blanch.
“Ms. Reid, we can—” the account director began.
“Out,” Eleanor repeated.
They scrambled.
In thirty seconds, it was just the two of them.
“Do you enjoy undermining me in front of my staff?” Eleanor asked quietly.
“I wasn’t undermining you,” Charlotte said. “I was disagreeing.”
“In public,” Eleanor said. “In front of outsiders. That is…undermining.”
“They already know we fight,” Charlotte said. “You don’t exactly whisper.”
“That’s not the point,” Eleanor snapped. “You think because you got your way with Steele, you’re now…untouchable.”
“I don’t think that,” Charlotte said. “I think…I finally got to prove that my ideas aren’t…fluff.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed.
“And now you’re intoxicated on your own perceived power,” she said. “Be careful, Charlotte. Pride goes before—”
“—a woman finally feeling like her work matters?” Charlotte cut in. “I’m sorry, is that what you call…pride?”
Eleanor stared at her.
“You’re different,” she said slowly. “Since…him.”
Charlotte’s heart lurched.
“Since…who?” she asked.
“Steele,” Eleanor said. “Since you decided to…let him in.”
Relief and disappointment crashed into each other.
“You mean Aspen,” she said. “Not…”
“Don’t make me say it,” Eleanor snapped.
“You’re the one who brought it up,” Charlotte muttered.
He, in fact, *was* a large part of why she felt different.
Telling him the truth had lightened something heavy inside her.
Also shifted all the weight to a different shelf.
“You think I’m…reckless,” she said. “Driven by emotion. Maybe I am. Sometimes. But I’m also…good at this, Mother. At…reading people. At building experiences they actually…want. You keep dismissing that because it doesn’t look like a spreadsheet.”
“What you call ‘reading people,’ I call ‘projection,’” Eleanor said. “You see what you need to see.”
“And you see nothing,” Charlotte shot back. “Because you won’t let yourself.”
They glared at each other.
For a moment, Charlotte thought they might actually…go there. All the way back to London. To Milo. To the day she’d told her mother she was pregnant and watched her face close like a hotel in off-season.
Instead, Eleanor said, “We are not putting ‘home’ in the tagline. That is my line in the sand.”
“Fine,” Charlotte said, too tired to argue. “We’ll find another word.”
They both knew they weren’t just talking about copy.
“My line,” Eleanor added, voice lower now, “for *him*…is that he will not be used. By Steele. By you. By me. I intend to keep that. Do you?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said fiercely.
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Then perhaps there is…something…we still agree on.”
It wasn’t much.
But it was more than they’d had yesterday.
***
Saturday afternoon, Dominic stood in the doorway of his grandmother’s apartment and braced himself.
Nona lived in a rent-controlled walk-up in Queens that she refused to leave, no matter how many glass towers he offered her.
“It has a soul,” she’d always say, patting the chipped banister. “Your fancy boxes don’t.”
He loved it.
He hated the stairs.
He climbed anyway, one flight, two, three, heart pounding more from anticipation than exertion.
At the top, the door swung open before he could knock.
She’d been listening for his footsteps since he was twelve.
“Domenico,” she said, her accent curling around his name like a hug. “Finally. I was going to send the neighbors’ dog to fetch you.”
He let her pull him into a hug that smelled like tomatoes and basil and old wood polish.
“Hi, Nona,” he murmured into her silver hair.
She pulled back and smacked his cheek lightly.
“You look tired,” she declared. “Too thin. You work too much.”
“Nice to see you too,” he said, smiling.
She harrumphed and ushered him inside.
The living room was exactly as it had been since his childhood. Faded floral sofa. Lace doilies. Crucifix on the wall. Family photos everywhere.
Maya’s kindergarten picture. His high school graduation. A blurry shot of him at some awards ceremony, mid-handshake with a mayor.
Soon, there would be another.
If he didn’t mess this up.
“Sit,” Nona commanded. “I made lasagna. You will eat. Then you will tell me why you have that look on your face.”
“What look?” he asked, sinking onto the sofa.
“The one you had when your father left,” she said without missing a beat.
His chest tightened.
“That was…a long time ago,” he said.
“You think I forget?” she asked. “I remember every bad day. It’s my job.”
He exhaled.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
She poured him a glass of cheap red from a bottle with a label he didn’t recognize.
It was terrible.
It was perfect.
“So,” she said, settling into her armchair. “Say it.”
He stared into his glass.
“I have a son,” he said.
She went very, very still.
Slowly, she set her wine down.
“Say it again,” she whispered.
“I have a son,” he repeated, voice rough.
Her eyes filled instantly.
“Madonna,” she breathed. “You…? When? How? Who?”
“Three years ago,” he said. “London. A woman. One night.”
She made a face.
“Of course,” she muttered. “You men. Always the one night.”
“It was…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Complicated.”
“All the best things are,” she said.
She waited.
“The woman is…Charlotte Reid,” he said.
Nona’s brows drew together.
“Reid,” she repeated. “Like the big hotels with the too-stiff pillows.”
“Yes,” he said. “Her mother is…”
He didn’t have to finish.
“I’ve seen her on TV,” Nona said. “With the pearls. The…face.”
He snorted.
“That’s the one,” he said.
“And you—” She gestured vaguely. “You two…?”
“Met at a bar,” he said. “Didn’t exchange last names. Slept together. I left before dawn. She found out she was pregnant after. Didn’t know how to find me.”
“She didn’t…tell you?” Nona asked.
“No,” he said. “Until now.”
“Why now?” she asked.
“Because I walked into her office with a business deal,” he said. “And saw…him. In a photo.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“You saw his face,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “He looks…like me.”
“Poor boy,” she said reflexively.
He laughed, startled.
She grinned, unrepentant.
“Tell me about him,” she demanded. “Everything.”
He told her what he knew.
His name. His age. His Lego incident. His dream about a man with gray eyes and a briefcase.
She listened, absorbing every detail like oxygen.
When he finished, she sat back, blinking away tears.
“You are…happy,” she said slowly. “And scared.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “If you were only one, I would worry.”
She leaned forward.
“You will be a good father,” she said firmly. “Because you know what a bad one is.”
His throat closed.
“I don’t know how,” he said.
“You will learn,” she said. “Children teach you. They are…cruel little mirrors. They show you all the parts of yourself you would rather forget. Then they kiss you with spaghetti sauce and you forgive them.”
He smiled.
“What about…him?” he asked. “He’s…happy. With her. With his nanny. With…his life. If I come in…”
“You will complicate,” she said. “Yes. But his life is already complicated. He has secrets around him like fog. Better a father who shows his face than a ghost.”
“She…wants to protect him,” he said. “And herself. And me. From…attention.”
“Of course,” she said. “She is a mother. That is our curse. We see all the ways the world can hurt our babies. We try to block every one. We fail. Then we blame ourselves.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t blame yourself,” he said.
“Every day,” she said calmly. “For not leaving your grandfather sooner. For not making your father stay. For not…many things.” She waved a hand. “But I also know this: you are who you are because of what you went through. Good and bad. Pain and joy. This boy will be too. You cannot make his path…smooth. You can only…walk it with him.”
He swallowed.
“And what about…her?” he asked. “Charlotte.”
“What about her?” Nona asked.
“I…care about her,” he said. “More than I…planned.”
She smiled knowingly.
“Ah,” she said. “There it is. The real fear.”
“I’m afraid of…hurting her,” he said. “Again. Of…losing her. Of…choosing wrong. Between her. The company. Him.”
“You don’t choose between them,” she said. “You choose…how to love them. Sometimes that means…no. Sometimes…yes. Sometimes…later. It is never tidy.”
“I don’t do well with…mess,” he admitted.
“You built your whole life on cleaning other people’s messes,” she said. “Now you must learn to live in your own. Congratulations. You are human.”
He laughed, rusty.
She stood and crossed the small room to cup his face in her hands.
“You listen to me, Domenico,” she said, eyes fierce. “You are not your father. You are not that coward who left his little boy in a motel room. You are here. You are…asking. That is already…different.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
She thumbed it away.
“You will make mistakes,” she said. “You will hurt people you love, even when you don’t want to. That is…life. But if you show up. If you apologize. If you try again…that is enough.”
“Enough for who?” he whispered.
“For him,” she said. “For her. For me. For you.”
He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fabric softener and marinara and old love.
“Okay,” he said.
“Good,” she said, releasing him. “Now eat. You cannot be a father on an empty stomach.”
He laughed, wet.
“Yes, Nona,” he said.
As he twirled lasagna on his fork, he glanced at the photo on the shelf of himself at three.
Same eyes.
Same stubborn chin.
He wondered if Milo would sit in this room someday, feet not touching the floor, listening to Nona tell him stories about a boy who changed sheets in a motel and swore he’d never work in hotels again.
He hoped so.
He was terrified.
He was…alive.
For a man who’d built his life on control, that felt like the riskiest venture yet.
And yet, sitting at his grandmother’s table, sauce on his plate, love in the room, he thought maybe—just maybe—it was the first one that truly mattered.
***
Back in Tribeca, after she’d read three bedtime stories instead of one, Charlotte sat on the edge of Milo’s bed and watched him sleep.
His lashes fluttered slightly.
He made a small snuffling sound and rolled onto his side, one hand curled under his cheek.
Her phone lay face down on her thigh.
She picked it up, thumb hovering over Dominic’s name.
They’d agreed.
No more hiding.
But no more rushing either.
They’d start with lawyers. With plans. With frameworks.
They’d *try* not to tangle themselves further in the process.
She didn’t know if that was possible.
She typed:
> He knows.
Then deleted it.
He *did* know. He’d been there.
She tried again.
> He just asked tonight if he could have a daddy “later.”
Her chest squeezed.
She deleted that too.
Finally, she settled on:
> He fell asleep clutching his dinosaur. You were right. Dinosaurs first.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
The reply came a minute later.
> I’ve been promoted from stranger to ‘man who knows his toy preferences.’ I’ll take it.
Then:
> Thank you for telling me.
She stared at the words, her throat tight.
Then she sent him a photo.
Not of Milo’s face. Not yet.
Just of a small hand, slack in sleep, resting on a blue plastic dinosaur.
For a long minute, there was no response.
Then, finally:
> I’ll be worthy of that hand. Or I’ll die trying.
Her eyes burned.
She turned off the light and lay down on the bed beside her son, staring at the ceiling, listening to his soft breaths.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a straight line she’d been forced onto.
It felt like a fork.
Messy.
Terrifying.
Full of risk.
And—for the first time—full of possibility that was hers to choose.
Outside, the city hummed.
In a glass tower across town, a man who’d once walked away from her lay awake, staring at his own ceiling, vowing silently that this time, he wouldn’t.
Not from her.
Not from him.
The game was no longer just about mountains and margins.
It was about hearts.
And nobody—least of all the queen of hotels and the king of steel—had any idea how to play it without losing something.
Which, perhaps, was the point.