The first crack appeared in the place Charlotte least expected it.
Not at home.
Not in the Aspen war room.
In a glossy editorial meeting on the twentieth floor of *Travel & Style* magazine.
“We’re thrilled about Aspen,” the editor-in-chief, a polished woman with sleek black hair and killer flats, said, flipping through the lookbook. “It’s a fresh angle for you.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, arranging her face into her professional-enthusiastic expression.
They were here—she and James and the head of PR—for what was supposed to be a simple feature planning session. *Travel & Style* wanted an exclusive behind-the-scenes look at Aspen’s development. Eleanor had agreed, on the condition that the profile focus on “the property and the legacy,” not “personalities.”
“So the angle I’m seeing,” the editor went on, “is really a torch-passing story. Eleanor as the grand dame, Aspen as this new manifestation of the brand under your guidance.”
“Guidance,” Charlotte repeated carefully.
“Yes,” the editor said. “You. The heir apparent. The one bringing…warmth.” She smiled. “We all watched that panel you did last year with the ANA. Your comments about ‘emotional luxury’ went viral in a certain corner of TikTok, you know.”
Charlotte hadn’t known.
“We’re not on TikTok,” the PR head murmured.
“You should be,” the editor said. “Anyway, our readers responded. We want to show them…you. As a person. Not just as…Reid.”
Danger bells rang softly in the back of Charlotte’s mind.
“Within reason,” she said. “I’m happy to talk about my vision. My work. But this isn’t a…personal profile.”
“Of course,” the editor said smoothly. “No prying. Just…context.”
She lifted a sheet from the stack in front of her.
“We did a preliminary mock layout,” she added. “Just to get a feel.”
She slid it across the sleek table.
Charlotte looked down.
On the glossy page, a full-bleed photo dominated the spread.
Her and Milo at the zoo.
She remembered the day—a rare, sunny Tuesday, Mila snapping candids on her phone as Milo pointed at penguins.
In the shot, Charlotte was mid-laugh, head tilted, hair loose, eyes on her son, not the camera. Milo was looking up at a giraffe, jaw dropped in awe.
Someone had zoomed. Cropped. Lightened.
It was…beautiful.
It was also, viscerally, wrong.
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, voice too sharp.
The editor’s brows rose, surprised by the reaction.
“Oh,” she said. “It was on your Instagram.”
Her blood ran cold.
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t.”
“It was,” the PR head said quietly. “On your…private account. The one you only let friends follow.”
Cold turned to ice.
“How—” she began.
“We have interns,” the editor said blithely. “Gen Z bloodhounds. One of them is friends with someone who follows someone who follows you.” She shrugged. “The chain went a little fuzzy in the middle, but it popped up. We assumed it was…fair game.”
“It’s not,” Charlotte said, throat tight.
“Of course,” the editor said quickly, hands up. “If you’re not comfortable, we won’t use it. I apologize. We thought, given the family angle at Aspen…”
She trailed off.
“Family *angle,*” Charlotte repeated. “Not family *exposure.* My son is not…a prop.”
“Absolutely,” the editor said. “Understood. We’ll…pull it. We can do something more…abstract. A shot of you in a lobby somewhere. Or a mountain.”
“Or just the property,” Charlotte said.
“Or just the property,” the editor echoed, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
The meeting moved on, but Charlotte couldn’t focus.
All she could see was that photo.
Her and Milo.
Her guard down.
On someone else’s glossy page.
***
Back in her office, she pulled up Instagram with shaking hands.
Her private account—under a pseudonym, followed only by people she actually knew—showed the zoo photo as one of the top nine.
Likes from college friends. From Mila. From Henry.
It was, in theory, safe.
Safe had always been an illusion.
She stared at the tiny heart icon, at the comments—
*He’s so big!*
*You guys are adorable.*
—and felt something hot and ugly curl in her chest.
Exposed.
Violated.
She deleted the photo.
One tap. Gone.
But not really.
Saved on *Travel & Style*’s server.
In an intern’s phone.
In some algorithm’s training data.
Her phone buzzed.
Dominic.
> You okay?
She almost didn’t answer.
Then she typed:
> *Travel & Style* pulled a photo of him from my private account. They were going to use it. Without asking.
There was a longer pause than usual.
> Where did they get access?
> “Intern bloodhounds.”
> Jesus.
> I shut it down.
> Good.
Then:
> Can you send me the shot?
She hesitated.
Then scrolled back through her camera roll, found the original, and forwarded it.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
> He looks so happy.
She blinked back tears.
> He was. It was a good day.
> You look happy too.
She stared at that.
She’d looked…free.
Loose.
Not like someone carrying three worlds on her shoulders.
> That’s why this scares me, she typed. They see *that* and they want more. They always want more.
His reply was immediate.
> Then we give them less.
> Easier said than done.
> Maybe. But we can try.
***
He did more than try.
Two days later, his PR chief called her PR head.
A joint memo went out to both teams.
Effective immediately, no outlet would receive unauthorized family imagery of either executive. Any features about Aspen would focus on the property. Any references to “legacy families” would be framed in generic terms, not paparazzi shots of toddlers.
“Steele’s team was…emphatic,” the Reid PR head told Charlotte in a hushed voice. “Their exact phrase was, ‘We will scorch earth on any publication that tries to drag kids into this.’”
Something in her loosened.
She texted him.
> Thank you.
He replied:
> For once, our ruthless reputations are good for something.
> Scaring editors is your love language.
> Only when they deserve it.
She smiled.
Then sighed.
Boundaries were good.
Protection was necessary.
But none of it changed the fact that a line had been crossed.
Their lives weren’t just their own anymore.
***
Beyond the personal storms, Aspen loomed.
Concrete was being poured.
Rooms were being framed.
The mountain, in all its stubborn glory, did not slow down for human drama.
“We need you on-site,” Peter said, flopping into the chair across from her desk with all the theatrical despair of a man whose fabric samples had just been discontinued. “The tile vendor in Denver thinks ‘warm neutral’ means ‘sickly beige.’ If we don’t intervene, we’ll have a lobby that looks like a dentist’s waiting room.”
“I’ve seen worse,” she said absently, scrolling through emails.
“Charlotte.” His voice turned pleading. “Please. Come yell at them with me. Or at least…look at the stone in daylight. Photos don’t do it justice.”
She rubbed her temples.
“When?” she asked.
“Next week,” he said. “Wednesday to Friday. We can do a whirlwind. Fly in Wednesday morning. Walk through. Yell. Approve. Fly out Friday night. You’ll be home for pancakes.”
She hesitated.
Aspen.
Her mountain.
Soon to be *their* mountain.
“Mother will say I’m abandoning ship,” she muttered.
“Your mother can come too,” he said.
She snorted.
“I’m serious,” he said. “She loves a hard hat and a clipboard.”
“She loves a plane full of board members and an excuse to wear fur,” Charlotte said.
“Bring Steele,” Peter suggested, only half-joking. “His team needs to see the site too. Might as well get the circus over with in one trip.”
Her stomach did a small, traitorous flip.
A site visit.
Her.
Dominic.
The mountain.
And hotel rooms with adjoining doors and no cameras in the halls.
Dangerous.
Still, he was right.
They needed to start acting like actual partners on Aspen, not just people who sent redlines across a table and exchanged loaded texts late at night.
“I’ll talk to my mother,” she said. “And to…Steele.”
Peter’s brows lifted at the way she said his name.
She glared.
“Don’t,” she said.
He smiled innocently.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“You thought it loudly,” she muttered.
***
She brought it up with Eleanor in their weekly one-on-one, sandwiched between a discussion of housekeeping efficiency metrics and a rant about a rival chain poaching one of their pastry chefs.
“We need to go to Aspen,” she said. “The finishes are at a critical decision point. If we wait for samples to trickle here, we’ll lose weeks. Or make mistakes.”
“I trust you,” Eleanor said, surprising her. “You have the specs.”
“Specs don’t always…translate,” Charlotte said. “Light is different there. The way wood reads against snow is different than in this office. You know that. You’ve always insisted on site visits.”
Eleanor’s mouth compressed.
“I have a board meeting, a panel, and a charity gala next week,” she said. “I can’t fly to Colorado for two days to fondle tile.”
“Then let me,” Charlotte said. “Give me the authority to approve or reject on-site. With Peter. We’ll send photos. Videos. Samples. You can veto from afar.”
“Who else will be there?” Eleanor asked.
“Construction team,” Charlotte said. “Local GM candidates. Maybe someone from Steele, if they’re not too busy terrorizing San Francisco.”
Her mother’s eyes sharpened.
“You want Steele there,” she said.
“I want him to see what we’re building together,” Charlotte said. “So we’re not…fighting over finishes from different planets.”
“Fine,” Eleanor said after a beat. “Take him. Consider it…bonding.”
She said it like the word tasted bad.
“Ground rules,” she added. “Separate rooms. Separate cars. No…tabloid fodder.”
Heat prickled Charlotte’s neck.
“I’m not a teenager,” she said.
“You were when this started,” Eleanor replied. “Emotionally, at least.”
Charlotte’s hands tightened in her lap.
“On-site visits are work,” she said. “Not…trysts.”
“See that they stay that way,” Eleanor said. “And remember: no…revelations. Not yet. Not in the shadow of my mountain.”
“I already told him,” Charlotte said quietly.
Eleanor’s head snapped up.
“When?” she demanded.
“Last week,” Charlotte said. “In the Aspen war room.”
Her mother stared.
“And?” she asked.
“And…he took it,” Charlotte said. “Not…well. But…not badly. We’re…talking. With a lawyer. He met Milo. As…Dom.”
Eleanor’s face flushed, the first real color she’d shown in days.
“You reckless—”
“Stop,” Charlotte said sharply. “I followed your conditions. I waited until after the board vote. I didn’t involve the press. I didn’t storm into a meeting and scream ‘surprise baby.’ I did it…calmly. Privately. With a plan. Like you insisted.”
Eleanor’s jaw worked.
“How did he…react?” she asked at last, voice cool again.
“He…wants to be in his life,” Charlotte said. “He wants to…do this right.”
Her mother made a skeptical noise.
“That’s what they all say,” she muttered.
“You mean men,” Charlotte said.
“I mean people,” Eleanor said. “They always think they want the hard thing. The messy thing. Until it…costs them.”
“He knows the cost,” Charlotte said. “He’s…paying it too.”
“For now,” Eleanor said. “We’ll see how altruistic he feels when a reporter sticks a microphone in his face.”
“He shut down *Travel & Style*’s attempt to use the zoo photo,” Charlotte said. “His PR team went…Scorched Earth Lite on them. He’s not looking for…exposure. Not like this.”
“That’s…something,” Eleanor reluctantly conceded.
“It is,” Charlotte said.
Her mother studied her.
“You look…lighter,” she said slowly.
“I feel…less like I’m holding my breath all the time,” Charlotte admitted.
Eleanor’s expression tightened.
“And that,” she said, “is why I didn’t forbid you. Even though every instinct I have screamed to keep your mouth shut. Secrets rot. I know that. But so do…burdens. I am not interested in you collapsing under the weight of something I bullied you into carrying.”
It was…as close to “I care about you” as she was likely to get.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said softly.
“Don’t thank me,” Eleanor snapped. “Thank your uncle. He’s the one who wouldn’t shut up about autonomy.”
“I already did,” she said.
Her mother sniffed.
“Go to Aspen,” she said. “Do your job. Keep your…feelings…out of it.”
“I’ll try,” Charlotte said.
“Try harder,” Eleanor replied.
***
She texted Dominic on her way back to her floor.
> Aspen visit next week. Wed-Fri. Tile emergency. You in?
He replied within a minute.
> My favorite kind of emergency.
> That says disturbing things about you.
> I like problems I can solve with money and taste.
> There will be dust.
> I own jeans. You’ve seen them.
Heat crept up her neck.
She typed:
> My mother says “separate rooms, no tabloid fodder.” Her words.
> Tell her my virtue is safe.
> It’s not *your* virtue I’m worried about.
> Then whose?
She didn’t answer that.
After a beat, he sent:
> I’ll have my assistant coordinate flights with yours. And I’ll bring Gillian’s favorite hard hat.
> She has a favorite hard hat?
> It says “No, you can’t do that” on it.
She smiled despite herself.
Aspen.
Her mountain.
Their minefield.
***