Dominic Steele hated New York in August.
The city felt like an animal then—overheated, impatient, the air thick and humid and personal space nonexistent. Even forty stories up, with the AC turned low enough to make his assistant complain and his windows sealed tight, he could feel the weight of it pressing against the glass.
He watched the traffic crawl along the avenues below, the yellow cabs like plastic toys, the glittering spire of the Reid Manhattan just visible three blocks over.
The hotel glowed in the slanting morning light, every pane of its glass facade reflecting the blue of the sky. Polished. Impeccable. Untouchable.
Like the family that owned it.
“You’re staring at them again.”
His younger sister’s voice drifted from the door behind him, dry and unmistakably amused.
Dominic didn’t turn.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
“Sure.” Maya came to stand at his shoulder, folding her arms. In the reflection, he saw her slight frame in a sharp black jumpsuit, hair in a dark braid down her back. “You’re thinking *very hard* about the Reids’ windows.”
“You ever notice how few of theirs are actually openable?” he asked. “It’s all about control. Climate, smell, sound. Keep the outside world out.”
“Unlike ours?”
He glanced around his office. Floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides. One panel cracked open just an inch, letting in the faintest edge of honking and sirens.
“Unlike ours,” he said. “We know you can’t shut the world out. You just have to learn to handle the noise.”
“And monetize it,” she added cheerfully.
He smiled despite himself. “And that.”
Steele Holdings occupied the top three floors of a building that had once been a tired insurance headquarters. Now, courtesy of his money and Maya’s taste, it was a study in quiet power: black steel, warm wood, art that looked abstract until you looked closer and recognized the city in sharp lines and broken colors.
On the wall behind his desk hung a framed blueprint of their first hotel. The one in Chicago. The one that had almost bankrupted him.
He turned away from the window.
“Is he here?” he asked.
“He is,” Maya said. “And he’s sweating.”
Dominic lifted a brow. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.” She checked her watch. “He’s been in the conference room for ten minutes practicing different ways to say ‘we’re screwed.’ It’s actually kind of impressive.”
“Let’s not make him wait any longer,” Dominic said.
“You’re in a good mood today,” she observed as they walked down the hallway.
“Am I?”
“You’re…energized. Focused. A little scary.”
“That’s just my natural charm.”
Maya snorted. “Please. Your natural charm buys out chains and guts their middle management. This is…extra.”
He didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t wrong.
The email had come in at midnight, blinking on his screen like a small, golden gift.
Subject line: *Reid Aspen – Potential Acquisition Partner?*
The sender: an intermediary he’d used twice before, a discreet broker of distressed assets and off-market opportunities.
His message had been short:
> Hearing noise about Reid Aspen project issues. Quiet interest at top to bring in equity partner to de-risk. You interested?
He hadn’t slept after that.
Now the possibility hummed in his veins like too much caffeine.
Reid.
For years, they’d been the name on the top of every “top ten” list he read. Every time Steele Hotels won an award, there was always a Reid property just above them, a shining, oh-so-classy reminder that no matter how fast he’d climbed, he was still chasing a dynasty with a fifty-year head start.
He’d never wanted to be *them*. But he’d always wanted to beat them.
And Aspen might just be his handhold.
He pushed open the glass door to the conference room.
Inside, Julian Park—founder and CEO of WestRock Capital, one of the smaller private equity players circling hospitality—sprang to his feet. There was indeed a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Dominic,” he said, voice too bright. “Maya. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Of course,” Dominic said, walking to the head of the table. “You said it was urgent.”
Julian laughed a little too loudly. “Isn’t it always?”
They sat. Maya slid into the chair beside Dominic, flipping open a slim notebook. She rarely took notes, but people always behaved differently when they thought they were being recorded.
“I’ll get straight to it,” Julian said, hands clasped on the table, knuckles white. “You saw my email.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I’d like more than three sentences and a tease,” Dominic replied evenly. “What noise are you hearing?”
Julian blew out a breath in what was supposed to be a relaxed way but wasn’t. “Okay. So. Reid Aspen. You know the basics?”
Dominic’s mouth twitched. “They’re building a ski property in Colorado. Slower than planned. Over budget. A little precious with the ‘family experience’ angle.”
Maya shot him a quick side-eye. “*You* think something is precious?”
“Shut up,” he said mildly.
Julian latched onto the interruption like a man grateful for a momentary distraction. “Exactly, yes. The over budget part is key. Permitting took longer than they expected, some local opposition, construction costs up…” He spread his hands. “You know how it goes. They’re exposed.”
“Exposed how?” Dominic asked.
“Reid doesn’t like to take on too much debt,” Julian said. “Control freaks. They’ve financed this mostly with their own equity to keep the lenders docile. But now costs have ballooned, timeline’s stretched, and their board is nervous. My…friend…on the inside says they’re considering bringing in a capital partner to reduce their risk.”
“Your friend on the inside,” Maya repeated, voice light. “How friendly?”
Julian flashed a crooked grin. “Friendly enough to risk his NDA for my handsome face.”
Dominic didn’t smile. “Friendly enough to give details?”
Julian nodded quickly. “They’re open to a minority partner. Probably twenty to thirty percent. Significant cash infusion. In return, they’re talking about sharing upside and some limited operational control.”
“Limited,” Dominic repeated softly.
“Yeah, well, these are the Reids. They’re not going to roll over for anyone.”
“People say that,” Dominic said. “Right before they take my terms.”
Maya tapped her pen against her notebook. “You want us to be that partner,” she said. “WestRock is too small to take it on alone.”
Julian spread his hands. “Look, I could bring in other guys, sure. There are plenty of funds wetting themselves to be in bed with Reid. But you…” He looked at Dominic. “You bring more than cash. You bring brand. Edge. The thing they don’t have. You know how to run lean, how to make properties profitable fast. You cleaned up that disaster in Miami in, what, eighteen months?”
“Nineteen,” Dominic said. “And I overpaid. But yes.”
“Their egos won’t admit it,” Julian said, warming to his pitch. “But they need that. They’re old money. They still think being in *Condé Nast* is a strategy. You live online, you know the influencers, the…whatever the hell these Gen Z people want.” He shrugged. “You could make Aspen stand out. And if you’re in the deal, the downside risk goes way down for everyone. You won’t let it fail. Your name’s on it too.”
Dominic let the silence stretch.
Across from him, Julian shifted.
“So what exactly are you proposing?” Dominic asked at last.
“I make the introduction,” Julian said. “Facilitate initial conversations, smooth ruffled feathers. I frame Steele Holdings as the ideal white knight. We come in together with a joint offer—my fund taking, say, five percent, you taking the rest. In exchange…” He hesitated. “I’d expect some participation in the management contract. Fee sharing. Preferably ongoing. We’re not just flippers. We want a piece of the long game.”
Maya let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You want us to bring our cash, our brand, and our operators,” she summarized. “And in return, you get to plaster your logo on the marketing deck and collect a trickle of fees forever.”
Julian winced. “Put like that, it sounds—”
“Accurate?” she suggested.
“I bring access,” he protested. “I’m telling you, my guy at Reid is *nervous*. The matriarch is…old school. Proud as hell. She’s not going to call you up out of the blue and say ‘save me, Mr. Steele.’ She doesn’t do partners. But if this comes through someone who’s been in their ear for years about co-investment opportunities, someone they trust…” He spread his hands. “You get a shot. A foot in the door.”
“And what do you want from us, aside from money and management upside?” Dominic asked softly.
Julian hesitated.
“Leverage,” he admitted. “If I’m the one who brings you to the table, my fund gets pulled up with you. Future deals. Maybe we JV again. I get to say I brought Steele into its first partnership with Reid. That’s…not nothing.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Partnering with Reid—even if the official line was that Reid was “graciously allowing” Steele to participate—would shift perceptions. Of them. Of him.
No longer the scrappy upstart. No longer the street kid who’d muscled his way into a world of tasting menus and thread counts because he’d been too stubborn to stay in his lane.
He could almost hear the headlines.
*Reid and Steele Forge Unlikely Alliance in Aspen.*
The thought made something hot and fierce flare in his chest.
“Show me the numbers,” he said.
Julian exhaled in visible relief. “I brought what I’ve got. It’s incomplete, obviously, but my guy sent me high-levels as of last week.”
He slid a folder across the table.
Dominic flipped it open.
Projected cost overrun: twenty-seven percent.
Delays: sixteen months.
Estimated additional capital needed to bring the project to completion with desired specs: two hundred eighty million dollars.
“That’s not a hole,” Maya murmured, peering over his shoulder. “That’s a crater.”
“They planned to cover half from cash flow from other properties,” Julian said. “But those are underperforming too. Travel patterns post-pandemic…you know the drill. They’re fine, they’re not dying, but they’re not throwing off the kind of free cash they’re used to. And they refuse to do a dilutive equity raise at the Holding Co. level. Pride. Control. Blah blah.”
“Of course,” Dominic said quietly.
He scanned the pro forma. The design was gorgeous, if overthought. Too many bespoke elements. Too much artisanal nonsense.
He could fix that.
“Who’s the internal champion?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said someone inside is pushing this. Someone who believes in Aspen enough to fight for a partner instead of burying the whole thing. Who?”
Julian hesitated.
“Come on,” Maya coaxed. “You tempting us with half information is like waving a cocktail in front of an alcoholic and then drinking it yourself.”
Julian grimaced. “It’s… It’s the heir. The daughter.”
Dominic’s hand stilled on the page.
“The daughter is running this?” he asked.
“Sort of,” Julian said. “From what I hear, anyway. She’s been angling to prove herself for years. This is her baby. She’s pushing family-friendly luxury, wants to differentiate from their old gilded image.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve never met her, but people say she’s…idealistic.”
Maya’s mouth quirked. “Let me guess. Pretty, polished, went to the right schools, never had to work a day in her life, but now wants to ‘have a career.’”
“That’s the one.” Julian chuckled. “But she’s not stupid. My guy says her numbers are solid. She’s just…emotional. Fights with her mother a lot about direction. There’s some drama there. He says if this thing goes sideways, it’ll be *her* head on the block, not Eleanor’s.”
“Why do I know that name?” Maya mused. “What’s her first name?”
“Charlotte,” Julian said.
It slammed into Dominic like a punch—swift, hard, unexpected.
For a second, the room went quiet in a different way. The air seemed to thicken. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, too loud.
He clenched his fist under the table, forcing himself to relax it.
“Charlotte,” he repeated evenly. “Of course.”
“You know her?” Julian asked, brows lifting.
“No,” Dominic said. The lie slid out smooth, automatic. “I know the name. Trust fund tabloid fodder. I assumed she married a hedge fund brat or started a jewelry line on Instagram.”
“Apparently she’s trying to be more than that,” Julian said. “Wants to rebrand their whole chain around ‘warmth’ and ‘connection.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Board is skeptical. Mom is…let’s just say, less than supportive.”
Dominic’s jaw flexed.
The first and only time he’d heard that name, it had been two years ago, mumbled in the half-dark of a London hotel room, her voice muzzy with wine and something else. She’d said it laughing, as if the idea that anyone would care who she was beyond that room was ridiculous.
*It’s just Charlotte,* she’d said, rolling onto her back and looking at him like he was the only thing she could see. *Tonight, that’s all I want to be.*
He’d known she was lying about something. Her name, maybe. Her life. There had been too much sadness in her eyes for the story she’d told him—a bland tale of working in “marketing,” of a small apartment and a cat.
He’d let it go. Because he’d wanted to.
Because he’d wanted the night.
“I’d like a meeting,” he said now, voice flat. “With this heir.”
Julian blinked. “You, personally?”
“Yes.” He closed the folder, slid it back. “If we’re coming in for two hundred million plus, I’m not delegating the first conversation.”
Maya’s gaze cut to him, sharp and curious. He didn’t meet it.
Julian licked his lips. “I can…try,” he said. “But like I said, she’s not the only decision maker. Even if I get you to her, her mother could shut it down. Or the board.”
“Then we won’t give them the option,” Dominic said calmly. “We won’t show up as supplicants begging to ‘help.’ We’ll show up with leverage.”
“What leverage?” Maya asked.
He smiled without humor.
“Aspen might be their problem,” he said. “But it’s also their opportunity cost. Two hundred eighty million stuck in snow. Money they can’t put into shoring up underperforming urban properties. Properties we’re already outperforming in three key markets.”
Maya’s eyes lit. “We start hitting them in their soft spots.”
“Gently,” he said. “At first. Targeted campaigns in San Francisco, Chicago, Miami. Influencers, loyalty poaching, corporate rate packages they can’t match without discounting. Their CFO will feel the squeeze. Their board will get agitated. The daughter—the one who ‘championed’ Aspen—will get pressure to find a solution.” He leaned back. “And what do you know? We’ll be right there. A clean, simple answer. Market-proven. Individually charming enough to make grandma Reid feel like partnering with us was *her* idea.”
Julian whistled. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Maya smirked. “Too late.”
“This is a very delicate dance,” Julian added. “If they sniff that we’re deliberately undercutting them to force an alliance—”
“They won’t,” Dominic said. “Because we won’t *undercut* them. We’ll simply compete. Better.”
It wasn’t personal.
It was strategy.
He’d built his empire on reading weak points. On seeing where people overreached, where they clung too tightly to legacy ideas, where their blind spots hid. He’d bought hotels out from under bigger names by knowing precisely when to apply pressure and when to offer relief.
Reid had never given him the opportunity before.
Now they had.
“Get me the meeting,” he told Julian. “You have twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four—”
“Or I’ll go around you,” Dominic said pleasantly. “Direct to their bank, their construction lender, their board. You’ll still get your headlines—Reid and Steele, blah blah—but your name won’t be in any of them.”
Sweat broke out anew along Julian’s hairline.
“I’ll make the call,” he said quickly. “Today. You’ll have an answer by tomorrow.”
“Good man.” Dominic rose. “Maya will walk you out.”
When they left, the room felt bigger.
He went back to the window, hands braced on the glass, eyes on the gleaming tower three blocks away.
Charlotte.
He tested the name in his head again, like touching a bruise.
The night in London came back in shards.
Rain on the windows. The low thrum of traffic on Park Lane. Her laugh in the bar downstairs when he’d made some throwaway comment about the blandness of five-star hotel lobbies, and she’d said, “Careful, you might offend someone in my line of work.”
Her hand on his forearm as she’d tried to get the bartender’s attention, the faintest tremor in her fingers.
He’d asked, “Rough day?”
She’d said, “Rough life,” and then shook her head, as if she regretted saying even that much. “Sorry. It’s nothing a martini and an irresponsible decision can’t fix.”
He’d said, “I might be able to help with one of those,” and she’d quirked her mouth.
“Which one?” she’d asked.
He hadn’t answered. He’d just signaled the bartender for another round.
They’d talked surface things. Travel. Work. He’d told her he consulted on “guest experience” for hotels. Almost true. He hadn’t given her a last name.
“Heir to a bedding fortune,” she’d teased, eyeing his pressed white shirt. “Or just very good at laundry?”
“Something like that,” he’d said.
“I work in marketing,” she’d told him. “I’m very good at lying with a smile.”
He’d believed about ten percent of what she said. But he hadn’t cared. Because her eyes had been tired and defiant and hungry all at once. Because when he’d brushed her wrist with his thumb, a flush had climbed her throat like a secret she couldn’t hide.
He’d taken her upstairs.
He’d intended it to be quick. Anonymous. Clean.
It had not been any of those things.
He still remembered the way she’d held his face after, fingertips gentle on his jaw, as if she were memorizing him.
“I needed this,” she’d whispered, and it had sounded nothing like the breezy one-night-stand lines he’d heard before. There had been something almost…heartbroken in it.
He’d almost asked.
*Needed what? Me? Escape? To forget?*
He hadn’t.
Because he didn’t do entanglement. Didn’t do messy.
He’d left before dawn, a note on the pillow with a phone number he’d told himself he didn’t care if she used.
She hadn’t.
He’d thought of her too often afterward anyway.
He’d told himself it was the sex. The way she’d responded to him, sharp intake of breath and then surrender, like she’d been holding herself together for years and finally let go.
But maybe it had been something else. The sense that she’d walked back to a world that didn’t fit her anymore.
Like he had, once.
He shut the memory down. Locked it away.
The odds that *this* Charlotte, the Reid heir with the contentious family project, was *that* Charlotte from that London bar were vanishingly small. New York was full of Charlottes. So was the world.
Besides, the woman he’d slept with had said she worked in marketing, not that she was the heir to a luxury hotel empire.
*And you told her you did “guest experience,” not that you built and bought entire brands.*
People lied.
Most of the time, it didn’t matter.
He’d kept his walls up ever since he was old enough to understand that the only person he could rely on was himself. Exceptions were rare.
Maya.
His grandmother.
And, briefly, on a stormy night in London, a woman named Charlotte who’d looked at him like she saw right through the polished suit and the ruthless ambition to the boy who’d changed sheets in a motel off I-80 and sworn he’d never touch another used mattress again.
“Boss?”
He turned.
Sanjay, his COO, stood in the doorway, tablet in hand.
“We’ve got the final numbers on the San Francisco acquisition,” Sanjay said. “I thought you’d want to—”
“Put them in my office,” Dominic said. “I’ll look in an hour.”
Sanjay paused. “You okay?”
Dominic gave him a wry look. “Do I look *not* okay?”
“You look…hungry,” Sanjay said. “Which is usually good for us. Less so for whoever you’re about to eat alive.”
“Reid Hotels invited this,” Dominic said. “They started a game. I’m just…accepting the invitation.”
Sanjay blinked. “Reid? As in *the* Reid?”
“As in Aspen,” Dominic said.
Sanjay let out a low whistle. “You’re going after the queen.”
“Not quite.” Dominic’s eyes flicked again to the gleaming tower outside. “The queen is too insulated. I’m going after the princess.”
***
That night, alone in his penthouse overlooking the park, Dominic lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He could see the path so clearly.
Push in key markets. Rattle the cage. Get the daughter hungry enough, desperate enough, that when he walked into the room and offered a solution, she’d have no choice but to listen.
He’d keep it formal. Professional.
He’d pretend, if necessary, that the night in London had never happened. That if it *was* her, if the Charlotte from that room had become the Charlotte in those board minutes, their history was just an odd coincidence.
Because whatever else it was, this was business.
He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.
In the dark, the memory of her face rose up anyway.
Not her face in the bar, flushed with gin and laughter.
Her face the next morning, when he’d watched from the shadows as she’d turned over in the bed, reaching for the side where he’d been, finding it empty. The small, almost imperceptible slump of her shoulders before she’d straightened, gotten up, and walked naked to the window, staring out at the rain with a look he couldn’t read.
He’d almost stepped out then. Almost said, “I’m still here.”
He hadn’t.
Another choice.
Another thing he’d told himself he didn’t regret.
Eventually, he slept.
He dreamed of snow.
***