Publication day dawned gray and wet.
The kind of New York day that made everything feel heavier.
Rain streaked the wide windows of Charlotte’s apartment.
Milo stomped in circles around the living room, delighted with his new dinosaur rain boots. Every third step, he paused to check the bruise in the mirror, as if making sure it was still there to justify the extra attention.
“Bumpy,” he pronounced, poking it gently.
“Don’t,” Charlotte said automatically. “You’ll make it mad.”
“Can it talk?” he asked.
“Only to other bumps,” she said.
He considered that, then nodded as if this was reasonable.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Serena.
> It’s up.
Her stomach flipped.
She opened the *Times* app with hands that didn’t feel entirely like hers.
There it was.
Front of the Sunday Styles section.
Not the cover—some celebrity in couture had that honor—but top of the digital fold for the features.
*Legacy in Transition.*
Her and Dominic in the headline photo.
Not London.
Not Aspen.
A shot Lila’s photographer had taken in the Reid Downtown lounge.
Charlotte in jeans and a blazer, perched on the arm of a chair, laughing at something off-camera. Dominic leaning against the back of the sofa, sleeves rolled, watching her with an expression that, in hindsight, was far too soft for any sane PR team to have allowed.
Fortunately, no one had asked Serena.
Underneath, a smaller inset shot.
Three hands.
One large, one smaller, one tiny, all resting on a table, fingers overlapping.
No faces.
Just implication.
Her eyes blurred.
“Mommy, can I watch *Dino Patrol*?” Milo asked.
“In a minute,” she said hoarsely.
She skimmed the opening paragraphs.
They were as she remembered.
She forced herself to scroll.
To look at the places she knew people would pause.
The London section.
The Milo section.
The line about “the person who owns us now.”
Her throat constricted.
A new notification popped up.
*1 New Text – Dom.*
> Breathe.
She let out a shaky laugh.
> Trying.
> You did good.
> We did…something.
> My grandmother just called. She cried. Then said she wants six copies.
Warmth threaded through the panic.
> Nona is my favorite.
> Get in line.
Another buzz.
Henry.
> Kiddo. It’s beautiful. Messy. Honest. Your mother is pretending to hate it. She read it twice.
She almost laughed.
Almost.
Then another vibration.
This time, her mother.
> My office. 9 a.m. Don’t be late.
Of course.
***
The Reid Manhattan lobby was always busy on Sundays.
Brunch guests.
Late check-outs.
People wheeling suitcases and pushing strollers and pretending they hadn’t googled “Reid heiress secret baby” in the last hour.
Charlotte walked through the space with her shoulders back, every nerve humming.
She could feel eyes.
Or maybe she imagined them.
Either way, she kept her gaze fixed ahead as she crossed to the private elevator bank.
In the hall outside Eleanor’s office, Natalie’s expression was unusually…soft.
“You look…good,” she said.
“I look like I haven’t slept,” Charlotte said.
“That too,” Natalie murmured. “Go in.”
Her mother was at the window again.
Charlotte wondered, briefly and wildly, if Eleanor ever *sat*.
She turned as the door closed.
Her expression was…complicated.
“You’re late,” she said.
“It’s 9:01,” Charlotte said.
“Late,” Eleanor repeated.
The game felt oddly comforting.
Normal.
“Have you read it?” Charlotte asked.
“Twice,” Eleanor said. “Once as a mother. Once as a CEO. I disliked it both times for…different reasons.”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched.
“And?” she asked.
“And,” Eleanor said, “as a mother, I don’t appreciate the world being invited into my family’s…dirty laundry. As a CEO…”
She hesitated.
“As a CEO,” she said slowly, “I can’t deny it’s…effective.”
Charlotte blinked.
“Effective,” she echoed.
“It makes us look…human,” Eleanor said, the word pained. “Relatable. Modern. I hate all of those adjectives. They also sell rooms.”
Charlotte had to sit.
She sank into one of the chairs, legs suddenly shaky.
“You’re not…mad?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh, I am livid,” Eleanor said. “Don’t mistake my pragmatism for…forgiveness. You went around me. You risked our name. You…”
She stopped.
Took a breath.
“You also trusted your own judgment,” she said. “And from a brand perspective…you were right.”
Charlotte stared at her.
She’d imagined this conversation a hundred ways.
Being disowned.
Fired.
Lectured.
She hadn’t imagined…this.
“You’re…agreeing with me,” she said slowly.
“Don’t get used to it,” Eleanor snapped. “This is an anomaly.”
“That’s one word for it,” Charlotte muttered.
Eleanor moved to her desk.
Tapped a key.
On the big screen on the wall, a dashboard appeared.
Web traffic.
Social engagement.
Booking patterns.
“This is Reid.com,” she said, pointing with the remote. “As of 8:47 a.m. After the piece went live.”
The line on the graph had spiked.
Hard.
“Searches for ‘Reid Aspen’ are up two hundred percent,” she said. “Direct bookings are up thirty. Corporate inquiries for family packages…” She clicked another tab. “Up fifty.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open.
“In three hours?” she whispered.
“People like a story,” Eleanor said. “Even if it’s one I’d rather they not have. They like…connection. The idea that there’s a…why…behind the design. That Aspen isn’t just another pretty lobby with a fireplace and a snowmobile concierge. It’s…” Her lip curled slightly. “A place built by people who’ve actually…been snowed in.”
Charlotte thought of the storm.
Of Dominic on her floor in the dark.
Of the note he’d left.
“Connection sells,” she said softly.
“I prefer ‘narrative alignment,’” Eleanor sniffed.
“Of course you do,” Charlotte said.
Her mother studied her.
“You did…well,” she said after a moment.
Charlotte blinked.
“I’m sorry?” she asked.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Eleanor said. “It might kill me.”
Charlotte’s eyes burned.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t get sentimental,” Eleanor warned, but there was a flicker—just a flicker—of pride in her eyes.
The door opened without a knock.
Natalie popped her head in, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” she said. “Board’s calling, Ms. Reid. Emergency call. They want you on.”
“Of course they do,” Eleanor muttered. “Put them through.”
She gestured to the screen.
Faces appeared.
Richard.
Marie.
The outside directors.
And, unexpectedly, Henry, already on another square, hair slightly mussed like he’d been dragged from his newspaper.
“Eleanor,” Richard boomed. “Have you seen—”
“Yes,” she said coolly. “I am capable of reading.”
“We need to discuss the…implications,” he said. “Reputation. Risk. Succession. This is…not the image we—”
“It’s the image our guests are responding to,” Eleanor cut in. “I’ve seen the numbers.”
“Numbers aren’t everything,” another director protested.
“They are in this room,” she said. “Unless you’ve forgotten where you sit.”
Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Henry caught her eye in his little box and winked.
“Let’s not pretend this is…business as usual,” Marie said carefully. “Our lead executive has just revealed a child out of wedlock with a man we’re in a major partnership with. That’s…unprecedented. For us.”
“For us,” Eleanor agreed. “Not for the market. Our guests have children from three marriages and dogs with Instagram sponsors. This is…tame, comparatively.”
“That’s not the point,” Richard said. “The point is—”
“The point,” Eleanor said sharply, “is whether we have confidence in the leadership we’ve chosen. Not whether we approve of their…bedroom decisions from years ago.”
Silence.
She continued, voice calmer.
“Charlotte made a judgment call,” she said. “A risky one. I didn’t like how she went about it. I still don’t. But…the outcome is in front of us. The piece is…balanced. It humanizes without…degrading. The response is positive. Our partners are standing by it. Steele is standing by it. I am…standing by it.”
Charlotte’s heart hammered.
“You are?” Richard said, taken aback.
“Yes,” Eleanor said simply.
It felt like a tectonic plate had shifted.
“Furthermore,” she went on, “since you’re all so eager to talk about succession while I’m still breathing, let’s be clear: when the time comes, and it will, the person I intend to recommend as my successor is…Charlotte.”
Charlotte’s vision blurred.
For a second, she thought she’d misheard.
Henry’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit the top of his video square.
Richard sputtered.
“Eleanor, be reasonable,” he began. “She’s—”
“She is the future of this company,” Eleanor said, voice like steel. “You may not like the packaging. You may not like the learning curve. Tough. You didn’t like me either, at first. Half of you wanted my husband’s brother. He’d have driven this company into a ditch by 1985.”
“That’s not fair,” Henry muttered. “He’d have made it to ‘88.”
Eleanor ignored him.
“Charlotte sees what’s coming,” she said. “She understands the guests we will have, not just the ones we’ve already charmed. She takes risks. That’s terrifying. It’s also why we’re still relevant. You can either get behind that or…start polishing your résumés for a nice, safe chain that’s happy to die quietly.”
No one spoke.
Charlotte couldn’t move.
“You’re…announcing this now?” Marie asked. “In the middle of…this?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “Because if we can’t weather our own…humanity…then we don’t deserve the market share we’ve stolen from less nimble brands. I’d rather lose a few squeamish shareholders now than watch us ossify over the next decade.”
Her fierceness stole Charlotte’s breath.
She’d grown up under this woman.
Feared her more often than she’d admired her.
At this moment, she admired her.
Terrifyingly.
Richard cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “This is…a lot to take in.”
“Life is a lot to take in,” Eleanor said briskly. “You’ll manage. We’ll draft a formal succession plan over the next quarter. For now, we have an opening in Aspen to focus on. Unless you’d rather spend your week debating the semantics of ‘legacy.’”
Henry chuckled.
“I’m with her,” he said. “For once.”
One by one, the directors nodded.
Some reluctantly.
Some with real enthusiasm.
Marie smiled faintly.
“I always said your daughter was underrated,” she murmured.
“No, you didn’t,” Eleanor said. “But I appreciate the revisionist history.”
The call ended.
The screen went black.
The room felt very, very quiet.
Charlotte realized her hands were trembling.
She gripped the arms of her chair.
“You just…” She swallowed. “You just…”
“Don’t make me say it again,” Eleanor snapped, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. “I might change my mind.”
“You named me,” Charlotte whispered. “In front of them. As…your successor.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Eleanor said. “It’s a recommendation, not a coronation. You still have to…prove it.”
Her throat closed.
“I will,” she said.
“You’d better,” Eleanor replied. “Because now you don’t just carry your own…mess. You carry…ours.”
Charlotte nodded, chest tight.
“I can,” she said. “I will.”
Her mother studied her.
“In spite of everything,” she said softly, almost to herself, “you turned out…remarkably stubborn.”
“Wonder where I got that,” Charlotte murmured.
Eleanor’s mouth twitched.
“Go,” she said abruptly. “You’re dripping feelings on my rug.”
Charlotte rose on shaky legs.
At the door, she paused.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For…seeing me. Even when you didn’t want to.”
Eleanor looked out the window again.
“Don’t make me regret it,” she said.
***
She didn’t call Dominic.
She texted.
> She told them. The board. That when she steps down…she wants me.
The reply came so fast it nearly startled her.
> Of course she does. > > I do too.
Her heart stuttered.
> Not the same thing, she typed, trying for levity.
> It is to me.
Heat rose in her chest.
> I can’t process that *and* the article and the board in one day, she sent. > My brain is full.
> Then come here, he wrote. > We’ll overflow together.
She stared at the words.
Her rational brain said: bad idea.
Optics.
Gossip.
Her heart said: yes.
For once, she listened to the latter.
> One hour, she typed. > I have to see Milo first. Then I’ll…come.
> I’ll be waiting.
***
She picked Milo up from school.
Let him chatter about snack time and the new class hamster.
Didn’t mention that most of the other mothers in the hallway had given her slightly-too-long looks.
At home, she sat on the floor and let him build a fortress around her with blocks.
Read him two stories.
Then a third.
“Mommy has to go to a meeting,” she told him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Lina will stay. I’ll be back before you wake up.”
“Is Dom at the meeting?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Tell him…I had pancakes,” he said sleepily.
“I will,” she said, throat tight.
She kissed his temple and disentangled herself from the fort.
Mila met her in the hall.
“Go,” she said. “We are fine.”
“I—” Charlotte began.
Mila rolled her eyes.
“Charlie,” she said. “You are allowed to have…life. Outside of nap schedules. Go. Be messy. I will send you pictures if he does anything cute. Which he will.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered.
She left before she could change her mind.
***
Dominic opened his office door himself when she stepped out of the elevator on thirty-eight.
He didn’t say anything at first.
Just pulled her inside and shut the door.
Then, very carefully, he wrapped his arms around her.
It wasn’t like London.
That had been heat and urgency and anonymity.
This was…anchoring.
Solid.
She let her forehead rest against his chest.
Breathed in the familiar scent of soap and coffee and him.
“Rough day,” he murmured into her hair.
“You read it?” she asked, voice muffled.
“Twice,” he said. “For the photos.”
She huffed a laugh against him.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“Accurate,” he replied.
He loosened his hold just enough to tilt her face up.
His thumb brushed her cheekbone.
“You okay?” he asked again.
“No,” she said honestly. “But…less not-okay than I expected.”
“That’s…progress,” he said.
“You heard about the board?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Henry called,” he said. “He was…gleeful. Said he’d finally gotten to watch your mother shock Richard into silence. He might frame the Zoom screenshot.”
She smiled weakly.
“I told them,” she said. “I told you. I don’t know if I…want this.”
“Do you?” he asked softly.
She thought about Aspen.
About the dashboard.
About his face in the war room when she’d stood up to Eleanor.
“Yes,” she said. “Terrifyingly, yes.”
“Then that’s your answer,” he said. “Wanting it is half the job.”
“What’s the other half?” she asked.
“Surviving it,” he said.
He led her to the sofa.
They sat.
The city stretched beyond the glass, lights starting to prickle on as dusk settled.
He poured them both whiskey.
She took a sip.
It burned.
In a good way.
“Do you regret it?” she asked suddenly.
“The piece?” he said. “The partnership? The confession?”
“Any of it,” she said.
He considered.
“No,” he said. “Because it led…here.”
He gestured vaguely between them.
She swallowed.
“You’re too smooth,” she said.
“It’s not a line,” he said. “It’s…my truth.”
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand.
His thumb stroked over her knuckles.
The gesture was both intimate and oddly innocent.
“I like…this,” he said. “Sitting. Talking. Not…just putting out fires.”
“Me too,” she admitted.
Silence stretched, comfortable.
She could feel the desire humming under it.
Knew he could too.
He didn’t push.
“What do you want, Charlotte?” he asked eventually. “From…me. Not as a co-parent. Or a business partner. As…me.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I don’t know how to…want that,” she said honestly. “Every time I…get close, I see…everything that could go wrong. For him. For me. For…this company that is apparently now my future.”
“I’m not asking you to…marry me,” he said lightly. “Or move in. Or…anything big. I’m asking…do you want…us. In any form.”
She looked at him.
At the man who had, infuriatingly, become the person she reached for when things felt too heavy.
“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper.
Relief flashed across his face.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s…enough. For now.”
He lifted their joined hands.
Pressed his lips to her knuckles.
Heat flared down her spine.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“This is dangerous,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said. “So is mountain construction. We manage risk.”
She laughed, the sound wet.
“Only you would compare…this to building codes,” she said.
“It’s all infrastructure,” he replied.
He set their hands down.
Didn’t let go.
“We’ll go slow,” he said. “For him. For you. For me. We’ll…make our own rules.”
“Rules,” she echoed.
“Rule one,” he said. “No making big decisions when we’re…overwhelmed. Only when we’re…like this. Fed. Sitting. Breathing.”
“Good rule,” she said.
“Rule two,” he said. “We don’t…weaponize him. Ever. No ‘you didn’t show up so you don’t see him.’ No ‘if you push for this contract term, I’ll make drop-offs hell.’ We keep business and parenting…separate. As much as possible.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“Rule three,” he said. “We…tell each other the truth. Even when it’s…ugly.”
“That one’s going to hurt,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Good things usually do.”
She studied him.
“What’s your truth…right now?” she asked.
He met her gaze.
“I’m in love with you,” he said simply.
Her breath caught.
Her brain short-circuited.
“What?” she whispered.
He didn’t flinch.
“I am,” he said. “I know it’s…too soon. Or too late. Or too…complicated. I know we haven’t…done this in the normal order. But it doesn’t change the fact. I’m in love with you. Not just with the idea of you from London. With…you now. The you who argues with stone samples and cries in linen closets and laughs at my terrible metaphors.”
Tears stung.
“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Not now. Not…when everything is so…”
He squeezed her hand.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “Rule three. Truth. You don’t have to say it back. You don’t have to…feel it back. I just…needed you to know where I am. So you’re not…guessing.”
She shook her head, heart pounding.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“I prefer ‘persistent,’” he said.
She let out a wet laugh.
Sat there, clutching his hand, heart thudding in her ears.
She thought of London.
Of Aspen.
Of thunder.
Of Milo saying, *He catches me.*
Did she love him?
It felt too big to name.
Too risky.
Too…final.
But she knew this:
She didn’t want to imagine a life where he wasn’t in it.
She didn’t want to imagine raising Milo without this infuriating, steady, stubborn man sitting on floors in storms and arguing with board members and learning the names of plastic dinosaurs.
She wasn’t ready to say the word.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a while.
But she could say this.
“I…care about you,” she said hoarsely. “Too much. More than is…sensible. More than is…safe.”
He smiled, slow and soft.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
She exhaled.
Leaned back against the sofa.
Let herself, for the first time, rest her head on his shoulder.
He stilled.
Then, carefully, rested his cheek against her hair.
They sat like that as the city lights came on one by one.
The article was out.
The world was buzzing.
Somewhere, on a thousand screens, their mess was being parsed and judged and memed.
Here, in this room, there was just his heartbeat under her ear.
Her hand in his.
And the first, fragile outlines of a future that terrified her less than it used to.
Not because it was safer.
But because, finally, she wasn’t walking toward it alone.
***