The official opening of Reid Aspen was a week later.
By then, the Lila profile had aged three Internet lifetimes.
The initial flurry of think pieces and hot takes had cooled.
Bookings had remained high.
The board had stopped sending panicked late-night emails.
Not all the noise had vanished, of course.
There were still snide gossip columns about “heiresses behaving badly.”
Anonymous commenters still accused her of everything from trapping a billionaire to neglecting her child to using her son as a “PR prop.”
She’d learned, slowly and painfully, to close the tabs.
To let Dominic screenshot the ridiculous ones and send them to her with sarcastic commentary.
> Dom: Apparently we are “shamelessly parading our love child for clout.” > > Should we tell him Milo’s main interest in Aspen is the hot chocolate?
> Charlotte: And the elevator buttons.
> Dom: True. His lust for elevators is a bad look. Might destroy our brands.
There were, unexpectedly, also messages of support.
Emails from single parents who’d felt less alone reading about her choice.
DMs from people who’d grown up in complicated families saying, “Thank you for not pretending this is easy.”
She tried to let those in more than the others.
Tried.
Opening night itself was a blur of glitter and flash.
They’d capped the guest list.
Influencers.
Industry leaders.
A few celebrities whose publicists owed Serena favors.
Cameras flashed on the makeshift red carpet outside as guests arrived in gowns and tuxes and parkas.
Inside, the lobby glowed.
The kids’ corner was temporarily cordoned off—this night was for adults, though the space was visible, a quiet statement about what luxury meant here now.
Milo, bribed with extra bedtime stories and the promise of a special sledding date the next day, stayed in their suite upstairs with Mila.
He’d protested, briefly.
“Big party,” he’d said. “I wear my nice shirt.”
“You’ll have your own party tomorrow,” she’d promised. “Tonight is…boring grown-up stuff.”
“Grown-ups are boring,” he’d informed her.
“Correct,” she’d said.
Now, as she stood near the fireplace in a deep green dress that hugged her in ways that made her slightly self-conscious, flute of champagne in hand, she felt…anything but boring.
“Nervous?” Maya asked, sidling up in a sparkly jumpsuit and boots that somehow looked both impractical and perfect.
“Yes,” Charlotte said.
“You look like you’re about to conquer Rome,” Maya said. “In a good way.”
“Too many metaphors,” Charlotte muttered.
“Too much champagne,” Maya countered, clinking their glasses.
Across the room, Dominic worked the crowd with effortless charm.
Dark suit, no tie, a hint of stubble that made him look less CEO, more…dangerous.
He laughed at something a tech founder said.
Listened intently to a travel writer’s question.
Caught Charlotte’s eye over someone’s shoulder and, for a heartbeat, the entire space fell away.
He excused himself and crossed toward her.
The way heads turned as he moved was almost comical.
People parted.
As if he were carrying some kind of gravitational field.
“Hi,” he said, coming to stand beside her.
“You clean up okay,” she said, taking a sip of champagne to cover the way her pulse had kicked.
“You look…illegal,” he said.
Heat flared in her chest.
“Poetic,” she said.
“Truth,” he replied.
“Stop saying that,” she muttered, though her mouth curved.
Eleanor joined them then, purple gown impeccable, diamonds coldly blazing.
“You two are blocking the photo line,” she said. “If you’re going to brood, do it somewhere less conspicuous.”
“We’re not brooding,” Dominic said. “We’re…strategizing.”
“I can see your hormones from here,” she said dryly. “Strategize with less eye contact.”
Charlotte choked on her drink.
“Mother,” she hissed.
“I’m old, not blind,” Eleanor said. “Now go. Mingle. Charm. Do what you’re good at. I’ll be over there pretending to like people who’ve tried to poach our staff for ten years.”
She swept away.
“Is it weird that I like her now?” Dominic murmured.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Deeply.”
They separated to work the room.
For two hours, it was all smiles and handshakes and sound bites.
Yes, the partnership with Steele was unique.
Yes, they were excited to see how guests responded.
Yes, Aspen was a test case for future projects.
No, they had no plans to merge their companies.
No, they were not engaged.
No, they would not be answering questions about their personal lives tonight.
By the time the last photographer was shooed out and the last guest had drifted toward the elevators or the bar, Charlotte’s cheeks ached from smiling.
Her feet hurt.
Her head buzzed.
She leaned against a column in a quiet corner near the now-closed kids’ nook, letting herself sag for the first time all night.
“You survived,” Dominic said, appearing with a glass of water.
“Barely,” she said, taking it. “My face may never unfreeze.”
He laughed.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?” she asked warily.
“Not a dungeon,” he said. “Unless you want it to be.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Stop,” she said.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Roooftop.”
“The rooftop isn’t open yet,” she said. “We told the guests it debuts next month.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s empty.”
She hesitated.
Then handed him her empty glass.
“Lead on,” she said.
They slipped away to the service elevator.
Up.
The doors opened onto a space still half in progress.
The flooring was down.
The glass railings installed.
The bar built but not yet stocked.
Heaters hummed.
Lights twinkled along the edges.
Above them, the sky was a sea of stars.
Below, the town glowed.
Snow glittered softly on the railings.
“It’s…beautiful,” she murmured.
“No cameras,” he said. “No board members. No PR.”
“Just you and your questionable intentions,” she said.
“Questionable?” he echoed. “I think my intentions are quite clear.”
He walked toward the railing.
She followed, the thin heels of her shoes clicking softly on the wood.
The air was cold enough to nip at her bare shoulders.
He shrugged out of his jacket without comment and draped it around her.
Warmth enveloped her.
His scent.
His body heat.
“You’ll freeze,” she protested.
“I run hot,” he said. “You know this.”
She flushed.
They stood side by side for a moment, looking out.
“Do you realize,” he said softly, “that three years ago, you were in a hotel bar on another continent pretending you were just a girl in marketing and I was just a consultant?”
“Yes,” she said. “And you were an ass.”
“I was,” he agreed. “So were you.”
“Yes,” she conceded.
He turned to face her.
“I don’t want to be an ass anymore,” he said. “At least not…to you. Or him.”
“You’re doing…okay,” she said. “So far.”
He smiled faintly.
“High praise,” he said.
The wind picked up, tugging at her hair.
His jacket hung heavy on her shoulders.
He stepped closer, one hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers lingered at the curve of her jaw.
“Are we still…going slow?” he asked, voice low.
Her heart pounded.
She thought of Milo upstairs, asleep in a strange bed, exhausted from sledding.
Of her mother in a suite down the hall, likely planning entire futures on a legal pad.
Of the article that had laid them bare.
Of the soft opening, the hard work, the mountain itself under their feet.
And of the way his confession had settled into her chest days ago like something that had always been there, waiting for her to acknowledge it.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
He swallowed.
“We can,” he said. “We probably should. I’ll…wait. As long as you—”
She cut him off by grabbing the lapels of his shirt and pulling him down.
The kiss was nothing like the careful one in his office.
Nothing like the urgent one in London.
It was…hungry.
Years of denial.
Weeks of slow burn.
Days of fear.
All of it poured into the slide of her mouth against his.
He made a sound—half surprise, half something else—and responded in kind.
His hands found her waist.
Pulled her flush against him.
Heat flared everywhere they touched.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt.
He tasted like champagne and something darker.
Want throbbed low and insistent.
He broke away for a second, breathing hard.
“Charlotte,” he rasped. “Are you sure? Because if we keep—”
She kissed him again.
Harder.
“Yes,” she said against his mouth. “I’m…tired of being scared. For five minutes…just…yes.”
He let out a sound that was almost a groan.
His hands slid up her sides, over the fabric of the dress, fingertips grazing the bare skin of her back where the zipper dipped.
She shivered.
He swallowed the sound.
The world narrowed to heat and cold and the way his body fit against hers like they’d been designed for this.
“Inside,” he managed between kisses. “Too…cold…”
“Roof,” she insisted, lips trailing along his jaw. “Stars.”
He laughed, breathless.
“You’re going to get frostbite,” he said.
“Shut up and kiss me,” she said.
He complied.
His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing the sensitive spot behind her ear.
She gasped.
He took advantage, deepening the kiss.
Her knees went weak.
He shifted, pressing her gently back against one of the support columns.
The wood was cold through the dress.
He was very much not.
His thigh slotted between hers.
She rocked against him helplessly.
Pleasure shot up her spine.
“Charlotte,” he murmured, voice rough, almost reverent now. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Likewise,” she managed.
His hand skimmed down, over the curve of her hip, fingertips slipping under the hem of her dress just enough to trace the top of her thigh-high stocking.
She shuddered.
“Tell me to stop,” he said hoarsely. “If you…want to.”
She should.
Everything in her rational brain screamed it.
Hotel.
Opening.
Complications.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Don’t you dare.”
He cursed softly, in a language she didn’t recognize.
His hand pushed a little higher.
His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh.
Heat pooled, insistent.
Her nails dug into his shoulders.
He kissed her like a man starved.
She kissed him back like a woman who had spent too long pretending she wasn’t.
She didn’t know how long they stayed like that.
Minutes.
Hours.
Forever.
The cold finally seeped in enough that her teeth chattered against his lower lip.
He pulled back, forehead resting against hers.
“Inside,” he said again, more decisive now. “Before you turn into an ice sculpture and I have to explain that to your mother.”
She laughed, breath clouding the air between them.
“Good luck,” she said.
He took her hand.
Led her back toward the service elevator.
As the doors slid shut, he leaned back against the wall, chest heaving.
She realized, distantly, that her lipstick was smeared.
His hair was mussed.
If anyone saw them…
“Do we…care?” she asked aloud.
“Less than we used to,” he said.
The elevator hummed.
Stopped at their floor.
“This is…your room,” he said, nodding down the hall to where she knew her suite was.
“And yours is…?”
“Opposite wing,” he said. “Per your mother’s decree.”
“No wonder you suggested the roof,” she muttered.
He smiled.
“At your service,” he said.
They stood there in the quiet corridor, the air between them still charged.
“I should…” She jerked her head toward her door.
“Yes,” he said. “You should.”
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
“Tell me to go,” he said softly. “And I will.”
She stared at him.
At the man who had upended her life and, somehow, helped her rebuild it sturdier.
At the man who had learned to sit on floors and catch toddlers and argue with board members on her behalf.
At the man who had told her he loved her without demanding anything in return.
“I don’t want you to,” she admitted.
His eyes darkened.
“Then I won’t,” he said.
He reached past her and slid his keycard into the lock.
The green light blinked.
He opened the door.
Stood back.
Let her decide.
Her heart pounded.
She thought of rules.
Of slow.
Of lines.
Then she thought of the feel of his mouth on hers under the stars.
Of the way his hand had trembled slightly when Milo had called him Dad.
Of the way her own loneliness had receded, fractionally, every time he’d walked into a room over the past months.
She stepped inside.
Turned.
Held out her hand.
“Come in,” she said.
He did.
He closed the door behind them with a soft click.
For a beat, they just stood there.
She could hear her own breathing.
His.
The faint hum of the heater.
“Milo is…” He nodded toward the adjoining room. “Asleep?”
“Yes,” she said. “Out cold. Sledding.”
“Good,” he said.
They moved toward each other again, as if drawn by invisible strings.
The next kiss was slower.
Less frantic.
More…deliberate.
He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones.
She let her own hands roam.
Over his chest.
Down his back.
He made a noise when her fingers brushed the small of his back, muscles tightening under her touch.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t know your own power.”
She smiled against his mouth.
“Teach me,” she said.
His breath hitched.
“Gladly,” he said.
They stumbled toward the bed, shedding layers.
Her shoes first, kicked aside.
His tie, finally—he had worn one under the coat after all—yanked loose and discarded.
Her dress zipper slid down under his fingers, the sound loud in the quiet room.
Cool air kissed her skin.
Then his hands.
Warm.
Reverent.
He stripped her slowly, giving her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
He let her do the same.
Buttons.
Fabric.
Skin.
When they were finally, gloriously bare, he paused.
Looked at her.
Really looked.
“You’re…stunning,” he said, voice almost rough with it.
She felt…seen.
Not as the heir.
Not as the mother.
As herself.
“Flatterer,” she said, though her cheeks flushed.
“Truth,” he replied.
“Stop,” she whispered, half-laughing.
He smiled.
“I love you,” he said again, softer now.
It landed differently this time.
In this room.
In this skin.
She swallowed.
“I…” The word stuck.
He shook his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “Not if you’re not ready. It’s…enough that you’re here. With me. Now.”
Her chest ached.
She reached up and pulled him down onto the bed with her.
His body settled over hers, heavy and warm.
The contact made her gasp.
He kissed her neck.
Her collarbone.
The hollow of her throat.
His hands mapped her like he was learning a new hotel layout—curious, thorough, attentive.
She arched into his touch, needing more.
Wanting everything.
The rest blurred.
Heat.
Gasps.
His name in her mouth.
Hers in his.
The sharp, bright edge of pleasure when they finally came together.
After, they lay tangled in sheets that would almost certainly have to be professionally laundered.
Her head on his chest.
His hand tracing idle patterns on her back.
For once, her mind was…quiet.
No to-do lists.
No crisis simulations.
Just the steady thump of his heart under her ear.
“I’m ruined,” he murmured into her hair.
She snorted.
“For other women,” he clarified. “You realize that, right? After…this?”
She smiled sleepily.
“Likewise,” she said.
He laughed.
They drifted.
She woke once to the sound of Milo shifting in the next room.
Instinctively, she started to sit up.
Dominic’s arm tightened around her.
“He’s okay,” he murmured. “I checked the monitor.”
“You have the monitor?” she asked, startled.
“I stole it,” he admitted. “Mila handed it to me and said, ‘You are staying, yes?’ like a threat. I didn’t argue.”
Her heart squeezed.
She relaxed.
Closed her eyes again.
There would be fallout.
Complications.
Questions.
In the morning, they’d have to navigate coffee with her mother and a day full of guests and staff who would read things in every glance.
But for now.
For these few hours.
There was just this.
Skin.
Heat.
The soft, barely audible sound of her son snoring through the baby monitor on the nightstand.
And the unfamiliar, fragile, terrifying feeling that maybe—just maybe—after years of building other people’s sanctuaries, she’d finally started building one for herself.
With a man who’d once been a stranger in a bar and was now, undeniably, something far more dangerous.
Hers.
***