By the time the elevator doors slid open onto the private lobby of her apartment building in Tribeca, Charlotte’s head was pounding.
She dug in her bag for the keys just as the front door swung inward from the other side.
Milo barreled out like a small, golden missile.
“Mommy!”
She crouched, catching him around the waist as he flung himself at her, the world narrowing in that instant to warm weight and the smell of peanut butter and baby shampoo.
“Hey, bug,” she murmured into his neck. “Did you miss me?”
He pulled back, solemn. “My Lego died.”
“I heard.” She brushed his hair back. It tended to flop forward, a soft, caramel color that never quite obeyed gravity. “Did your nose survive?”
He tipped his head back for inspection, eyes squinting.
“A little red,” she observed. “But very brave.”
“That’s what Lina said.” He wriggled out of her arms and grabbed her hand, tugging. “We made a bwidge.”
“A bridge?” she corrected automatically.
“Bwidge,” he said stubbornly. “Come see!”
She let him pull her into the apartment.
Light flooded the open-plan space from an entire wall of windows, the late afternoon sun turning the hardwood floors honey-gold. Toys were tucked neatly into baskets along one wall, though a few had escaped: a plastic dinosaur under the coffee table, a book about trucks half-open on the rug. The faint smell of garlic and tomatoes drifted from the kitchen.
Mila poked her head out from behind the fridge, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Petite, dark-haired, she always managed to look unruffled no matter what chaos Milo had unleashed.
“You’re early,” she said, surprised.
“My mother thinks I’m uncommitted,” Charlotte said. “So I decided to ruin her narrative.”
Mila’s brow furrowed. “Is she being…herself again?”
“She never stopped.” Charlotte shrugged out of her blazer and hung it on the back of a chair. “But Aspen survived its first board review. Barely.”
“Congratulations?” Mila ventured.
“Let’s go with that.” She kicked off her heels and sank onto the floor next to Milo, who was painstakingly balancing wooden blocks across two stacks of books.
“That’s the bridge?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” He pointed. “The car goes *over*.” He pushed a small toy car along the wobbly surface, tongue sticking out in concentration.
“And what goes under?” she asked.
“The monster truck.” He shoved a larger, mud-splattered vehicle underneath the arch. It scraped. He grunted. “Too…big.”
“We could make it higher,” she suggested. “Add more blocks.”
He sat back, considering this.
“Or we could make the monster truck smaller,” he said.
“Shrink it?” She smiled. “How?”
“Magic.”
“Obviously.”
He grinned, then frowned suddenly, poking a finger into his nostril.
“Hey.” She gently pulled his hand away. “No more exploring up there. We talked about this.”
He sighed dramatically. “I was just checking.”
“Check with your tongue,” she said dryly. “Noses are off-limits.”
“Okay.” He brightened. “Mommy, are you coming to the park tomorrow with me and Lina?”
Her heart squeezed.
Tomorrow was Thursday. One of her supposed “work from home” days.
“I am,” she said firmly. “I promised, didn’t I?”
Mila’s eyes met hers over his head. *Are you sure?* the look said. *After today? After what your mother said?*
Charlotte lifted her chin a little. *Yes,* her eyes answered. *I’m sure.*
The guilt never got easier. The seesaw of it. When she was at the office, she felt like she was failing Milo. When she was with Milo, she felt like she was failing the company.
But there were some things she wouldn’t compromise on.
Story time was one. The park on Thursdays was another. The small rituals of their life together—the songs at bath time, the silly names for his stuffed animals, the way he liked his toast cut into squares, not triangles—anchored her more than any board meeting ever could.
“Can I ask you something…weird?” Mila said later, when Milo was in the bath and happily drowning his toy boats.
“Always.” Charlotte leaned against the bathroom doorway, rolling up her sleeves.
“Does your mother…ever ask about him?” Mila kept her voice low, not looking at her directly.
“No,” Charlotte said flatly.
“Never?”
“She asked once.” Charlotte’s mouth twisted. “The day he was born. She asked if I was sure. About not giving him up for adoption. About not…terminating earlier. When I said I was sure, she…” Her throat closed. “She hasn’t asked since. It’s like if she doesn’t say his name, he doesn’t exist.”
Mila’s eyes softened. “He is very real,” she said.
“I know.”
“She will…regret this,” Mila added.
“Maybe.” Charlotte watched Milo pour water from one plastic cup to another, brow wrinkled in concentration. “But if there’s one thing my mother excels at, it’s doubling down.”
Later, when Milo was in bed, stuffed dinosaur tucked under his arm, nightlight casting soft stars on the ceiling, Charlotte sank onto the sofa with a glass of red wine and her laptop.
Emails. Deck revisions. A snide comment from an industry blog about “nepo babies” inheriting empires.
She closed the tab quickly.
A notification popped up at the bottom of her screen.
New message from: *James Whitman – Global Hospitality Strategies.*
Subject: *Potential capital partnership – Aspen.*
Her chest tightened.
James was a consultant. An old family contact. Her mother liked him because he spoke in measured tones about “protecting legacy value” and “maintaining aspirational positioning.” She tolerated him because, for all his blandness, he wasn’t an idiot.
She clicked.
> Charlotte, > > I’ve heard some rumblings in the market about Reid seeking a capital partner for Aspen. Before the rumor mill runs away with itself, I’d welcome the chance to discuss strategy and potential counterparties with you and Eleanor. > > There is significant interest, but also potential reputational risk if the terms are perceived as overly favorable to any one party. > > Happy to come by the office tomorrow if helpful. > > Best, > > James
Her stomach dropped.
“Rumblings,” she muttered. “Fantastic.”
So much for keeping things contained.
If the market thought Reid was desperate enough to seek external capital, sharks would start circling. Deals would be floated that sounded generous but were actually poison. Her mother, already skeptical, would seize on this as proof that Aspen was a liability.
*This is why we shouldn’t have let you run with it, darling. Look what you’ve done. Now we have vultures at the gate.*
She took a gulp of wine and forwarded the email to her mother with a brief note.
> Just saw this. Please loop me in on any meeting with James re: Aspen. I need to be in the room.
The three dots of her mother’s typing appeared almost immediately.
> No need. I will handle it.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.
> With respect, this is my project.
Another pause. Longer this time.
> Which is precisely why your involvement is…complicated. We need impartial eyes, not emotional attachment. I will meet with James alone. I will update you afterward.
Heat flared in her chest.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
> I’m the one who has to execute whatever you agree. I’m the one who has to make Aspen work. Excluding me from strategic conversations is not just unfair, it’s bad business.
A full minute passed.
> My decision stands.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
In the other room, Milo stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about a bridge.
Charlotte set the wine down carefully.
Enough.
She opened her contacts and found James’s number.
Her thumb hovered over the call icon.
Her mother would be furious. But being sidelined from the most important conversation about Aspen yet felt worse.
She hit dial.
He answered on the second ring. “James Whitman.”
“James, it’s Charlotte.”
“Charlotte.” Warm, professional. “Good to hear your voice. I’d been planning to reach out to you directly as well.”
“About Aspen.”
“Yes.” Papers rustled on his end. “Listen, there are some dynamics we should discuss before you step into any conversations with—”
“I’d like to be in the room,” she cut in. “When you talk to my mother. You copied her on that email.”
There was a pause.
“I did,” he said carefully. “Eleanor has…strong feelings about who should be at the table.”
“She doesn’t want me there,” Charlotte said. “I’m aware.”
“I’m in a…delicate position,” James said. “I advise the company. I have to respect the chair’s—”
“I’m not asking you to defy her,” she said. “I’m asking you to tell her that from a governance perspective, it’s risky to exclude the executive responsible for the project. If she wants to keep me from speaking, fine. But I need to hear what’s being proposed. I need to be able to react. Otherwise, you’re flying blind into negotiations without the person who knows Aspen best.”
“Negotiations,” he repeated. “You’re assuming we reach that stage.”
“James,” she said, sharper now. “The fact that you’re emailing us means we’re already there. The market smells blood. If we’re not proactive, we’ll be reacting to terms others dictate. You know this.”
He sighed quietly. “I’ll…raise it with her.”
“Raise it firmly.”
Another small pause. “You sound…different,” he said.
“Different how?”
“Less…accommodating,” he said delicately.
“Having a child will do that to you,” she said before she could stop herself.
Silence hummed down the line.
“You have a child?” he asked, startled.
She closed her eyes.
Shit.
“James,” she said slowly, “that’s…off the record.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t know.”
“Very few people do.” Her voice was flat. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Of course,” he repeated. “My lips are sealed.”
She believed him. James liked his retainers too much to risk gossip.
“We’ll speak tomorrow,” he added. “One way or another.”
She hung up and set the phone down.
“What are you doing?” she asked herself softly.
Pushing. Pressing. Risking open conflict with a woman who had never forgiven her for one night of weakness in London that had led to a lifetime commitment.
Her eyes drifted involuntarily to the framed photos on the bookshelf.
One of her and Milo at the zoo. One at the beach. One at his first birthday, frosting smeared on his face, her arms around him from behind.
She moved away from the sofa and toward the large canvas bag tucked under the console table by the door.
Inside, wrapped in tissue, was the presentation board for Aspen she’d had mocked up for herself. Not for the board. For her.
On it, she’d taped pictures that had nothing to do with ROI or RevPAR. A family laughing in a hot tub under the stars. A little girl’s lopsided snowman. The kind of messy, real joy she wanted Reid Aspen to host.
It was, in some sad way, a proxy for what she wanted from her own family. Warmth. Acceptance. A place where she and her son weren’t a scandal to be hidden but just…normal.
Her laptop pinged.
New email.
From: *Unknown – via assistant@reidholdings.com*
Subject: *Meeting Request – Steele Holdings.*
Her breath caught.
She clicked.
> Ms. Reid, > > My name is Julian Park. I work with WestRock Capital. I advise several firms interested in strategic partnerships in the luxury hospitality sector, including Steele Holdings. > > I understand from our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Whitman, that you are exploring potential capital options for Reid Aspen. > > Mr. Steele and I would very much value the opportunity to meet with you to discuss a possible collaboration. Given the sensitivity of these discussions, we would be happy to come to your office at your convenience rather than request you travel. > > Would tomorrow at 11 a.m. work? > > Best regards, > > Julian
Her heart rate kicked up.
Steele Holdings.
She knew the name, of course. Everyone in the industry did. They were the insurgents. The upstarts. The ones who’d taken tired, mid-tier properties and turned them into the darlings of travel blogs and Instagram. Dominic Steele was their founder and CEO. A self-made billionaire with a reputation for ruthless deals and unconventional, “edgy” design.
Her mother despised him.
“He wants to turn every hotel into a nightclub,” Eleanor had sneered once. “No sense of tradition. No respect for quiet luxury. That man would put neon in a funeral home.”
Charlotte, privately, thought some funeral homes could use a little neon.
She reread the email.
Her palms were damp.
This was moving fast. Too fast. Had James already spoken to her mother? Had her mother already invited wolves into the dining room while telling her daughter to go play in the nursery?
She forwarded the email to Eleanor with a simple note.
> We should discuss this. *Together*.
No immediate response.
She paced the living room, bare feet whispering on the polished wood floor, city lights flickering through the windows.
Her phone buzzed again.
Reply from Eleanor.
> I’m aware of Mr. Park’s approach. I’ve already instructed my office to schedule a meeting with him and Mr. Steele. I will handle it.
Charlotte stopped in her tracks.
Her fingers flew over the screen.
> Without me?
> This is a *strategic* discussion, Charlotte, not a design review. It’s not your remit.
Her teeth sank into her lower lip.
> Aspen *is* my remit.
> Aspen is a company asset, not your personal passion project. Your attachment is impairing your judgment. For the time being, you’ll be more effective focusing on execution. Let those of us with experience in these matters handle the negotiations.
Her chest burned.
> If you think you can walk into a meeting with a shark like Dominic Steele and not have someone in the room who actually understands Aspen, you’re more naive than I thought.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
The reply came back faster than she expected.
> Watch your tone. You are not invincible here, Charlotte. Remember that.
She stared at the screen.
Something inside her—that had bent, and bent, and bent for years—made a small, sharp sound.
It felt like snapping.
Her next message was shorter.
> If you meet with Steele without me, I will walk.
Her finger hovered for a second.
Then she sent it.
There was a weird, eerie calm in the silence that followed.
Five minutes. Ten.
Her mind spun.
*Walk where?* she thought. *To what?*
She had a gilded cage, yes. But it was a cage nonetheless. Her entire résumé was Reid Hotels. Her degree in hospitality management had been more of a formality; she’d interned at their properties in college, worked for the brand ever since. Outside of that world, she was, on paper, a thirty-year-old single mother with a gap in her employment history and a weak spot in London.
*You’re not leaving,* a voice in her head said. *You’re bluffing, and she knows it.*
Her phone lit up.
Incoming call.
Her mother.
She took a breath and answered.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow,” Eleanor said without preamble. “Eleven a.m. Be in my office.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“With Steele and Park?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m invited.”
“You’re *summoned*,” her mother replied. “Do not speak unless spoken to. You will observe. You will not make any commitments, verbal or implied, without clearing them with me first. Am I clear?”
She should have said yes. Should have taken the small victory and tucked her head down.
Instead, she said, “I’ll speak if I have something worth saying.”
The silence on the other end was knife-sharp.
“Do not test me, Charlotte,” Eleanor said finally. “Not on this.”
The line went dead.
Charlotte let her arm drop to her side.
In the darkened hallway, her reflection stared back at her from the window glass. Blond hair coming loose from its twist. Blue-gray eyes tired but hardening.
She thought of the girl she’d been two years ago, standing in a London hotel bar, telling a stranger she wanted to make an irresponsible decision just once, please, before she did what everyone expected of her forever.
She thought of the woman she was now—tired and stretched thin and in love with a small boy who liked to put Legos in his nose.
She thought of the man she’d spent that night with. The one whose last name she’d never learned. The one whose eyes she saw every morning when she looked at her son.
She thought of the name on the email.
*Steele.*
“Of course,” she muttered.
She went to bed that night with her stomach clenched in a knot of dread and reluctant, electric anticipation.
Tomorrow, she would walk into her mother’s office and sit across the table from one of the most powerful men in her industry.
She would find out if he was the same man who had held her in a dark London room and whispered filth in her ear with a voice that had haunted her since.
She told herself it was impossible.
But sleep, when it finally came, brought her back to the sound of rain on glass and the feel of rough hands on her hips.
***