Steele Downtown sat three blocks from the Reid Manhattan, and in some ways, it felt like a direct rebuke.
Where Reid’s lobby was marble and hushed, Steele’s was concrete and sound.
As Charlotte stepped through the revolving door at 9:59 the next morning, the first thing she noticed was the music. Low, pulsing, a curated playlist that somehow managed to be both cool and nonintrusive. The second was the smell—coffee, citrus, something warm like baked bread.
The third was the lobby itself.
It was…full.
People in jeans and blazers clustered in small groups, laptops open on low tables. A couple in running gear sipped smoothies on a worn leather sofa. Two kids chased each other around a column wrapped in living greenery while their father hovered nearby, phone in hand.
The check-in desk wasn’t a desk at all, just a long concrete counter with three staff members behind it, each with a tablet. A neon sign on the wall read: *Stay Curious.*
Underneath, a chalkboard listed events: *Rooftop Yoga – 7 AM*, *Kids’ Art Hour – 3 PM*, *Cocktails & Conversation – 8 PM (Ask Dom Anything).*
She stared at that last one.
“Ms. Reid?”
She looked over.
A young woman in black jeans and a white T-shirt with the Steele logo—simple lines, no serif—smiled at her. A tattoo peeked out from under her sleeve.
“I’m Jess,” she said. “Mr. Steele asked me to bring you up. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Kombucha?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Charlotte said.
Jess led her toward a bank of elevators tucked around a corner. On the wall beside them, floor directories were chalked in looping handwriting. *Roof: Pool, Bar, Views You’ll Actually Want to Post.*
“How are you today?” Jess asked, pressing the button.
“Busy,” Charlotte said. “You?”
Jess’s grin widened. “Living the dream,” she said, not sounding sarcastic at all.
“Is it always this…lively?” Charlotte asked, nodding toward the lobby.
“Pretty much,” Jess said. “We call it the living room. People use it all day. We have locals with passes who work from here instead of from home.”
“Locals?” Charlotte repeated, surprised. “It’s not just for guests?”
“Nope.” Jess shrugged. “Dom says if we’re empty, we’re doing it wrong.”
Dom.
The casualness of it tugged at something in Charlotte’s chest.
At Reid, no one called her mother “El.” It was “Ms. Reid,” or, at the most familiar, “Eleanor” spoken with careful respect.
The elevator dinged. They stepped in.
“He’s waiting on nine,” Jess said. “If you need anything during your visit, just text the link I sent you. Or ask for me at the desk.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte hesitated. “Jess…do you like working here?”
Jess glanced at her, surprised by the question. “Yeah,” she said. “I do. We’re…I don’t know. Not perfect. Things are chaotic sometimes. But Dom listens. He asks. When I said we needed a safer kids’ play corner because the old one was near the bar, he didn’t argue. He just said, ‘Draw me what you mean.’ So I did. Now it’s there.”
Warmth slid through Charlotte, unexpected and bitter.
She thought of every time she’d brought an idea to her mother and been told to “run the numbers again” or “check with Legal.”
The elevator pinged again.
The doors opened onto a narrower corridor with black-painted walls and framed local art. At the end, a glass door bore the sign: *Staff Only*.
Jess keyed a code and pushed it open.
Dominic stood by the window of a small corner lounge, hands in his pockets. Dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, no tie. He turned as they entered.
For a second, it felt like the air thinned.
“Ms. Reid,” he said.
“Mr. Steele.”
Jess’s eyes flicked between them with interest.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, backing toward the door. “Text if you need anything, Dom.”
“Thanks, Jess,” he said.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled.
Up close, in daylight, he was *too* much. Jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to look intentional. Hair slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. Those gray eyes—stormy, sharp—locked on her.
He smiled faintly.
“You came alone,” he said.
She lifted her chin. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” he admitted. “I was curious who you’d bring as a chaperone. James? Your mother? Your architect with the tragic turtlenecks?”
She blinked. “You know Peter wears—”
“I read your team bios,” he said. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
Of course he did.
“How thoughtful,” she said coolly. “Shall we get on with it?”
“By all means.” He gestured toward the window. “I thought we’d start with an overview.”
She moved to join him, careful to keep a foot of space between them.
From here, she could see the city stretching out in all directions, the river a glint of silver.
Below, the hotel’s rooftop pool glittered, ringed with loungers and cabanas. A few people already swam slow laps. A kid in floaties splashed near a woman reading a paperback.
“We’re at ninety-two percent occupancy,” he said. “On a Thursday in August. ADR is lower than your flagship’s, but RevPAR is higher because of our ancillary spend. People eat. Drink. Buy. Stay.”
“Because you’ve made the lobby a co-working space,” she said. “You fill it with locals, so it looks alive. That creates envy. Guests want to be part of the…scene.”
A glint of approval flashed in his eyes.
“Exactly,” he said. “You get it.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said.
“I never said you were,” he murmured.
He moved slightly, close enough that she could catch his scent. Clean, something woodsy underneath.
Her pulse jumped.
“Come on,” he said, stepping back. “Let me show you the rooms. Then the kids’ floor.”
“Kids’ floor?” she repeated, following him out into the hall.
“Ninth,” he said. “We dedicate one entire level to families. Different soundproofing. Play corners every few doors. A nanny station from eight to eight.”
“That’s…expensive,” she said.
“Cheaper than having our high-paying penthouse guests complain about noise,” he said. “We put the party in one box, the quiet in another, and charge both a premium for the privilege.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
He took her through a suite. It was smaller than Reid’s version of “luxury,” but every inch was used. Sliding walls created separate sleeping areas. The minibar held oat milk and juice boxes next to craft beer. A low, wide window seat overlooked the city, piled with pillows.
“You’re selling…coziness,” she observed. “Intimacy. Not…grandeur.”
“Grandeur is overrated,” he said. “Can’t curl up in a chandelier.”
Her lips twitched.
Back in the hall, he paused outside a door marked with a small rocket decal.
“Kids’ lounge,” he said. “No parents allowed unless invited.”
Inside, the room burst with color. Beanbags. Low tables. A climbing wall that only went halfway up. A shelf of books, none of them just for show.
Three kids were sprawled on the floor building a cardboard fort. A staff member in a bright T-shirt sat with them, cutting strips of tape.
One little boy looked up as they entered.
“Dom!” he hollered.
Dominic smiled. “Hey, Ben. How’s the fortress?”
“Needs lasers,” Ben said gravely.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dominic said.
He nodded to the staffer. “Everyone behaving today?”
“So far,” she grinned. “Give them an hour.”
Charlotte watched the exchange, something loosening and tightening inside her at once.
“You know their names,” she said when they stepped back into the hall.
“I try to,” he said. “If we want their parents to come back, their kids have to associate this place with…good things.”
“You remember being a kid in hotels?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He went very still.
For a heartbeat, she thought he’d shut down.
Then he said, “I remember changing sheets in one,” so quietly she almost missed it.
She blinked.
“What?”
He glanced at her.
“My grandmother managed a motel off the interstate,” he said. “We lived behind the office. I was…nine? Ten? When I started helping. Laundry. Trash. Cleaning. It was…” He shrugged. “Not this.”
Images flickered in her mind. A young boy dragging a hamper down a dingy corridor. Bleach. Cigarette smoke.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“Why would you?” he said lightly. “We didn’t do the ‘get to know each other’ thing in London, remember?”
Her stomach clenched.
He pushed open another door.
“This is where it matters,” he said, as if he hadn’t just dropped a piece of himself on the floor between them.
The family suite was chaos in the best way.
A bunk bed with a built-in slide. A tent in one corner with fairy lights inside. A low, wide table covered in crayons and paper. On the wall, a chalkboard had a welcome note in colorful handwriting: *Hi, Parker Family! We’re so glad you’re here. Your mission today: find three hidden stars in the hotel and bring them to the front desk for a surprise.*
“You write those yourself?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes staff does. They get a budget for good markers.”
Her throat ached.
“This is…” She trailed off, searching for a word. “Fun.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “Luxury doesn’t have to be…serious all the time.”
Eleanor’s voice rose in her mind.
*Hotels are businesses, not playgrounds.*
She shut it out.
They moved through the rest of the floor. A laundry room with kid-height machines so they could “help.” A snack corner with apples and granola bars instead of just chips.
Everywhere she looked, someone had thought about what it *felt* like to be there, not just how it looked.
“This is what you want to do in Aspen,” he said as they stepped back into the elevator.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“And your mother hates it,” he added.
She bristled. “She doesn’t *hate* it. She…has concerns.”
“About ‘mess’ and ‘noise’ and ‘children,’” he said. “I know the type.”
“You don’t know her,” she said sharply.
“No,” he agreed. “But I know people who think like her. And I know you’re not one of them.”
“Flattery won’t make me sign your term sheet,” she said.
“That wasn’t flattery,” he said. “That was…observation.”
The doors opened to the roof.
Heat and light hit them.
The pool glittered. A bar along one side bustled, staff in black T-shirts shaking cocktails. In one corner, a shallow splash area bubbled gently, two toddlers happily slapping the water.
A lifeguard in sunglasses watched, alert.
“They can’t see the deep end from here,” Dominic said. “Different levels. Different energy. Same view.”
It was stunning.
Glass railings outlined the perimeter, the city spilling out in every direction. Umbrellas provided shade. Lounge chairs were spaced with actual room between them, not crammed for maximum capacity.
“Can you imagine this in snow?” he asked.
She could.
The pool steaming in the cold air. Snowflakes drifting down on laughing kids. Adults in robes, sipping spiked hot chocolate.
“Yes,” she said softly.
He watched her.
“You were made for Aspen,” he said.
She laughed a little. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” He moved closer, but not close enough to touch. “You light up when you talk about it. You didn’t do that in there.” He jerked his head toward the city beyond. “In your office. With your mother. You were…contained.”
“Well, you walked in and detonated a hand grenade,” she said dryly. “Forgive me if I wasn’t…bubbly.”
His mouth twisted.
“Is that what London was?” he asked quietly. “A hand grenade?”
She froze.
A server carrying a tray of icy drinks brushed past them, offering, “Water? Lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” Charlotte said automatically.
Dominic took a bottle, twisting off the cap. He didn’t drink. Just held it.
She stared straight ahead.
“We’re not talking about London,” she said.
“Aren’t we?” he asked.
“We agreed—”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” he said. “We didn’t talk.”
Wind teased a strand of hair loose from her knot. It blew across her cheek.
Without thinking, he reached up and tucked it back behind her ear.
Her breath hitched.
He felt it. Felt the tiny tremor that ran through her.
His fingers lingered a fraction too long.
He dropped them.
Professional, he reminded himself.
So why did his pulse feel like it was pounding in his throat?
“I didn’t know who you were,” he said. “That night.”
“I know,” she said.
“I didn’t even know your last name,” he went on. “You said you were in marketing. You left out the part where your name is on half the hotels in Europe.”
“And you left out the part where you own half the others,” she shot back.
He smiled, small and rueful.
“Fair,” he said.
Silence stretched.
“I left a number,” he said eventually. “The next morning.”
Her jaw flexed.
“I know,” she said.
“You never called,” he added.
She laughed once, brittle. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, random stranger whose last name I still don’t know, you left me sore and smiling and now there’s a…faint possibility my life is about to change forever’?”
His grip tightened on the bottle.
“You knew?” he asked, voice hushed. “When I left?”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. I didn’t find out until weeks later. After I got back.”
“And you didn’t…look for me,” he said.
Her eyes flashed.
“How exactly would I have done that?” she demanded. “You gave me a prepaid number that probably ended up in a landfill fifteen minutes after I didn’t call. You said you did ‘guest experience.’ Do you know how many consultants have that on their LinkedIn? In London? In the world?”
He’d…never thought of it that way.
Guilt pricked.
“You could have told me your real name,” she said. “You didn’t. That was your choice.”
“It seemed…better,” he said. “At the time. Clean.”
“Clean,” she repeated. “Right.”
He watched her swallow.
“I thought about you,” he said quietly. “After. More than I should have.”
She laughed again, softer this time. “I thought about you too,” she admitted. “More than I wanted to.”
He stepped a fraction closer.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
Her eyes snapped to his.
“I didn’t know,” he repeated. “About…him.”
Her pupils blew wide.
He saw it. The flash of fear. The instinctive glance, almost imperceptible, toward the city. Toward her world.
His chest clenched.
He’d pushed too far.
“Mr. Steele,” she said, voice suddenly formal again. “This is not a topic for the roof of your hotel.”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer.
Then he nodded once.
“You’re right,” he said. “I apologize. That was…unprofessional.”
Something like hurt flickered across her face at the word.
She turned away, looking back over the city.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, not looking at him, “I like what you’ve done here.”
He exhaled, shifting gears with effort.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I like what you’re trying to do in Aspen.”
“Trying,” she repeated.
“Your mother is going to say yes,” he said.
She snorted. “Confident.”
“She doesn’t have many better options,” he said. “And she knows it. She’ll posture. Negotiate. Try to claw back control on every clause. But in the end, she’ll agree. Because she cares about the company more than her pride.”
“You really think so?” she asked skeptically.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s ruthless. That’s not a criticism. It’s…a fact. She won’t let the brand flounder to avoid sharing.”
Charlotte’s shoulders dropped a fraction.
“And you?” she asked. “What do you care about more? The deal? Or…?”
His eyes darkened.
She cut herself off.
Dangerous.
“Let’s finish the tour,” she said briskly. “I have a three o’clock with our CFO.”
He let her deflect.
For now.
But as they walked back through the hotel, side by side but not touching, he knew one thing with unnerving clarity:
He wasn’t going to be able to keep his lives as cleanly separated as he’d always insisted.
Because this deal wasn’t just lines on a term sheet anymore.
It was a woman whose body he knew better than her résumé.
It was a boy in a photograph with his eyes.
And no matter what Charlotte had promised her mother, secrets like that had a way of slipping, one careful layer at a time.
***