Unable to resist the unexpected treat, I take time for a quick breakfast, anxious to get down to my office. I’ve been working out of my suite while trying to sort out Tristan’s disastrous finances, but I’ve resumed my normal management duties this week. Despite the untenable new living arrangements, running my beloved property has helped me feel like my life might have a glimmer of a chance at getting back to some kind of normal.

The second I step into the elevator I notice that the deep scratch that’s been etched into the brass wall for months has been repaired. I hadn’t prioritized the expensive restoration, but that it’s fixed is just another sign of the influx of cash Dex has provided.

The whir of some kind of machinery greets me as the elevator doors open at the ground floor. I’m only a few feet into the lobby when I see a work crew set up near the bell stand, pulling up the marble tiles that had been damaged over a year ago by falling scaffolding that had been setup to hang Christmas decorations. The broken tiles had bothered me a lot… just not enough to spend the tens of thousands of dollars to have them repaired.

Conflicting emotions war inside me. As wonderful as it is to have these small imperfections fixed in my beloved hotel, the fact that Dex Cohen is financially responsible for their resolution pisses me off. I hate that I need his money in the first place, but worse, I’m mortified by his humiliating treatment of my body with each new rush of cash. I don’t think I can bear another round of his consequences.

“Katja!”

The shout comes from across the lobby. I swing my gaze in that direction in time to see one of our most affluent guests, Rowan Worthington, waving at me wildly from the escalator coming down from the mezzanine level.

Shit. I’ve been avoiding her since Tristan’s death, not because we weren’t friends, but more because we were close enough that I knew she was going to ask me questions I wasn’t ready to answer yet.

I suppose it’s too late to pretend I didn’t see her.

Rowan took up residency at The Whitney months ago when her wealthy parents started major renovations of their Park Avenue penthouse. The elder Worthington family members were ‘roughing it’ at their Hampton estate until they could return to Manhattan, but at twenty-three, and very single, Rowan would rather die than be out of the NYC nightlife for that long.

We’d enjoyed lunch and shopping together many times in the past, but I’m just not prepared to talk about all the horrors I’ve discovered since my husband’s death.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she gushes as she reaches the bottom of the escalator.

Okay, I’m confused.

“You’re welcome,” I say, still having no clue what she’s so happy about.

Rowan thrusts her diamond-covered hands in my direction. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you were reopening the salon! Hazel just finished my mani-pedi and I’ve already spent a small fortune at Tiffany’s. When is the Coach store opening?”

Every one of our previous retailers had moved out of The Whitney over a year ago, not long after I’d had to raise their leasing costs. I’d been subsidizing the stores over the years for the convenience of my guests, but when the revenues got tight, I’d made the hard choice to close down the half-dozen or so exclusive boutiques and salons previously housed on the mezzanine level because they just weren’t bringing in enough revenue to cover my costs. I think Rowan, the consummate shopper, had taken their departure harder than the shop owners themselves.

Thankfully, she rambles on with enough excitement to cover the fact that I’m literally speechless because I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.

She babbles on as I fight a new war inside myself—half relief at again being able to provide the much-needed shopping options for my guests—half furious that Dex clearly put this into motion behind my back without the slightest input from me… again. He’s gone too far.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Rowan gushes.

“Yeah, well the return of the retail shops has been a well-kept secret around here,” I answer truthfully.

Rowan is pulling at my arm. “Let me buy you lunch to say thank you.”

Since she already knows more about the changes than I do, I decline. “I’d love to, but I’m late to a meeting,” I improvise. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine. But I’ll hold you to it. I’ve missed you.”

I find it hard to believe that Rowan doesn’t have a thousand other well-connected friends to share lunch with, but I agree to meet her at the restaurant the next day just to wrap up the conversation so I can go investigate what other changes are happening in my hotel without my approval.

It’s a relief when she sees someone else she needs to chat with, finally giving me the opportunity to take the escalator up to a transformed grand hall. A busy buzz fills the space where there were closed shops just days before. The high-end salon and Coach store look to be the only returning shops, but popular retailer signs are being installed where their unprofitable predecessors had been. Gucci, Michael Kors, Tiffany & Co, J. Crew, Samsonite…

Angry tears threaten. How did Dex arrange all of this in such a short time? More importantly, why the hell is he sticking his nose into making changes in my part of the hotel? Doesn’t he have enough to worry about with running his expanding criminal concierge business?

Several of my long-time hotel engineers nod in my direction, looking happy to be assisting with the reopening of the shops.

I pass a small group of housekeepers in the stairwell on the way down to my office. They stop their excited chatter long enough to say hello and “Thank you for purchasing the additional linens, Ms. Belov,” as they pass by.

More expenses I didn’t approve. The only good thing is my employees seem to be happy, even if I’m not.

By the time I’m finally hidden behind my closed office door, my hands are shaking. I’m grateful my office is big enough for me to pace back and forth, working through my conflicting emotions.

For weeks, I’ve felt like I’m at war, fighting for The Whitney’s survival. As horrible as it’s been, it’s easier to point my anger at Tristan and even Dex. But today, the war feels more personal—it’s with myself.

Tags: Alta Hensley Crime
Source: readsnovelonline.net