Chapter Six
I sit alone in my office, the door shut tight against the muffled sounds of the hotel above me. Down here in the basement, time moves differently. It’s slower. Peaceful.
The space is enormous for an office—larger than some of the guest suites upstairs—and every inch of it reflects generations of wealth and control.
At the center of the room sits my desk.
It’s a hand-carved mahogany monstrosity that once belonged to my great-great-grandfather, the original owner of this property and the man who built the hotel when railroads still carried men in wool suits and women in feathered hats across the American West. The desk is massive, and its dark wood is polished smooth.
The light from above reflects in it like the sun on the surface of a lake.
My father always said the desk was a statement piece.
I never asked what the statement was.
Behind it runs a custom-built credenza that stretches nearly the entire length of the wall. Shelves hold ledgers, leather-bound guest books, and antique hotel registers dating back a century. Cabinets conceal everything from spare clothing to financial files that only I ever touch.
But the thing that dominates the room—the thing everyone notices first—is the painting that hangs above the massive stone fireplace. An oil portrait rising nearly five feet tall.
My grandfather stands on the left, stern and square-shouldered in a charcoal suit. My father stands beside him, hand resting on the back of a leather armchair, his expression proud and calculating. And there I am, seated between them. Young. Confident. And smug.
The artist captured our resemblance perfectly. Three generations of the same sharp jaw, dark hair, and pale blue eyes.
A legacy framed in gold.
Across from the fireplace sits a long leather couch—deep brown, worn just enough to show it’s been used for decades. It faces the hearth, waiting for conversation that rarely happens. Most days, no one sits there.
To the right of the couch is a small bar, tucked neatly into the corner. Crystal decanters catch the dim light from the sconces mounted along the stone walls. Scotch, bourbon, rye. Only the good stuff.
Directly in front of my desk are two high-backed chairs, upholstered in navy velvet. Guests sit there. Employees sit there. People who need something from me sit there.
I like the chairs. They’re intentionally lower than my desk because perspective matters. My father taught me that. Being looked up at gives the illusion of power.
To the right of the office is an alcove, lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets. Decades of paperwork. Contracts. Insurance records. Architectural plans. The paper trail of the hotel and all that transpires within its walls.
And to the left is a door that leads to a private queen suite.
It’s identical to the smaller queen rooms upstairs—same antique headboard, same tiled shower in the bathroom, same marble sink and polished brass fixtures.
Except there’s no view. Because the room sits underground. No windows to gaze out over the mountainside. Just stone walls and carefully placed lighting.
My great-great-grandfather liked it that way. Said it kept him close to the foundation of the building. Said it helped him think. Personally, I think the old man just liked hiding.
Sometimes, I understand that instinct.
Still …
Spending most of my day down here makes me feel like a damn vampire.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling for a second, listening to the distant hum of pipes and muted footsteps somewhere overhead.
The hotel is alive above me. Guests checking in. Guests checking out. Suitcases rolling across marble floors. Dishes clinking in the restaurants.
But down here? It’s quiet, like a cave or a dungeon. My command center and my prison.
I stand and walk over to the bar, grabbing the heavy crystal decanter of scotch. The glass stopper makes a soft pop as I pull it free. I pour two fingers into a glass and swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the light.
Then I take a slow sip. The first one burns the back of my throat. The second tastes of smoke. It’s good scotch.
I carry the glass back to the desk and sit down.
The computer hums to life when I press the power button.
The glow of the monitor cuts across the old mahogany. I log in and pull up the hotel’s employee database. A few clicks later, the list appears, names populating the screen in neat alphabetical rows—front desk, doormen, valet, concierge, maintenance. Dozens of current employees.
Most of them I recognize. I make it a point to try to address everyone by their name. It’s an exhausting venture, but one I feel is important.
I scroll down the list, searching, but don’t spot the one I’m looking for.
Recalling the spelling of the name etched on the name tag she had pinned to her sweater, I type it into the search bar.
Storm, Harleigh.
The file appears instantly, and I click on it.
Her employee profile opens with a small photo in the upper corner. And there she is. Golden hair. Blue-eyed. Sun-kissed skin that suggests she spends a lot of time outdoors.
Her smile in the photo is easy. Confident but unforced.
I lean back in my chair, studying it.
The new hire is … stunning. That’s the first word that comes to mind. Not polished in the way most women who work at the Belicourt are, or someone who spends hours in front of a mirror, carefully curating their appearance.
No. This girl looks like she stepped straight out of a Wyoming summer. Wild. Bright. And self-confident.
What really caught my attention, though, wasn’t the way she looked. It’s the way she looked at me earlier. Most employees get nervous the first time they meet me. They fidget. They avoid eye contact. They stumble over their words like they’re afraid I might fire them for choosing them wrong.
Harleigh Storm didn’t do any of that. She looked me straight in the eye. Like she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. And she made no excuses or apologies for not knowing our dress code on her first day. She simply said she’d be dressed appropriately tomorrow.
That alone makes her … interesting.
I don’t care if you mess up. Everyone messes up. That’s how you learn. All I ever want or expect is assurance that you will rectify the situation and do better in the future.
I scroll through her file. Date of birth. Education. Employment history.
My eyebrows lift slightly.
Bachelor of science in outdoor recreation and tourism management. University of Wyoming. Graduated this last spring.
I glance back at the birth date.
A quiet chuckle slips out of me.
Twenty-one?
“Geezus. Just a baby,” I murmur to the empty room.
When I was twenty-one, I was full of youthful fire and big dreams. I thought I had the world at my feet.
Now, I run the world. At least the tiny corner of it that exists on this mountaintop.
I skim the rest of the file.
She’s a local girl. Grew up on a ranch outside town.
Wildhaven Storm Ranch.
The name rings a faint bell somewhere in the back of my mind. Ranching families in Wyoming tend to stick around for generations. Proud of their family legacies, much the same as the Garrisons are of ours. Hell, the Storms have probably been here longer than my family, if I’m honest.
Her résumé is short. Not a lot of experience to speak of. Summer jobs. Hospitality internships. A few glowing references from professors who clearly liked her.
I’m surprised Peter, our recently retired head of the corporate hospitality department, decided to give someone so green the opportunity. There’s something … refreshing about it.
No jaded corporate polish. Just a young woman who seems genuinely excited about working here.
Which is either very charming or quite naive.
Possibly both.
I take another sip of scotch and lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk.
Why did she apply here?
That’s the real question. Her degree is specific to outdoor recreation and tourism.
Not exactly the Belicourt’s forte. Sure, we host the occasional poolside party or sponsored skiing event, but for the most part, she’ll be handling corporate conferences, local political fundraisers, extravagant ballroom weddings, and holiday galas.
Hardly the outdoor adventures she studied for.
And truthfully, most locals avoid working at the hotel unless they have to. It’s too flashy. Too formal. Too expensive for their liking.
But Harleigh Storm applied willingly.
And according to Peter’s notes, she impressed everyone in the interview.
Still …
I’m about to click into the HR notes section when a sharp knock echoes through the office door.
I don’t look up from the screen.
“Come in.”
The door opens a second later.
Diana steps inside, closing it quietly behind her.
She moves with the calm efficiency of someone who has been a part of running this hotel longer than most of the employees who report to her have been alive.
Tall. Professional. Impeccable. Poised with perfect posture. Her dark hair is pulled into a sleek twist at the back of her head. She’s wearing her usual tailored slacks—deep charcoal today—with a silk blouse the color of champagne topped with the signature Belicourt blazer.
She pauses just inside the room, her eyes briefly scanning the office, like she always does, before her gaze lands on me.
“Good afternoon, Porter.”
I lift my glass slightly in greeting. “Diana.”
She walks forward and takes one of the navy chairs in front of my desk, crossing her legs and leaning forward. The velvet cushion dips slightly under her weight. She tilts her head as her eyes flick briefly to the computer screen.
I don’t bother closing the file.
She notices everything anyway.
“Reviewing the new hires?” she asks.
“Just one.”
Her eyebrow arches ever so slightly.
“Harleigh Storm.”
Diana’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.
“Ah,” she says. “She’s why I’m here actually.”
I lean back again. “You spent the day with her. What was your impression?”
“She’s not our usual management candidate,” Diana replies. “But she seems eager.”
I swirl the scotch in my glass. “Qualified?”
She shrugs. “Time will tell.”
She folds her hands neatly in her lap.
“Peter’s friend at The Gilded Crown Ranch & Resort highly recommended her. Said he would have hired her in a minute if she had been willing to relocate after graduation.”
I smile faintly. “That’s good to know.”
The Gilded Crown is an outdoor resort with five-star accommodations, Michelin-starred chefs, and a renowned wellness retreat. I know the owner personally.
I make a mental note to give him a call to check in.
“Her family runs a large ranch in the valley of Wildhaven.”
“That explains the suntan,” I mutter under my breath.
Diana’s lips purse. “Yes, well, I don’t foresee a long-term commitment on her part,” she says.
“Why’s that?”
“She told me over lunch that she wants to eventually develop a guest ranch experience on her family’s land.”
That catches my attention.
I sit up slightly. “A guest ranch?”
“Yes.”
I tap a finger against the desk. “Interesting.”
Diana watches me carefully. “Seems she’s only here to gain what knowledge and experience she can before moving on,” she continues.
I shrug. “That’s okay.”
She shifts slightly in the chair. “You’re fine with her wasting our time?”
“It’s not wasting if she does the job we hired her for while she’s here,” I say.
“I just think it’s an unnecessary use of our time and resources to train someone who has no intention of staying loyal to the company,” she says.
“We’re in the hospitality industry, Diana,” I say. “It’s like the restaurant industry. High demand and high turnover. Besides, very few people who have goals of opening their own establishment ever go on to do so.”
“I understand that, but …”
“It’s fine. She’ll begin training with Estelle and Mabree at the front desk.”
“The front desk?”
“Yes. I’d like you to go over the basics with her during the first two weeks so she’s familiar with how things work here from top to bottom.”
She nods curtly as she stands. “Absolutely. We’ll begin in the morning.”
My attention drifts toward the stone fireplace.
Specifically …
The hidden seam along the right edge of the masonry.
Invisible unless you know where to look.
Behind it sits the elevator.
My elevator.
A silent steel box that moves through the bones of the hotel like a ghost.
Hidden exits on every floor. From the penthouse suites to the lobby, ballrooms to the grand hall.
No staff member knows it exists. No guest ever sees it. And I hold the only key card that makes it run. My great-great-grandfather installed the system when the hotel was under construction. He believed a man should always be able to observe his kingdom without being seen.
A philosophy I’ve come to appreciate.
Diana clears her throat lightly. “Porter.”
My gaze returns to her. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you will be having dinner here tonight. I’ll be working late, and I thought maybe we could dine together. Or perhaps grab a nightcap later?”
I glance back at the computer screen.
Harleigh’s photo stares up at me again. I take another sip of scotch.
Then I lean back in the chair and say calmly, “It’s been a long day. I think I’m just going to have food brought down to take home this evening.”
Diana’s smile falters. It’s always the same question and the same answer.
“Another time?”
A patient smile spreads across my face. “Of course.”