Burning Hearts (Ember City #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ELLIS

“Welcome to The Langford Hotel.”

The front desk attendant swiped my card and tried to put a five-hundred-dollar hold on my dignity.

“It’s a temporary incidental charge,” the clerk said in a cheerful tone. “One hundred dollars per night, for a five-night stay.”

Riverfield didn’t greet me; it audited me. It clocked my cables, my credentials, and my hopes, then asked for receipts.

The card reader chirped as if judging me, then flashed a hard, red NOPE.

“Sir,” he murmured, “your card has been declined.”

I forced a smile and opened my banking app. My car payment had drafted early. Until payday in two days, I’d be low on funds.

I smiled like a man newly passionate about budgeting.

Step one: have a budget.

“Do one hold,” I said. “One hundred for tonight, I won’t charge anything to the room.”

He peered at the screen as if it might print my net worth. “I can ask a manager—”

“We’ll waive it,” Tansy Langford sang, appearing like a well-dressed solution. “Perks of being my favorite nephew—terms and conditions apply.”

Everything about her was polished: blonde hair up, cream suit with a small magnolia brooch. Old-money elegance, zero glitter.

I had one rule while in town: do the job, dodge the dynasty.

At The Langford, Aunt Tansy’s word moved mountains. But I was hardly her favorite anything. I lived thirty minutes away in Atlanta and we barely spoke to one another. People assumed I was backed by her wealth. I wasn’t.

Which was why my card had failed in her lobby.

“Thank you,” I said, “but no. One hold, one hundred. I’ll pay my way.”

The lobby hummed in anticipation while the chandelier above us glistened. The clerk pressed a few buttons, and the system finally decided to cooperate.

Miss Pearl, the woman who kept the town of Riverfield running, drifted past with a clipboard and the kind of gaze that could straighten a room without touching a chair. One nod from her, and my behavior was stamped “fair.”

“We hope you enjoy your stay at The Langford, Mr. Langford,” the clerk said, relieved. “A private elevator will take you straight to the Magnolia Suite.”

I resisted the reflex to remind the clerk that I wasn’t that kind of Langford.

“There must be a mistake,” I said. “I booked the standard king room.”

Tansy’s smile didn’t fade. “Darling, we’ve upgraded you to the Magnolia Suite for your first night. You can slum it in a standard tomorrow.”

“I don’t need—”

Tansy waved her hand at me. “It’s done; I won’t hear another word.”

My producer brain reminded me that I only had twenty minutes to drop my bag and make The Peach Ball, the kickoff to Residency Week and the million-dollar Langford Prize.

Signal House, the production studio I worked for, had applied, which meant my week had a camera on it.

My boss assumed my last name meant leverage.

I’d told him the board voted for the winner—not the Langfords.

He didn’t buy it.

In the elevator, I glanced at the printout:

Standard King – $600/night

Obscenely overpriced for a bed and a minibar.

That’s when I saw the next line item, labeled COMP:

Magnolia Suite – $3,000/night

My eye twitched as the doors opened on a suite that smelled of money and lemon oil.

The space sprawled out before me—two thousand square feet of “don’t touch that” pretending to be a room. Even the coasters had better posture than me. My one-bedroom apartment in Atlanta could fit in the foyer alone. Heart-pine floors, walls wrapped in silk grasscloth that caught the lamplight.

A carved magnolia panel on the wet bar so pretty it made me a little mad.

I set down my bag, snapped my cufflink into place, and followed a ribbon of air through terrace doors barely left ajar.

The terrace perched over Peachtree Commons, busy like a stage before curtain. Catering staff wheeled in chafers under perfectly crisp white linens as a florist fluffed magnolia leaves like she’d been trained in Paris.

Down by the fountain, a man in rolled sleeves moved a warming tray two feet and somehow made it look like a rescue.

“Cade!” the florist called. “Do firefighters come with a built-in urge to rearrange everything?”

The man didn’t raise his voice or hover. He pointed once, spoke once, and the whole setup quietly fell into line. The kind of calm that made other people remember to exhale.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, broad through the chest, steady through the shoulders, strong jaw. He had neat brown hair cut short and straight. Fit from taking flights of stairs. That quiet-hot thing some men never learn and few are born with.

The tray settled, the vendor and the florist nodded, grateful. Cade half-smiled—more crease than grin—the kind you only see when someone thinks no one’s watching. He pivoted, scanning heat sources and pinch points without touching a single piece of décor.

Then his eyes flickered up.

They passed over the balcony—over me, over the French doors—and kept moving.

If he’d seen me at all, he’d probably filed me under “fixtures.”

Not a hazard, not exactly useful either.

I remembered the Magnolia Suite behind me.

“Producer’s note,” I told myself, under my breath. “Cut the balcony villain angle. Try ‘Humble bystander with a crush.’”

Because perched up here, looking down at him, I was every Riverfield resident’s worst nightmare: the heir surveying his little town. If a man like Cade learned my employer was in the running for the Langford Prize, he’d probably assume I’d be carried to the finish line.

But I wasn’t bankrolled. Just bank-adjacent, which was its own public relations problem.

Cade said something to the florist—two words, maybe three—and she shifted her ladder off an egress line like he’d done her a favor. He smoothed the front of his shirt, checked his watch, then took the hotel steps two at a time and vanished under the portico.

I wondered if he’d be a finalist for the Langford Prize, but I wouldn’t know until the drawing.

For a moment, I pictured Cade inside, changing. Casual to formal, ready to be looked at.

My phone dinged. A text from Tansy shook me back to reality.

Tansy: Where are you, dear? The ball starts soon! Langfords are never tardy.

But this Langford wasn’t like the others. Aunt Tansy and Uncle Harlan had made their billions in steel and moved out here to play benevolent dynasty; I made a salary in Atlanta and watched my card bounce in their lobby.

I worked as a producer for Signal House, a scrappy Atlanta media studio doing live streams, podcasts, micro-documentaries, whatever kept the rent paid and the ring lights on. Lately I’d been angling for a promotion to Executive Producer. A guy’s allowed to dream.

Riverfield had hired us to produce Residency Week. They wanted us to livestream The Peach Ball, grab segments for Beau Fontaine’s The Town Talk, and cut the entire thing into shiny promos for the bank and the business council.

My boss, Jonah, decided we should go after the Langford Prize too, convinced “Langford” on my ID badge was as good as a cheat code.

Which meant I was here wearing two headsets at once: make the town look good on camera and somehow prove Signal House deserved a Riverfield storefront without looking like a rigged bet.

It wasn’t what Tansy would call a glamorous job. If my aunt found out that I earned less than six figures a year, she’d probably have a heart attack.

She wasn’t in the habit of bankrolling anyone; least of all, her nephew.

I leaned over the balcony, hoping for one last glimpse of Cade. Nothing. Just the fountain, the florists, and the space he’d already vacated.

So, I turned back to the room. The Magnolia Suite was designed to make you stay, but the Ball was the show, and I was paid to run shows.

I washed my hands like a surgeon, flattened a rebellious collar, and told my reflection: “We’re going to stand with the operations crew tonight, not with the rich people.”

Optics were important.

Downstairs would be a carefully planned spectacle: a brass band tucked somewhere acoustically clever, a sponsor wall that made strangers feel famous.

And the much-hyped Peach Basket on its pedestal like a holy object.

Also: phones, everywhere. Hungry for a photo.

And I wasn’t going to be the Langford who posed while other people worked.

I grabbed my folio and headset—habit more than necessity—and stepped back into the private elevator as the doors shut. My pulse did its own little rehearsal.

I checked my notes for the program information: introductions, Beau’s cold open, the bank president’s remarks, then finally the draw.

The elevator opened on the mezzanine, then the lobby. Music drifted up from the ballroom. I crossed the marble, nodded to a bellman, and slipped through the side door into the service hall that fed the stage.

“Ellis!” someone called out, waving a clipboard like a flag. A volunteer in a bow tie pointed me toward the comms table. “Beau wants a lighting check. He says the ceiling lights are waging war on his hair.”

I was here as the producer of record for the Peach Ball stream, so camera angles, the bank president’s mic, and even Beau’s hair were all my problem.

“Tell him I’ll negotiate a ceasefire and keep the shine,” I said, and clipped a pack to my waistband, checked the battery, and thumbed the talk button. “Comms, Ellis on. Beau, count to ten for me.”

Beau counted like a late-night host, turning it into a bit. The room softened into that production buzz I loved, where a thousand tiny parts pretend to cooperate because I asked nicely.

On my way to the wing, a placard at the double doors caught my eye:

CANDLELIGHT EFFECTS ARE SIMULATED PER MUNICIPAL CODE. THANK YOU, NO-FLAME PATROL.

Elegant script, blunt message.

Next to me, a partygoer asked his date, “Is that sign because of the Biscuit Fire?”

His companion quickly silenced him and said in a whisper, “Hush, we don’t talk about that in front of Langfords.”