Chapter Eight
Autumn
“The hotel has a beautiful entrance, and the views from the top floor are breathtaking,” Viviana says as she hands me the pictures and folders with all the details.
One of the Callaghans’ friends recently opened a massive hotel right on the seaside, and they need photos for the website Viviana is building.
“Oh my God, look at that view!” I gasp. The pictures were taken by the hotel staff, and if this is what it looks like in bad lighting, pixelated and dull, I can’t even imagine how stunning it’ll be in person.
“Tiernan Keeffe will be waiting for you at the entrance,” Viviana adds, sorting through the folders. “He’s a cousin of one of Declan’s business partners and one of the owners.”
I nod, gathering everything I need. We met at their penthouse this time, which I don’t mind; it takes me fifteen minutes to get here, compared to forty to reach the mansion. The penthouse was fully remodelled last year. Apparently, there were some issues with the walls.
“Call me if you need anything,” Viviana says, giving me a quick smile as I step into the elevator.
Another day, another near miss with Flynn. It’s been almost a week, and I usually spot him at least once every four days, not that I’m counting. Still, I suppose it’s true. He fucks and flees. That’s fine. That’s what I wanted.
My car’s waiting in the private garage, my little Volkswagen looking hilariously out of place between a Rolls-Royce and a Porsche SUV. I let out a laugh just staring at it. The fact that Viviana always makes the security guard save me a spot is the sweetest thing.
I ease into the driver’s seat and pull out slowly. Ophelia by The Lumineers plays through the speakers, soft, steady, the kind of song that makes city traffic feel less frantic. My fall playlist is full of these mellow songs, all amber tones and sweater weather vibes.
The hotel comes into view as I turn toward the coast. It’s beautiful, an old brick building that looks more like a small castle than a hotel. Five floors, every single one facing the sea. I park along the street beside it and step out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I walk up.
The moment I step inside, I freeze. The walls are rich, earthy brick.
Enormous chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, all gold and crystal, glittering in the soft light.
The dark wood of the reception desk matches the heavy brown couches lining the room.
The air smells faintly of cedar and something floral, expensive and elegant.
“Miss Glass?”
The voice pulls me out of the trance.
“Autumn, please.” I step forward and smile, reaching out to shake his hand. “Mr Keeffe?”
“Tiernan,” he replies with a chuckle. “My cousin’s the one with the title.”
“Please feel free to roam around, and once you’re done here, head up to the King’s Room. It’s on the top floor,” Tiernan says before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
I watch him go, noting how his suit fits like it was stitched straight onto his body. I wonder if everyone who works with the Callaghans uses the same tailor. Must be in the contract.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and a woman who looks like an ageing royal glares at me like I just insulted her throne. I tried to look professional with my black suit, sleek ponytail, clean makeup, but maybe I still stand out.
The lobby is… breathtaking. I’ve never been in a place like this.
It’s fancy, sure, but somehow still feels warm.
Inviting. A massive fireplace sits in an open lounge with deep brown couches arranged in little conversational circles.
Each one has a small oak-and-gold side table next to it.
I run my fingers along one of them, tracing the edge.
It can’t be real gold… can it?
Well, judging by the price of a night here, it just might be.
“Looking for something?” a man’s voice calls from behind me, and I jump, startled.
“No—” I blurt out, spinning around. “I’m the photographer. I was hired—”
He chuckles. “It’s fine. I know.”
Relief floods me. He’s dressed in black jeans and a button-up shirt, with tousled hair and soft brown eyes. He looks approachable, kind even, kinder than anyone else I’ve met at this place.
“Callum,” he says, offering a smirk.
“Autumn.” My cheeks warm under his gaze, and I hate how quickly I blush.
“So, Autumn.” He leans against a column and folds his arms, casual but too focused. “You don’t look like you belong in a place like this.”
My brows shoot up. It’s the tone that’s mocking, amused, and that unsettles me.
“I—”
“Leave,” a deep voice cuts in, commanding.
Callum freezes, and I shift to glance past him.
Flynn Brady.
Black suit. Towering. Hands in his pockets. Eyes locked on the man like he’s prey.
“I was just leaving, Mister Brady,” Callum mutters, head lowered, voice subdued.
Wait. What? They know each other?
He hurries off without another word, and Flynn’s gaze finally settles on me. My skin tightens under the weight of it.
“I was fine. He didn’t need to leave,” I say, my voice thinner than I want it to be. I swallow hard, nerves curling tight in my stomach.
Flynn says nothing, just stares. He turns and walks away, slow and steady, like nothing happened.
I spot Kaden near the entrance, watching. Of course he’s here too.
My jaw clenches, heat rising up my neck. What the actual hell was that? Then I remember the voicemail. The one from that night.
Did he see the blood?
My face burns. I shove the thought down and turn away, snapping a dozen more photos just to look busy. Then I make a quick line for the elevator, wanting to disappear before my heart shows too much on my face.
I stop on every floor to take pictures. The hallways stretch long and wide, each one carved from old wealth.
The ceilings are a mix of thick wood beams and exposed brick, the kind that whispers stories from centuries past. Tall iron chandeliers hang above, their candle-shaped bulbs casting warm glows along deep red carpets.
Golden-framed paintings line the walls, nestled between massive floral arrangements of primrose and Easter lily.
Everything smells faintly of lavender and oak polish, like a forgotten castle brought back to life.
Each floor feels like its own wing of royalty, draped in Irish grandeur and ghosted history.
Finally, I reach the top.
The air shifts slightly. Cooler. Quieter.
I walk slowly, the red carpet here even softer beneath my shoes.
The walls are a deeper shade of wood, polished to a mirror-like sheen.
At the far end, I spot it, the King’s Room.
Two enormous vases frame the door, bursting with local flowers.
Delicate primrose, pale lilies, thick wild greenery.
I pause to photograph them, the contrast of softness against the heavy oak door catching my eye.
Then I push the handle.
It’s unlocked. Just like Tiernan said.
I step inside, and the breath leaves my lungs.
The entrance is arched in carved walnut, thick and heavy.
Old iron sconces flicker dimly on the stone walls, casting gentle shadows that stretch across the room like silk ribbons.
The ceilings are high, held up by dark wooden beams that creak ever so slightly, like they’ve witnessed centuries of secrets.
Thick red silk curtains hang by tall windows, each trimmed in gold thread, their folds shimmering as they shift in the breeze.
There’s an oak table near the centre, old and solid. Beyond it, the bed rises like a throne.
Jesus Christ. Who the hell sleeps here—Bigfoot?
It’s massive. Four posts, all carved and twisted like ancient vines, reach up toward the ceiling. Red silk sheets drape across it, the kind that look too expensive to touch, never mind sleep on. A matching fabric spills from above, caught in gold hooks like some sort of ceremonial canopy.
I move toward the window and pull the curtain aside.
The view steals my breath.
The sea stretches wide and glassy, reflecting the orange sky as the sun dips low. Everything looks dipped in gold and fire. It’s quiet. Beautiful. Sacred.
“This would’ve been a better place.”
I jump, spinning fast.
Flynn is leaning against the doorframe, his body half in shadow. His suit is black, tailored, hugging every inch of him like it belongs there. His eyes are unreadable, fixed on me with a cold, calculating calm. His hands rest in his pockets like he’s not a threat at all. That’s the trick of him.
A chill runs down my spine.
“Better for what?”
He takes one step inside. The air feels tighter.
“To take your virginity, Autumn.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that turns my blood cold.
He pulls his hands free and steps forward, slow and deliberate. Even with the space between us, I find myself moving back. There’s nowhere to go. Just the window behind me and a sheer drop into the sea.
“Virginity?” I laugh awkwardly, my voice catching. “What are you talking about?”
I try to sidestep him. Keep it light. Keep moving, but his arm moves faster than I expect.
It snakes around my waist and yanks me against him, spinning me so my back hits his chest. Then, with a few firm steps, he walks me back until the cold stone wall presses against my chest.
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice brushes my ear, low and rough. “Not again.”
“I wasn’t a virgin,” I snap, trying to shove him off.
It’s like pushing against a wall. He doesn’t budge.
His arm tightens. His chest is firm against my back. I can feel every inch of him, his heat, his size, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His scent fills the space around me. Spice and something darker. Something entirely him.
“You’re lying again, trouble. I don’t like being lied to.”
His voice drops lower, threaded with something dangerous.
“I saw the blood, Autumn.”
Shit.
My breath catches. I push again, but he stays rooted, unmoved. I feel pinned. Not just by his body but by his stare. His presence.
“You were rough. It was a tear,” I say quickly, hoping it sounds believable. “Just a little one.”
He steps back.
Finally.
My body betrays me; there’s a flicker of something hollow in the space he leaves behind. I turn to face him.
Flynn is still watching me, eyes dark. His jaw is tight. His breathing slow, controlled. His fists curl at his sides.
“A tear,” he repeats. Then the corner of his mouth lifts; he smirks, turns around, and walks out without another word.
My heart pounds against my ribs, too hard, too fast. I stumble back and drop onto a velvet loveseat near the wall, my hands trembling.
I left blood on him.
My hands are shaking, but I force myself up, pick up the camera, and take pictures of everything I can see. Decorations, the view, the bed, the door. I’m just clicking away. I don’t even care what I’m doing. I just need to get the hell out of here.
The elevator takes way too long this time. Or maybe I’m so on edge it feels like I’ve been standing here for an hour. When the doors finally open, I rush forward and slam straight into someone. Their hands fly up and grab me by the waist.
“Oh—easy there,” he says with a soft chuckle.
“I’m so, so sorry.” I straighten quickly and look up at him. He’s tall, with blond hair, dark eyes, and a tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt.
“No problem,” he says with a gentle smile.
I clutch my bag to my chest, return the smile, and walk away just as another man passes between us.
“Doyle. Flanaghan needs you upstairs.”
I glance back. He’s watching me.
There’s a hint of something in his expression. The corners of his mouth are lifted, just a little. I find myself smiling again and feel my cheeks heat.
My car isn’t far, but of course, it’s pouring. I cover my bag and make a run for it. The moment I sit inside, I slam the door shut and drop my head against the steering wheel, feeling the sting shoot down my spine.
What the hell is going on in this hotel? Is there some secret meeting for ridiculously attractive men in expensive suits? First that Callum guy, then Flynn, now that Doyle man with the soft voice and sweet smile?
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe now that I’ve had sex, I’m starting to notice men more. Or maybe they can feel it. Smell it on me or something.
Okay, I need to chill. I sound completely insane right now.
I take a deep breath and turn on the radio. Bloom by The Paper Kites starts to play, slow, soft, and exactly what I need. It fits the mood, the rain, the way my chest feels too tight.
I just need to get home. Take a warm shower. Put something on the TV. Forget the world for a few hours.
Telling Flynn he hurt me… it was unfair. I feel awful about it. I hope he doesn’t think I hate him for it. I just can’t tell him the truth. It’s too much. I barely know him.
Having sex with someone I barely know, a one-night stand, that’s one thing. Losing my virginity is another, but I can’t stop wondering…
Did he believe me?