Chapter 6
6
CARLEE
“ I need you to stay a few hours over,” Mr. Martin, my boss, says as he sits behind his large desk, an imposing structure that dominates the room with its wood-paneled walls.
My shadow looms across the floor of what many of us call the dungeon .
I glance up at the clock on the wall. My shift officially ends in three minutes. My mind races over the two-and-a-half-hour window I have before I need to be at Ambrosia.
A nagging thought reminds me of the delivery expected at my apartment, something I’ve been anxiously anticipating all day. Weston is dressing me tonight, and I’m curious about what he’ll choose.
“Sorry, Mr. Martin. I really can’t.” I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my work apron, a flimsy barrier against the weight of his request.
I came in an hour early this morning because they were short-handed, which cut into my sleep. I’m running on just four hours of rest, and I’m exhausted. The first shift supervisor, Ellen—a woman with little patience—guaranteed I’d leave on time if I helped. I fulfilled my end of that bargain, and now it’s their turn .
“It would benefit you greatly. Could help with a promotion.” He leans forward, as if trying to entice me with unspoken promises.
The thought of that ever-elusive promotion dangles like a carrot that’s always out of reach, and I’m tired of it. My blog pays me more than taking on more responsibility at the W ever could. If only I could get back to writing. I’ve been on a break and I’m too in my head to post again.
“Is that all?” My voice remains steady.
“Won’t you reconsider?”
“Apologies, but no ,” I tell him firmly, my answer solidifying like the concrete beneath my feet.
“And if I require you?” he questions, the challenge sparkling in his eyes. If the needs of the business require extra help, there is an on-call loophole that would force me.
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Stacy didn’t answer, and you’re next up on the on-call roster. You can work three more hours today. Double time, of course.”
“Mr. Martin,” I warn, feeling a surge of defiance, “I have an important dinner scheduled that I cannot miss. If you try to pull rank after I picked up the slack for you this morning, then you’ll kindly accept my immediate resignation.”
Today, I’m choosing violence. I glance back up at the clock, and I have a minute and a half before I can leave.
“Is that a threat, Ms. Jolly?”
“No, sir, it’s not. But I’ll happily let Mr. Calloway know about this conversation when I see him next.” I grin.
Now, that’s a threat.
If I confided in Easton or Weston about this conversation, either would have him fired. Their father’s vast investments in the W franchise played a pivotal role in shaping it into the worldwide billion-dollar luxury hotel chain that it is today. The Calloways own forty-nine percent of the stakes, so when one of them says to jump, every employee at the W asks how high. If they wanted, they could buy more shares to take majority ownership of the company, which is always a concern.
Mr. Martin clears his throat, knowing I’m best friends with Lexi. He’s very aware of who she’s married to. Pushing me is the last thing he’d ever want to do because Easton would lose his shit. Weston would too. I try not to use them to pull rank, but it’s necessary.
“Thank you for understanding,” I offer.
He knows I’m the first to volunteer for overtime. My tireless work ethic is both a badge of honor and an end to my means. While I’m sometimes late, I’m also a diligent employee who takes pride in my work. I refuse to feel guilty about saying no; we live in a dog-eat-dog world.
His inability to staff correctly isn’t my burden to bear. Nothing will interrupt my plans tonight.
I leave his office, closing the door behind me. I grab my coat and phone from my locker, then clock out. My back aches from the relentless changing of beds and cleaning up after messy millionaires and adult billionaire babies. These people navigate this world and follow different rules that were crafted solely for their social class.
Honestly, I hate everything about this job, and if I didn’t need it for LuxLeaks, I’d quit in a heartbeat. Then again, I haven’t posted in over three months. The article I wrote about Easton and Lexi remains my best work, and maybe it’s a sign that LadyLux needs to fade quietly into obscurity.
The thought of quitting makes me feel sick, and a heaviness settles into the pit of my stomach. I’ve dedicated too much of my life to it.
I take the stairs down to the subway station, which is full of people. As I wait for the train, I stare at the Calloway Diamonds advertisements plastered on the wall. I’m reminded of Weston at every turn.
The train finally arrives. The doors jolt open, and the crowd on the platform rushes forward, a tidal wave of humanity surging out the open doors. I manage to squeeze in just before they whoosh, cutting us off from the outside world, and the car rattles down the track.
It’s rush hour, and the subway is packed with commuters. Unfamiliar faces are marked by determination and fatigue; they’re either lost in thought or their eyes are glued to their phone. Most of us travel to Manhattan for work, and the commute is routine.
I clutch the metal bar and stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check my notifications, and I’m shocked by what I see—a message from Samson. My ex. The only man I ever really loved.
I shouldn’t be shocked, considering Lexi said his damn name, but I am.
Sam
Carlee?
After we broke up, I didn’t delete his number from my phone. It’s been seven years since our paths crossed, yet here he is, texting me like a resurrected ghost.
I play dumb.
Carlee
Who is this?
Sam
It’s Samson.
Carlee
Who?
I have to give him some shit. No way I’d admit to still having him saved in my phone.
Sam
Samson Patterson.
Carlee
Oh wow. How are you? It’s been years.
Sam
I’m shocked you haven’t changed your number.
Carlee
I never will. Anyway, what’s up?
Sam
I’m traveling to NYC this weekend, and I’d love to have a drink and catch up if you’re available.
Carlee
And your girlfriend would be okay with that? Or are you engaged now?
Sam
There is no one. We broke up over the summer.
I reread his text, my heart racing. Shock dances along my skin as the reality of his message sinks in. He’s single again, and no one told me.
Carlee
Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that.
Sam
And you?
Carlee
Nothing official. Anyway, I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.
Sam
Sure, no problem.
My fingers hover over the screen. I don’t know what else to say, so I let the conversation fade away, the air full of uncertainty.
I message Lexi.
Carlee
You’re never going to believe who just texted me.
Lexi
Weston? I gave him your number.
Carlee
Samson! WTF, LEXI?!
Lexi
The curse is true.
Carlee
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!
Lexi
I’m so sorry!
Carlee
You’re responsible for SUMMONING him. I told you!
Any mention of him seems to draw him back into my orbit, no matter how much time has passed. Call it superstition, but I’ve avoided saying his name for years. It’s also helped me avoid unwanted memories.
Lexi
What did he want?
Carlee
To meet up for a drink. He’ll be in the city.
Lexi
You should.
Carlee
I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
My heart races as panic grips my chest. I let out a sigh, feeling the weight of the situation press down on me.
Lexi
You should do it to see if you have any unresolved feelings for him. When I saw my ex again, I felt nothing. Cleared a lot of things up for me.
Carlee
Hmm. Maybe you’re right.
Lexi
Put it to rest so you can give Weston a fair chance.
Carlee
Relentless.
I close out of our conversation and check my other notifications.
Weston hasn’t texted me today, and the anticipation of seeing him tonight takes hold.
As I glance around, listening to the ambience of the subway, I realize how much I love New York. It was one of the hang-ups Samson and I had in our relationship, but I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. The rhythm of the city pulses through my veins. It’s my home.
When I first moved here, I was perpetually lost, navigating twisting streets and towering skyscrapers, often needing to consult my phone a few times per day. Now, I can travel the concrete maze without a second thought, each block a chapter I’ve memorized in the ever-evolving story of my New York life. It took a while, but finally, I feel like a true New Yorker. I’m a vibrant part of this city rather than just a Texas transplant seeking a fresh start.
I unload from the train and take the stairs two at a time to reach the bustling sidewalk above. My apartment is a few blocks away from this stop, my cozy little haven. I hurry down the snow-covered sidewalk as the crisp winter breeze brushes against my cheeks.
I don’t remember it being this cold in mid-January. I shiver and pull my large coat tighter around my body. The aroma of roasted peanuts wafts through the air, mingling with the faint tunes of a guy strumming his guitar on the corner as winter’s whispers greet me like an old friend.
When I finally enter my apartment, I just want to relax, but there is no time for that. As I strip off my clothes in a frenzy, eager to wash away the day, a knock on my door startles me. I stand on my tiptoes to check the peephole.
“I have something for you,” Brody says, his tone laced with mild annoyance.
I was expecting this delivery, but I wasn’t anticipating him. He’s tall, built like a mountain, with muscles that ripple beneath his leather jacket. Tattoos snake along his arms like captivating stories begging to be told. It’s clear he shares the same broody features as Weston and Easton; their family resemblance is undeniable.
“One second,” I call out, rebuttoning my uniform, the fabric askew but my confidence unwavering.
I swing open the door, greeting him with a cheesy grin that feels out of place.
He sighs, unimpressed, his deep-set eyes scanning the room.
“Working for the postal service now?” I tease. A grin sits on my lips.
He doesn’t respond, but then again, he’s always been quiet.
Balancing a garment bag on his finger, Brody holds a large box wrapped in shimmering silver paper with a festive bow in one arm. In the other, he cradles two dozen vibrant yellow roses.
My favorite. Weston remembered.
I step aside, allowing Brody to enter my sanctuary. He sets the large box down on the coffee table with a light thud, taking up half of its surface. I take the garment bag, our fingers grazing briefly.
“Are you supposed to follow me around tonight?” I try to gauge his intent.
“Not tonight,” he replies, and for a fleeting moment, I catch the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his lips .
“What does that mean? You’ve been following me?” I press.
He doesn’t answer, but his amusement is evident.
“Is that all?” I ask, tapping my foot impatiently.
“Enjoy your date ,” he says, moving toward the door, an edge of something in his voice.
He knows.
“It’s not a date! I’m going solo,” I call after him as he heads toward the end of the long hallway.
“Let me remind you that Lexi said the same thing,” he says over his shoulder.
It’s not the first time he’s graced my apartment with his presence. When Easton and Lexi first started dating, Brody and I struck up an easy friendship. It was mostly me giving him a hard time and playing matchmaker while he rolled his eyes good-naturedly.
“It’s not a date! I swear,” I protest until he’s out of sight, my words trailing behind him like an unfinished thought.
As I step back into my apartment, I notice an envelope with my name neatly written in cursive on the outside. Intrigued, I pull out the pearly paper from inside.
C,
I personally picked out everything for you. I look forward to seeing you tonight.
—W
I tuck my lips into my mouth, feeling my heart thump with excitement as I place the two dozen yellow roses on the tiny kitchen counter. The sweet, intoxicating aroma fills my small space, and I’m full of anticipation for what the night holds.
I unzip the front of the garment bag with trembling fingers. I pull out a black A-line Valentino evening gown with a sweetheart neckline, and the fabric flutters into the air with a whisper of elegance. Breathless, I grab my phone and quickly search online.
I nearly drop my phone. It costs twenty thousand dollars.
“This is too expensive,” I whisper to myself .
He shouldn’t have spent this on me.
I lay the dress across the back of the couch, and then I pull the ribbon from the top of the gigantic box. It falls to the floor like a feather. Lifting the lid, I peer inside. Two gifts are both professionally wrapped; their glossy paper reflects the light and screams expensive.
I start with the larger one and gasp as I unveil silver crystal Valentino high heels. They shimmer like tiny stars captured in glass, and I can’t help but think of Cinderella.
This can’t be real , is the only thought racing through my mind as I lift the lid of the second box.
Inside lies a large black velvet jewelry box.
My hand quivers with nervousness as I click it open.
A luxurious blue crushed velvet lines the inside of the box, displaying a brilliant-cut diamond necklace on a delicate chain, heart-shaped diamond earrings, and a bracelet that sparkles with promise.
I can hardly comprehend the value of this jewelry—hundreds of thousands of dollars—all nestled together with a dress and shoes that cost more than I make in years.
This is too much.
Yet the Ambrosia dress code requires it. Weston’s social class demands it too. I’m painfully aware that I don’t belong in his world. Always the bridesmaid. Always on the outside, looking in, peering through the glass at lives more luxurious than my own.
Before I can let myself dwell on those thoughts too long, I place everything on my bed. Then, I hurry to the shower, being careful not to wet my hair. When I stand under the stream and close my eyes, Weston is on my mind.
His smile, his blue eyes, his laugh, the way he makes me feel.
After my shower, I continue preparing for the evening, putting my hair in rollers.
With thirty minutes to spare, I put on the dress, feeling the fabric hug my curves in all the right places. I put on the shoes, and they add four inches to my height, which will only put my mouth closer to Weston’s if we’re standing. As I remove the rollers, my hair falls into big, bouncy curls.
I move toward the full-length mirror. I pause, hardly recognizing myself. Is this the version of me Weston wants?
The black dress is pure seduction. The chiffon flows around the fitted bodice like a dream. I slide the necklace around my neck, fastening it, before putting on the earrings and bracelet.
I look like … royalty .
Just as I finish my makeup and press my red lips together, I receive a text that the limo has arrived.
I grow nervous, wondering what I’m actually doing. I shouldn’t have committed to this, but curiosity took over.
I make my way downstairs, and the driver quickly opens my door. I slide into the back seat, where a bottle of chilled champagne, lavishly arranged chocolate-covered strawberries, and another bouquet of my favorite roses await.
Next to them is another note with my name—written in the same script as before.
C,
Lex said you require chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne. She also mentioned a trip to Paris. Might have to make that happen soon. Do you have your passport?
—W
I chew on the edge of my lip, my eyes scanning over his words again. With a laugh, I reread his message. Jet-setting across the world with Weston? It’s too dangerous, especially with the blind items being posted about him and a mystery woman. But I’d run away with him.
The butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly as the implications wash over me.
I can’t be her. Can I?
The thought of it sends a shiver down my spine, both thrilling and terrifying.
When I enter Ambrosia, it doesn’t feel real. I’ve only ever glimpsed this elite restaurant through photos. It’s like a fairy tale. The off-white walls glow under low lighting, casting shadows that dance across the room. Warm candlelight flickers and sways like tiny fireflies, and I’m caught in a beautiful trance, trying to process my surroundings. The who’s who of the city dines here, and the atmosphere is rich with romance and promise. The wealthy indulge in simple two-thousand-dollar dinners, and CEOs close monumental deals at polished tables covered with silk tablecloths.
Among this grandeur, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong, even if I wear the correct costume. I’m Vivian in Pretty Woman , an unwelcome spectacle trying to blend in with a sophisticated crowd. The thought makes me chuckle as the host leads me across the marble floor that gleams brightly.
The diamonds sparkle against my skin while curious heads turn in my direction. I can almost hear their whispered questions dancing through the air— Who is she? Why is she here?
Tonight, I can be anyone I want.
As I continue forward, I recognize several celebrities and rock stars but keep my gaze locked ahead, pretending not to notice. I feel a pang of longing and curiosity tugging at me, wondering if Weston has already arrived, hoping to spot his familiar face in the crowd.
I sit at a booth with a high back, and it gives me more privacy than I expected.
A server approaches, setting an extra-dirty martini with fat green olives in front of me. She hands me a menu wrapped in leather .
“I didn’t order this,” I say politely, my lips curving into a grin as my fingers glide over the menu.
“Yes, miss. It was ordered for you,” she replies with professional poise. “However, I was instructed that you’d choose your meal. I’ll give you a few minutes. If you have any questions, I’m at your service.”
“Thanks.”
As I glance over, I notice the fresh flower arrangement on my table—a single yellow rose nestled among delicate greenery, its vibrant hue a striking contrast to the restaurant’s muted palette. It’s meant for me. It’s always the small, thoughtful touches with Weston that set my heart racing.
As I scan the room, I can barely contain my excitement, my eyes flitting around in anticipation of spotting him. The martini dances on my tongue.
Peering at the menu, I realize that not a single price is listed on the pages. Perhaps it’s because the individuals who can afford to dine here have unlimited amounts of money.
At precisely seven o’clock, Weston enters with a stunning blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman I’m unfamiliar with. She isn’t an A-list socialite or celebrity, which leaves me unsettled. I reach for my phone and quickly search his name online. The glow of the screen reveals several articles that were posted minutes ago. I can’t resist clicking on the first one.
Weston Calloway spotted with Naomi Accetta at Ambrosia. His secret girlfriend?
I search her name and find her Wikipedia page staring back at me.
Who is she?
Questions swirl in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust, and I brace myself for the answer.
Naomi Accetta is the prime minister of Italy, hailing from an influential family steeped in history and power. Her intelligence is evident. Her sharp features and commanding presence have allowed her to carve a path for her future. She is a woman who knows her worth and has worked diligently to earn her place in a traditionally male-dominated arena, having studied at prestigious universities.
On paper, they seem to be a match—his charm complementing her influence, their careers aligning in the public eye. Based on the candid photos captured as they exited the car together, the chemistry crackles between them. It’s electric, but then again, Weston looks good with anyone who’s next to him.
What if she’s his secret girlfriend?
Why does the thought make my stomach turn?
With effortless grace, Weston pulls Naomi’s chair out for her—a subtle yet intimate gesture—before taking his seat. I don’t even have to turn my head to watch. I just flick my eyes upward, heart racing at the sight. When his gaze meets hers, a kind smile curves his lips. A pang of jealousy stabs at my heart. I wrestle with the feeling, trying to grasp why I’m experiencing this turmoil. After all, we are just friends—nothing more, nothing less.
Witnessing this is a different experience than reading about it online. Seeing him on a date makes it real , more tangible than any late-night conversations we’ve exchanged.
I shove my emotions aside, forcing myself to focus on the interaction unfolding before me. His eyes dart past Naomi, and suddenly, they lock on to mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch in my throat. A small smirk plays on his lips, and a wave of heat washes over me, coursing through my veins like fire. I force myself to look away, the weight of our connection too suffocating to bear.
When I glance back, I catch him leaning in close to Naomi, whispering something that prompts her to laugh. It’s light and flirty, the kind that dances through the air and lingers. She leans closer, as if pulled in by an invisible thread. I think they might kiss, but Weston pulls away first, revealing careful control over the evening. It feels almost out of character from his flirty demeanor .
The way she eyes him with adoration makes it clear she wants him. She’s eye-fucking him and giving all the hints.
Yet the chemistry between them isn’t reciprocated; Weston is clearly holding back.
Did he notice a similar restraint in me with Trever? Probably.
I take a sip of my drink, and jealousy brews within me. I try to steady my breathing as her finger brushes against his, a casual touch with fire behind it.
The server returns, and I realize I haven’t looked at the menu. I’m grateful for the interruption; I wasn’t fully aware of just how difficult it would be to witness this.
Now I’m confused. I cannot have feelings for Weston. Absolutely not.
“Have you decided what you’d like for dinner?” the server asks, a friendly smile gracing her lips.
“I think I’d like the Wagyu. Medium rare,” I reply, forcing calmness into my voice.
She beams back at me. “And your sides?”
“Surprise me,” I tell her, grinning.
“Easiest customer all night.” She laughs, and it mingles with the classical music floating through the air.
“Can you just keep the martinis coming? And wait to put my food in for, like, twenty minutes?” I ask, knowing Weston and Naomi haven’t placed their orders yet. I don’t know why I feel like I might melt into a puddle of envy.
“Absolutely,” she replies, and I can’t help but wonder if she knows I’m with Weston.
The gin makes my head swirl, and I try to regain some composure.
Weston sips his drink and engages in a serious conversation with Naomi. Her fingertips lightly brush against his cheek—a gesture both tender and intimate—and he mutters something I can’t hear. She nods attentively, her expression warm and inviting.
The server reappears, and Weston hands over his card .
They’re skipping dinner. He’s already taking her home.
He pulls her chair out for her, and they exchange a very G-rated hug, which confuses me. There’s an innocent warmth in their embrace, unlike anything I’ve witnessed with Weston before. It’s the kind of hug that feels purely platonic, yet there’s something about the way they linger that stirs a knot of unease inside me.
Weston leads her down the long, elegant hallway, floating under the oversize chandeliers that cast a golden glow, illuminating their path, as if guiding them toward something more.
Then he’s out of sight. I feel deflated.
Five minutes later, he slides into the booth beside me, the wood creaking under his weight. He checks his watch before turning to me with a blend of concern and confusion.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I finally ask, my voice laced with uncertainty, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze.
“Why are you here?” he counters, a serious edge creeping into his tone.
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh, the sound hollow as I instinctively create space between us as jealousy rears her ugly head.
“Excuse me? Are you meeting someone here?” His eyes search mine, and I can’t ignore his question.
I stare at him, the realization dawning—he’s being completely serious. “Wait. Easton ?”
“Carlee,” he responds, his voice laced with concern, “are you okay ? How many martinis have you had?”
“Two. Or three,” I reply, my mind racing. “Are you cheating on my best friend?” I ask, my frustration bubbling to the surface and my heart pounding with anger.
He shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. Did it look like I was cheating?”
I replay every interaction I witnessed, wondering if I was naive enough to view it through the lens of potential romance .
Naomi made every move, brushing past him, her fingers grazing his arm each time. He did seem to block her advances, though the earlier warmth between them still clings to the air. And based on how he’s currently looking at me, with those captivating eyes now cold and distant, there’s no way I could be misreading this.
I suck in a deep breath, the bitter taste of betrayal spilling onto my tongue as I realize I was set up. “He’s dead meat.”
“Who?” he asks, genuine confusion etched across his face.
“Your evil twin,” I say, the weight of my words crashing down as I understand the implications—Weston is in this room, and he must have been watching my reactions the entire time.
I glance around the room, determined to find him.