Chapter Three Max
Chapter Three
Max
Six companies occupy multiple floors of the building.
I watch the elevator numbers ascend to see which floor she gets off at. I turn away when I see she’s reached the upper levels.
Bingo. Exactly where I’m going.
I noticed her the moment I stepped onto the Piccadilly line, trying to get as close as possible in the crammed carriage.
As luck would have it, some mother wedged her pram against my arse, trapping me in place.
Between that and being sandwiched amongst other passengers, I couldn’t have moved even if I’d wanted to.
She’s of average height, maybe five six, with a slender build and curves in all the right places.
Even with her trench, I could clearly make out the dip of her waist. Her coat hung open, teasing the fullness of her chest and the delicate infinity necklace resting against her creamy skin.
Her dark blond hair brushed just past her shoulders.
Cute wire-framed glasses perched askew on her button nose.
Her ivory skin was makeup free, except for a flick of eyeliner, and glossy lips that begged to be touched.
Most of all, I was intrigued by her sass—she didn’t speak to me the way some women do. Not that I’d expect her to swoon, but I’d be lying if I said other women didn’t.
Venom and sin wrapped in a delicious, unassuming package, and I can’t help but crave her bite.
I run my hand down my front. Lukewarm coffee has seeped through the expensive fabric, plastering my shirt to my skin. It feels revolting, but I can’t even bring myself to care—I had too much fun watching the little live wire panic.
I’d been heading out to grab a coffee before my meeting, but looks like I’ll be wearing it instead.
I glance at my watch and sigh. Five minutes until the meeting.
I wonder if she’ll be there.
I pivot, catching the receptionist’s gaze again. Tab, I think her name was. She blushes.
Her cherry-red lips curl into a shy smile, and when I return it, her cheeks flush an even deeper hue.
I straighten my posture and head toward the elevator, passing inquisitive eyes.
I press the button for the top floor marked PRESTIGE PARTNERS—EXECUTIVE SUITES.
A chime sounds as the elevator doors slide open to reveal a bright, airy space with a modern layout.
A secretary’s desk sits front and center in a spacious foyer, flanked by corridors leading to several offices.
Right there, leaning casually over the desk with arms crossed, is Grayson Livingstone—CEO of Livingstone Hotels.
He’s doing what he does best, if his easy smirk and the secretary’s insufferable giggles are any indication.
Classic Grayson.
He runs the prestigious New York luxury hotel empire passed down by his late grandparents, shared with his two brothers, Cole and Noah.
We met back when I decided to complete my MBA in New York. What started as after-class drinks and attending lectures together quickly evolved into a close friendship I’m extremely grateful for.
I roll my eyes as I watch Grayson work his usual charm. Women turn their heads—and drop their knickers—wherever Grayson Livingstone goes, the lucky bastard. Not that I can talk. I don’t exactly have trouble in that department either, especially following my divorce four years ago.
Like Grayson, I’ve got zero interest in entertaining anything more than a quick fuck. Four years of freedom since my divorce have taught me exactly how I prefer to keep things: uncomplicated.
Stepping forward, I clap Grayson on the shoulder. He jolts, standing upright as he tugs at the lapels of his jacket.
“Sorry, ma’am. Is my boss here keeping you from getting anything done?” I ask the secretary.
She spins a biro between her pink-tipped fingers, biting down on her lower lip.
“Not at all, sir,” she says, fluttering her lashes. She pauses when her eyes zero in on the stain marring my shirt.
“Just call me Max, please,” I insist.
“I’m Molly,” she says.
“Molly,” Grayson repeats with a sly smile, like he’s testing her name on his tongue.
Grayson raps his knuckles against the smooth mahogany desk. “Right, better let you get back to it, then. Do feel free to call me.” He grins, sliding a sleek matte-black business card out from his jacket—the one with his direct number printed on it.
His fingers brush hers as she takes it, and sure enough, it earns him another giggle.
He turns to me, scrunching his nose as his gaze trails down my wet shirt. “Jesus, you smell like sour milk. What happened to you?”
“Some bird spilled her coffee all over me.”
“Obviously,” he says, chuckling, checking his watch. “Shit. We don’t have time to get you a new shirt.” He looks up. “Can you throw your jacket over the top?”
I nod.
Working closely with Grayson these past few years has changed my life in ways I never could’ve imagined.
I had spent years in investment banking at a property firm in Canary Wharf, where my focus had been on hotel acquisitions and developments.
I oversaw the details that determined whether a luxury property would thrive or fail.
I structured deals for renovations and new builds, worked on expansion strategies, and analyzed high-profile portfolios—learning the business side of an industry I’d grown up loving.
I received a desperate call from Grayson two years ago.
His grandfather had just passed away, leaving him and his brothers an empire they weren’t quite ready to inherit, regardless of how hard they all worked.
He needed someone beside him who he could trust implicitly and understood business the way he did.
His call couldn’t have come at a better time.
The divorce from Casey had been final for a year by then, and I was itching for a fresh start, away from her and the constant phone calls.
Seventy-two hours after Grayson’s cry for help, I was on a plane to New York, stepping into a new chapter as chief development officer for Livingstone Hotels.
For two years, I helped Grayson lead Livingstone’s global expansion, acquiring twelve new luxury properties and boutique hotels worldwide. Now the role has taken me back to the city I grew up in.
Touching down at Heathrow yesterday awoke something unexpected in me.
Knowing that my parents and my sister Anna were a few suburbs away again brought a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
The tooting of cab horns, gray skies, and row after row of white terraced houses reminded me of everything good I’d left behind, instead of dwelling on the negativity I’d associated this place with because of Casey.
I started to feel slight remorse. The deeper I descended into the belly of London, the more homesick I felt. But I’m not back here to settle into my old life or to share Sunday roast at Mum’s, I’m only here for two months. This isn’t a homecoming—it’s business.
I’m launching Livingstone Hotels’ boldest venture yet: Gray Hotel. Grayson’s idea, naturally. It’s a sleek new luxury hotel brand, blending old-money elegance with a modern edge, set in London’s affluent Mayfair. Picture penthouse suites and infinity pools overlooking Hyde Park.
It’ll be the kind of place that draws in the young, hungry, and wealthy. A hotel where every Instagram story promises FOMO and every check-in feels like guests have finally made it. Guests will come to see and be seen. To flaunt their wealth.
It’s exactly the sort of project that made me fall in love with this world.
Growing up, I watched the elite from the inside as my father moved us between cities for his role as regional manager of luxury hotels.
I saw how the rich lived, how they traveled, and the way they moved through spaces as if they owned them.
While other kids were home watching television and playing Pokémon, I was listening in on board meetings from the corner of my father’s office, amazed by the million-pound decisions and power plays.
I couldn’t believe how much sway money and status could carry, and I wanted a taste of it.
The grandeur of it all got me hooked early, and it’s allowed me to follow in my father’s footsteps.
I’m not just observing the elite anymore; I’m a major part of creating the world they want to live in.
And this new project? I see a chessboard, except this time I’m the one orchestrating the next moves and shifting the pieces.
If Gray Hotel is a success, then we’ll expand our reach to other global hot spots. I can see it now: Tokyo, Sydney, Hong Kong, Dubai, Paris, Singapore, Barcelona—the possibilities are endless.
To turn this vision into a reality, we’ve come to Prestige Partners, the global leaders in luxury marketing campaigns.
What a mouthful. But we want the best of the best when it comes to developing a viral campaign tailored specifically to launch Gray Hotel.
“Gentlemen,” greets Henry Matthews, chief creative officer of Prestige Partners, as he steps through his doorway, gesturing for us to enter his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
We met with Henry informally earlier this morning to get the preliminaries out of the way before he sat us down to discuss the agenda for today’s meeting.
We’re here to meet the team bringing the Gray Hotel to life.
Henry’s creative director is supposedly some marketing genius, having delivered several viral luxury hotel launches.
Ironically, she’s running late, which usually means unreliable, but I figured I’d use the time to grab a coffee to fight this jet lag.
That bright idea backfired spectacularly.
Stepping inside, I make for my suit jacket flung over the armchair opposite Henry’s desk. I slip my arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up to hide the coffee splotch.
“I understand we’ll be working together for a while, so I’ve had our secretary set up a spare office for you on this floor. I expect you might have your own arrangements with Livingstone Hotels, but we’ve made one up here just in case. You’re welcome to come and go as you please,” Henry says.
“Thank you,” Grayson replies. “I’m staying at the Livingstone Hotel and Max has made his own arrangements, but we appreciate the thoughtfulness.
Having a workspace here could be convenient for collaboration, so we’ll most likely alternate between working from home and coming in, if that’s all right. ”
“Perfect. It’s yours to use whenever suits. I figured that since you’re both here in London, you might appreciate a change of scenery, to see some of the city,” Henry says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
Henry picks up his phone from the desk, frowning at the time.
While Henry fires off a text, Grayson claps me on the shoulder. We exchange a glance, a silent nod of understanding passing between us.
We’re ready.
After a year of preparation and countless late nights perfecting this project, we can’t wait to share our concept and ideas with the team.
I always get excited to meet the professionals who’ll be working alongside us; it’s one of the best parts of the job.
Henry’s phone chimes, his thumbs swiftly tapping across the screen as he checks the message.
“All right, everyone’s already down there. We better not keep them waiting. I’m so sorry about my colleague, Gemma—she’s usually very punctual. I can assure you this is most unlike her. She’s messaged to say she’ll meet us there,” he says.
Gemma.
Why does that name ring a bell? I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere recently.
It finally clicks—Anna had mentioned her friend works here. That must be her.
We rise and follow Henry to the elevator. As the doors close, he scrunches his nose; his brows pinch and his nostrils flare.
“Does something smell like sour milk?”