Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ryder
I wake before dawn, as I always do. The cold, sterile silence of my penthouse is a welcome return after last night.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the walls, the city stretching out below in a predictable grid. There’s a comforting sensation about the quiet, about the clean, deliberate lines of the furniture.
Everything is in its place. The way it should be.
I should feel in control again. I should feel grounded.
But I don’t.
Instead, the emptiness of the space feels too wide. Too empty. I’m sitting inside a mausoleum of my own making.
I sit up in bed, the sheets cool against my skin. It’s still dark outside, the first hints of morning creeping through the blinds, and yet I feel wide awake, far too aware of the dissonance in my own head.
My mind isn’t settling. It keeps circling back to her.
Sunny.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. I’ve always been able to compartmentalize and leave things where they belong. Out of sight, out of mind.
But her laugh, the smoothness of her skin, her unpredictable nature, all of it is gnawing at me.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to wipe away the remnants of last night. I need to focus.
It was just sex.
That’s what I keep telling myself. It was a moment of weakness—a distraction. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen.
But when she looked at me that way, when her body was pressed against mine, everything else disappeared.
I’m not a stranger to these impulses. But something about Sunny made it feel different. Too much. Too immediate.
I force myself out of bed, the cold floor sending a shock up my spine. The moment from last night still lingers, a faint scent I can’t wash off.
My eyes flick to the empty side of the bed, but I don’t linger. I won’t.
This is what I do. I get up. I move. I clear my head. I focus on the numbers. There’s a stack of paperwork I need to go through, accounts to analyze, and budgets to revise.
This hotel, this sinking ship, must be sorted.
I grab a towel from the bathroom, running a hand through my hair as the water hits my skin. The warmth of it contrasts sharply with the cold rush still filling my chest.
I stare at my reflection for a moment, looking for some clarity.
Nothing.
I step out of the shower, the cold air of the apartment wrapping around me as a second skin. The clean lines of the space mock me.
Too quiet, too perfect. It should bring comfort, but all it brings is a sense of displacement. I could normally snap myself out of this, but it feels off.
I go through the motions of getting dressed, pulling on the first button-down shirt I can find. It doesn’t matter what I wear, really.
Nothing feels right.
The desk. I can focus on the hotel’s numbers. The balance sheets. The profit margins. The losses.
It’s always easier to think about things that don’t have a heartbeat, don’t smell of vanilla and pine, and certainly don’t laugh with a damn melody that refuses to be forgotten.
I sit at my desk, pushing aside a stack of papers. My phone buzzes once—an email from the accountant.
I glance at it, but it’s a trivial matter. I toss it aside. My attention shifts to the open folder on the desk.
It’s full of Evie’s emails, including one she sent the day she died. One I never got any answers about.
Ryder, it begins. There are several discrepancies I’ve been noticing, small things that don’t add up. I’ve kept track of them. I plan to speak with you about them in person when you get here. It’s important. We need to address it before it becomes bigger than we can handle.
I stare at the screen, the words almost haunting in their vagueness.
The words are ones she would write. Disjointed, a little scattered, but her tone was always that way. She had a habit of getting lost in her thoughts and rambling off.
But this seems intense.
I reread it, more slowly this time. There are discrepancies. I’d chalked it up to her forgetfulness at the time.
She was getting older, after all. A little off, but nothing too serious. I had no reason to think there was anything more to it.
But now?
Now, something feels wrong.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my temple. The word discrepancies keeps echoing in my mind.
The email isn’t specific. She never mentioned exactly what was off or what she was referring to. I can’t shake the feeling that I missed something.
Maybe there’s more to this hotel than just a business she’d built up before she passed. Maybe there’s more buried in the numbers. A thread, just waiting to be pulled.
I scroll back through her other emails, looking for anything that stands out. There’s one from a few weeks before her death.
She’s talking about a potential investment deal that had fallen through, but nothing that suggests a major issue.
But what have I missed? What if Evie had found something, something I couldn’t see because I was too focused on keeping everything running, keeping the numbers balanced?
Hmm.
I need to dig deeper.
I’d prefer to stay at my home desk all day long, but I have to make my way to The Garland Rose. My meeting with Lawrence Campbell, a seasoned financier from my trusted network, is essential.
He might invest.
If he bites, we might just be able to salvage this place or at least buy enough time to figure everything out.
In fact, the longer I spend sitting across from him, the more convinced I become that he will.
I’m all business, leaning over the table, the numbers spread out before us. I’m used to this. Calculating, strategizing, and presenting. I’ve got everything in hand: the balance sheets, the projected growth, the potential upside.
I’ve practiced this pitch in my head a hundred times, and it’s just the kind of thing that should secure the deal.
But of course, the universe has other plans.
The door swings open without warning, and in walks Sunny.
She doesn’t knock. Doesn’t check to see if we’re in a meeting. She barges in, as chaotic and unapologetic as always. And, naturally, she’s covered in garland bits.
I glance at Lawrence, whose eyebrows shoot up, clearly stunned by the sight. Sunny doesn’t seem to notice the disruption; she’s mid-rant about some last-minute idea for the hotel’s Christmas decorations.
Something about DIY wreaths and too much glitter.
Her face is flushed, her hair slightly frizzy from rushing around, and she’s got an armful of miscellaneous holiday supplies that I can’t quite make out.
“Ryder!” she says, her words carrying with all the enthusiasm of a toddler hopped up on sugar. “I need to ask you about the Santa photos we talked about last week. Are we going with the elf costume, or did you decide—”
I cut her off quickly, leaning forward to catch her attention. “Sunny, this is a meeting.”
She blinks, unbothered, then looks at Lawrence.
“Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize we had company.” She gives him a friendly, too-wide grin. “My name is Sunny Quinn, and I’m the owner.”
I feel the tension rise in my chest. This isn’t the time. But it’s too late. Lawrence is looking at her as if she’s a circus act, he wasn’t prepared to witness.
I can almost feel the judgment rolling off him as he eyes Sunny up and down. Still standing there, garland in hand, completely unaware that she’s not helping the situation.
“Sunny…” I start, forcing the calm I’m desperately trying to hold onto. “This is Lawrence Campbell.”
“What do you think, Lawrence? We should have holiday decorations everywhere, right? You know, nothing too gaudy, but maybe a little taste of kitsch. What do you think?”
Lawrence is staring at her with nothing but concern in his eyes.
“I… I’m not sure I follow,” he says.
I can feel my patience stretching thin. “Sunny—”
“Ryder!” She rolls her eyes in an over-the-top, dramatic fashion. “I know you hate Christmas, which is why I’m not asking you. I’m asking your friend.”
I open my mouth to apologize, but Lawrence, bless him, already appears to be regretting every decision that brought him here. The investment I’d hoped for feels further out of reach.
“Never mind,” Sunny finally declares, backing off. Her eyes widen as if she’s finally caught on to this being something important. “I’ll leave you to your meeting. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I mutter, already too frustrated to mask the bite in my tone.
When the door closes behind her, I let out a deep breath.
“What was that?” Lawrence says after a beat, clearly still stunned.
“Don’t mind her,” I say, forcing myself to straighten up. “She’s passionate about the hotel’s holiday theme. It’s part of the charm, I guess.”
“Uh-huh,” Lawrence says flatly. He shifts in his chair, leaning back slightly as if the whole thing’s left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Listen, Ryder, I’m all for creative energy, but this?
This place needs structure. Professionalism.
Right now, it’s all over the place. I’m not sure I can back this. When Evie was running the place…”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. “I understand. But if you give me the chance, I can assure you, we’re moving in the right direction. The numbers might not look great right now, but they’ll get there. I have a plan. I just need time.”
“I need results, Ryder,” he responds, his tone sharpening. “And what I’m seeing here is instability. If you want my money, that’s the last thing you can afford.”
After Lawrence leaves, I stand in the conference room for a moment, his words still pressing down on me. I’d hoped for more, but this place has a way of deflating expectations.
The investor’s reluctance is palpable. There’s no mistaking it: The Garland Rose is hanging by a thread, and no amount of polished pitches will save it if I don’t pull something out of my back pocket soon.
I hear the soft clatter of the door closing, and I twist to see Sunny there, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“You’re hiding things from me now?” she snaps. “Really?”