Chapter 12 Ryder
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ryder
I spot the first flyer on the staff bulletin board by the kitchen.
It’s printed in festive red and gold, with exaggerated curls on every letter. The Garland Rose Christmas Gala: A Night of Lights and Legacy. The kind of overzealous design that screams expensive.
I stare at it for a full five seconds before turning on my heel.
Dex is whistling off-key in the lobby, tacking up another one by the front desk. He’s suspiciously cheerful for someone working a double shift. The flyer flaps in his hand as he steps back to admire his handiwork.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended.
Dex looks over his shoulder, eyes lighting up when he sees me. “Oh hey, you saw it! Isn’t it gorgeous?”
I don’t answer. I step forward and tear the tape from the top of the flyer. “Where did this come from?”
Dex shrugs. “Sunny cooked it up last night. She’s going big. You should’ve seen her. Notes, plans, the whole nine yards. Champagne fountains, vintage ornaments, live jazz trio. We’re talking real deal Christmas magic.”
My gut sinks.
“And you’re just… pinning these up?” I ask, holding the flyer out as if it’s evidence in a court case.
Dex raises a brow. “I figured that’s what you do with announcements. You know… share them.”
“How would I know,” Pearl interjects, letting me know that she’s here, like always, “if we didn’t have the flyers up?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You know everything that happens here.”
“But nothing this exciting has happened here for years.”
I take a slow breath. “This is a major event. It has financial implications. Where’s the budget? Where’s the forecast? Where’s the conversation?”
Dex waves a hand. “She said she was handling it, that it’s gonna be worth the risk. Something about legacy, holiday spirit, and rebranding. It was inspirational, man.”
Inspirational.
Right.
I don’t say another word. I turn and walk, not fast, but with purpose past the dining room, through the hallway with the drafty window that still needs replacing, and straight to Sunny’s office.
I’m seeing red. Again.
Another decision. Another gamble. Another unvetted, unapproved, emotionally driven stunt.
This place is already on the verge of collapse. We’re barely covering operational costs week to week. And she wants to throw a gala?
With press and goddamn jazz musicians?
I reach her office and raise a hand to knock, but then I stop. The door’s slightly ajar, and I catch a glimpse of her inside.
She’s hunched over her desk, one hand tangled in her curls, the other scribbling something with that ridiculous candy-cane pen she always uses.
Her desk is a war zone. Papers, ribbon samples, and a tangled string of gold beads. Her laptop’s open to an event planning spreadsheet.
There’s a second monitor pulled from the back closet, flickering with some old budgeting software I haven’t touched in a decade.
She’s trying. She’s clearly overwhelmed.
But she’s trying.
The fury curdles into more. Messier. Heavier. I feel it settle in my chest, behind my ribs. I should be storming in there, shutting this down.
Demanding answers. Demanding control.
But instead, I watch her for a beat longer.
She’s chewing her bottom lip, eyes scanning numbers she clearly doesn’t trust. There’s a scratchpad next to her with half-erased calculations, arrows pointing to crossed-out totals.
She’s in over her head and doesn’t want anyone to know. And damn it if I don’t know exactly what that feels like.
I step into the doorway, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. But the sight of her in this way, scattered and determined, hits me harder than I expect.
She’s surrounded by half-unwrapped decorations, disheveled files, and color-coded planning charts that appear more a roadmap to bedlam than a Christmas celebration.
I take a slow breath, pushing past the impulse to scold her. I suddenly feel how late we’re running, how far behind everything is.
“Sunny.” My voice is flat, controlled. “We need to talk about this gala.”
She doesn’t look up, her attention still firmly locked on her scattered papers, though I can tell by the stiffening of her shoulders that she knows exactly what’s coming.
“The budget isn’t realistic,” I begin, steady despite the anger creeping in.
“The hotel is already on thin ice. You can’t just throw this kind of event together and expect it to save us.
I’ve been through the numbers. The costs of this are astronomical.
You’re talking lights, decorations, live music, all of it adds up. Plus, the overtime for the staff—”
She interrupts me then, and I can hear the shake in her words despite her best efforts to hide it.
“I know it’s risky, Ryder,” she says quietly, eyes finally meeting mine.
“But it’s the only shot we’ve got left. If we don’t do something big, something bold, we’re dead in the water.
We can’t keep limping along like this. The Garland Rose needs something unforgettable.
Something that puts us back on the map. It has to be this gala. ”
Her words hit me harder than I expected. It’s not just the words themselves, but the way she says them, with that tired determination in her eyes, the kind of look I recognize too well.
She’s scared, but she’s still fighting. For the hotel. For Evie’s legacy. For whatever this hotel is supposed to be.
My stomach twists as I take in the scene. She is surrounded by the evidence of just how much she’s putting into this.
It’s not the reckless impulse I thought it was. It’s more.
She’s fighting for something she believes in with everything she has.
I inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. I’m too far in now. The numbers don’t matter in this moment.
What matters is that we’re both in this, whether we want to be or not. And I’m not going to let her go down with this ship alone.
“Alright.” I’m calm now, a little more resigned.
“We’ll make it work. I’ll help you. But this needs a real plan—a full budget review.
We’ll need to pull every string we can to cut costs without cutting corners.
We’re not going to throw a party and pray for the best. This has to be a well-calculated risk. ”
She stares at me for a beat, as if she’s trying to decide if I’m being serious. Then, slowly, she nods.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, still shaky, but grateful.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I turn back to the mess of papers on her desk, trying to process everything that’s hanging between us.
This is madness. It’s risky. But if it works, if this gala pulls us out of this hole, if it brings the kind of attention we need, maybe we’ll have a chance.
I grab a stack of papers and sit across from her. “Let’s plan. We’ll break it down. We have to cover every angle. The risks are still huge, but if we’re going to do this, we’ll do it right.”
Sunny looks at me, a spark alive in her eyes. It’s not joy, exactly. It’s determination.
But it’s enough. Enough to push forward, even when the odds are against us.