Chapter 2
LENA
I woke up with the strangest feeling that I’d been watched all night.
The morning light streaming through my bedroom windows should have been reassuring. The familiar view of the lake, the pine forests, the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Everything exactly as it had always been.
But something had shifted. Some invisible thread had been tugged, and I couldn’t shake the sensation that I was no longer alone in my own life. Like something out there in the dark had marked me.
I shook my head and threw off the covers. Paranoia didn’t suit me.
The Hughes Palace Hotel had stood in this valley for over a century.
My great-great-grandfather built it as a wedding present for his bride, a woman he’d met while vacationing in Switzerland.
He’d come from a family of bankers, but as the youngest son, he wasn’t heir to anything.
So he made his own fortune in ferries, shipping cargo and passengers up and down the coast, and poured every penny into creating something that would last.
The hotel was his legacy. Our legacy.
I dressed quickly and headed downstairs, taking the staff elevator to avoid my father’s office. After yesterday’s strange encounter with that man, the last thing I needed was another awkward conversation about business matters I wasn’t supposed to worry my pretty head about.
The lobby was quiet this early. Morning light poured through the massive windows. Twelve stories of Alpine-inspired architecture rose above me, turrets reaching toward the sky like something out of a fairy tale.
Sometimes I was still the princess locked in the tower. Waiting for a life that was always just out of reach.
The click-clack of dog claws on marble announced Maya Pavlova before I saw her.
The grande dame rounded the corner from the garden entrance with her herd of eight corgis fanning out around her like a royal entourage.
Their stumpy legs churned in perfect formation, tails wagging like furry metronomes.
“Good morning, Ms. Pavlova.” I ducked behind the front desk and retrieved the bag of dog biscuits I kept stashed there. The corgis knew the drill. Eight fuzzy bodies mobbed my legs, cold noses bumping against my calves, demanding their tribute.
Winston, the oldest and grumpiest of the bunch, planted himself directly on my feet and refused to move until I scratched behind his ears.
Penelope, the princess of the pack, sat prettily and waited for her biscuit to be hand-delivered.
The rest descended into adorable chaos, yipping and spinning in circles.
“Such a lovely morning, Lena.” Maya watched me distribute treats with an approving smile. “You should be out on the patio getting some sun, not working.”
I hooked my arm through hers and gathered up the leashes, walking her toward the elevator. The familiar scent of her rose perfume wrapped around me like a hug. “Maybe after the front desk staff arrive.”
Maya Pavlova had been a fixture at the hotel since before I was born. A retired opera singer who’d performed at the Bolshoi in her prime, she’d moved into one of our largest suites upon her retirement. “Better than assisted living,” she always said. I had to agree.
Even at her age, with her white hair pinned up in an elegant twist, she barely reached my shoulder. But her presence filled any room she entered. Once a diva, always a diva. Her gem-toned silk robe swept the floor with each step, and she carried herself like the royalty she’d once played on stage.
“Your father really should hire more staff.” She patted my hand with papery fingers. “A proper young lady like you should be out making connections in society, not manning the front desk.”
“I’ll let Papa know.”
We both knew I wouldn’t. We both knew he wouldn’t listen if I did.
“Will you be joining me for afternoon tea?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. I handed over the leashes and waved as the doors closed on Maya and her pack of corgis. Winston gave me one last reproachful look, as if I’d personally betrayed him by not providing a second biscuit.
Tea with Maya had been our tradition since I was a little girl.
My mother had been a concert pianist before she died in a skiing accident when I was four.
I barely remembered her now, just flashes of dark hair and the smell of gardenias and hands guiding mine over piano keys.
My father couldn’t talk about her, couldn’t even hear me play without leaving the room.
So Maya had stepped in, teaching me piano in her suite, her voice soaring over my clumsy chords, patient and encouraging in ways my father never could be.
Those afternoons were the closest thing I had to my mother’s legacy, to a grandmother, to someone who believed I could learn.
“Thanks for covering, Lena.”
I turned to find Michael rushing toward the front desk, still shrugging into his uniform jacket. His sandy hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside, and he was missing one of his cufflinks.
“My bus got stuck behind an accident. The whole road was blocked.” He was slightly breathless, apologetic.
“No problem.” I stepped aside so he could take his position behind the desk. “You know I’d do anything for you, Michael.”
He flashed me a boyish grin that made his dimples pop. At twenty-four, Michael was the youngest general manager in the hotel’s history. Clever, motivated, always willing to go the extra mile. The staff loved him.
He also had a crush on me that was painfully obvious to everyone except, apparently, himself.
“Hey, a bunch of us are checking out that new Italian place by the lake tonight. You should come.” His voice was casual, but I caught the hopeful light in his eyes.
“Maybe next time. Joe’s coming over.”
The disappointment that crossed his face was so transparent I almost felt guilty. Almost.
“Right. Joe. Of course.” He busied himself with the computer, but I caught the way his shoulders stiffened. The tension that crept into his stance.
Michael was like a brother to me. A really good friend. And even if I’d felt something more, it wouldn’t matter. He was staff. I was the owner’s daughter. Some lines couldn’t be crossed, no matter how much it might hurt to hold them.
I made an excuse about checking on something and escaped before the silence got any more awkward.
With nothing to do until tea with Maya, I wandered the hotel looking for ways to help. The housekeeping staff politely declined my offer to fold towels. The restaurant manager assured me everything was under control. Even the maintenance crew waved me off with sympathetic smiles.
Unwanted everywhere.
The one place I actually wanted to be was my father’s office. I wanted to ask him about the man from yesterday. About the fear I’d seen in his eyes. About why he looked so old and frail lately, like something was eating him from the inside out.
But Papa hated being interrupted. And he’d never trusted me with anything important anyway.
After I graduate, I told myself. After I get my degrees in hospitality and business. Then he’ll have to take me seriously.
The thought felt hollow, even in my own head.
I killed the hours until three o’clock rearranging the lobby flowers and reorganizing the lost-and-found closet. Busywork. The kind of thing Papa would have waved me away from if he’d seen me. But it was better than thinking.
Tea with Maya was a welcome escape.
Her suite smelled like roses and old books, the afternoon light filtering through lace curtains. She’d laid out a spread of cream cakes and finger sandwiches on delicate china that could have fed a small army.
“Eat, eat.” She pushed another pastry toward me. “You’re too thin.”
I wasn’t, but I ate it anyway.
The cream puff melted on my tongue, light and sweet.
Maya launched into stories of her time at the Bolshoi, and I let her voice wash over me.
Tales of temperamental conductors who threw batons at sopranos.
Backstage romances that scandalized the Moscow elite.
Standing ovations so thunderous they rattled the chandeliers.
Roses thrown at her feet in such quantities that she could barely see the stage.
“You should have been there for my final performance of Eugene Onegin,” she sighed, her eyes distant with memory. “The tenor fainted in Act Three. Simply collapsed. We had to drag him off stage and the understudy nearly wet himself with terror.”
I laughed until my cheeks hurt.
A different world. A different life. One where talent could take you anywhere, where passion mattered more than blood or inheritance.
By the time I left, the sun was setting and I was running late to meet Joe.
I hurried down the service stairs, texting him that I was on my way. No response. Typical.
The hotel restaurant was quiet for a weeknight. I slid onto a barstool to wait, ordering a sparkling water and trying to ignore the TV mounted in the corner. The news was on, sound muted, captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
I almost didn’t look up.
But then I saw his face.
Raphael Antonov filled the screen, looking every bit as dangerous in a tailored suit as he had in my father’s hallway. The caption read: ANTONOV ACQUIRES HISTORIC NYC LANDMARK FOR $666 MILLION.
I leaned closer, reading the scrolling text. Raphael Antonov, CEO of Volkov Capital, has acquired the historic Blackmore Building in Manhattan’s Financial District. The acquisition marks Volkov Capital’s largest real estate deal to date…
Volkov Capital. The name tickled something in my memory. Something unpleasant, like a splinter I couldn’t find.
On screen, Raphael was speaking to reporters, that predatory half-smile playing at his lips.
Even through the TV, I could feel the weight of his presence.
The way he commanded the space around him without raising his voice.
The way everyone else in the frame seemed to lean away from him, unconsciously giving ground.