Daisy
Istep out of the cab and pause on the quiet, tree-lined street because for a moment, I’m not fully convinced I’m in Manhattan anymore.
Julian Langley’s townhome sits behind a row of manicured hedges and wrought iron fencing, its limestone facade glowing in the warm spill of lantern light.
It’s enormous, so wide and tall it looks like a European manor was airlifted and dropped between Fifth Avenue and Madison, tucking it just blocks from the Frick Museum.
I cross the sidewalk, step through the gate, and the second I’m at the large front door, a server in black tie opens it for me.
I hand over my coat and purse as I take in the ceilings that soar at least twenty-five feet overhead, carved with moldings so intricate they look handmade.
Corinthian columns flank the foyer. The staircase is sweeping, made of dark wood and inlaid marble.
Every surface looks impossibly expensive—oil paintings, antique vases, a chandelier dripping crystal.
I’ve spent years covering couture shows in Milan and touring restored palazzos in Florence.
I’ve reviewed collections inside Palais Garnier and interviewed designers in converted Parisian mansions.
But New York almost never looks like this.
This home is a love letter to the Gilded Age, written by someone with unlimited resources and impeccable taste.
The large central salon has been transformed into a full casino floor. Multiple blackjack tables dot the room, emerald felt gleaming under soft amber lighting. Roulette wheels spin as elegantly as ballet dancers, their ivory balls clicking musically. A long row of slot machines lines the far wall.
It’s Julian’s annual Casino Night that he holds to raise money for his Vipers Care Foundation that supports at-risk youth. I received an invitation to attend as a guest, not as Grizz McAvoy’s handler, but let’s be real… that’s still my primary job tonight.
Servers sweep past with silver trays and laughter echoes off marble.
I scan the room and somewhere behind the swirl of people, the flash of sequins, the hum of games and chatter…
I’m aware of one thing more than anything else: Grizz is somewhere in this house, and sooner or later, I’m going to see him.
What no one knows is I just saw him a few hours ago when I left his apartment.
There was no way we were going to show up to this event together since that might start tongues wagging, and one thing Grizz has been consistent with…
the notion that we are not together in any way other than burning up the sheets.
That’s a thought that might make me sad if it weren’t for the fact it’s been Grizz who’s been wanting to spend each night with me.
He doesn’t necessarily ask, more like tells me that he’ll be over, but I’m leaving it up to him to drive this train.
I fully expect we’ll be going either to his place or mine when the party is over, but for now…
I want to put eyes on him and make sure he behaves.
I weave through the crowd, taking in the sheer spectacle of it. More laughter rises from the baccarat table, accompanied by the clack of chips, the whir of roulette wheels. Everywhere I look, someone is dressed in black tie or the latest couture.
“This,” I murmur under my breath, “is not your average team event.”
Nope, a Vipers fundraiser, I’ve come to realize, is a spectacle—tonight the entire organization sheds its gritty, blue-collar, sports-warrior persona and transforms into high society royalty.
It’s a night when players mingle with billionaires, sponsors with celebrities, and the most elite season ticket holders mix with people who have their names etched on hospital wings.
“TURNER!”
I spin just in time to see Tanner Wylie bounding toward me, champagne in one hand, a pile of casino chips in the other, tie already loosened like he’s been here for hours instead of fifteen minutes.
“There she is,” he says, beaming. “My favorite PR crisis manager who isn’t assigned to me.”
“Hi, Tanner,” I say, amused despite myself. “You seem… energized.”
“Hit the roulette table,” he declares proudly, shoving his chips under my nose. “Cleaned them out.”
“You… cleaned out a casino run by your team’s billionaire owner?”
“Absolutely. It’s a victimless crime.”
I laugh. “Okay, walk me through it. What’s your genius strategy?”
He puffs up, delighted to be asked. “Simple. You always—always—bet on the third dozen.”
“The third dozen?”
“Yup. Numbers twenty-five through thirty-six. Because statistically—”
“Please don’t say statistically.”
“—the ball has to land there eventually.”
“That’s not how statistics work.”
He waves me off. “Listen, I learned this in Vegas. Very educational road trip. I’ve become… enlightened.”
“Enlightened?” I repeat.
“Spiritually,” he clarifies, “and financially.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Well, congratulations on your newfound wisdom.”
“Thank you,” he says, bowing. “I’ll be insufferable for at least three days.”
I hesitate before asking the question that’s been buzzing in my brain since I walked through the front doors. “Have you seen Grizz?”
Tanner lifts his eyebrows. “Ah. Straight to business—or pleasure?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Tanner.”
“Relax,” he says, sipping his champagne. “Yeah, I’ve seen him floating around. Somewhere near the high stakes blackjack earlier. Probably brooding. Or being tall. Or both.”
My stomach churns.
“But,” Tanner adds, “let’s hope we don’t get a repeat of last year.”
Everything in me seizes and I turn to him slowly. “A repeat of what?”
Tanner grimaces. “Right. You weren’t here then.”
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t. What happened?”
He glances around, then leans in with a cautious look in his eyes.
“So last year,” he begins, “Grizz was at one of the blackjack tables. Things were fine. Normal. Chill, even. Until some drunk guy—one of those VIP donors who thinks writing checks is the same thing as being part of the roster—decided to get handsy.”
“With who?” I ask.
“With Grizz,” Tanner says. “Literally draped an arm over him, started rambling about how he ‘owned’ part of the team through his donations. Then he told Grizz he should ‘try smiling more,’ because he’d ‘look less murderous.’”
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Oh yes,” Tanner says. “Grizz told him to back off. Guy kept pushing. Said he could ‘take’ him in a fight, which, for the record, is the funniest thing ever said by a human being.”
I wince. “And then?”
“And then,” Tanner says, “Grizz didn’t hit him or throw down. He just… picked the guy up under his armpits and carried him like a misbehaving toddler out the front door.”
I almost bark a laugh but bury it with my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God.”
“It was majestic,” Tanner insists. “Sorta like watching a lion relocate an annoying cub. But uh… the New York gossip columnists did not see it that way.”
“Let me guess,” I say, dread moving through my stomach. “Bad headlines?”
“Front page of the ‘Scene & Scandal’ section,” Tanner confirms. “‘VIP Patron Removed by Vipers Forward in Physical Altercation.’ Total nonsense. But Langley was ripshit. He hates anything that makes the team look like a PR nightmare. You’ve sort of gotten that memo, eh?”
Tanner claps me on the shoulder, oblivious to my rising anxiety. “But hey, that was last year. New season. New vibes. New babysitter—present company included.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Comforting.”
He grins. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”
Just as I’m about to respond, someone calls Tanner’s name from across the room. He lifts his glass in my direction.
“Go find your boy,” he says mischievously.
Then he disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone under the glimmering chandelier, surrounded by roulette wheels and cocktails and too much expectation.
I’m weaving through the room, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence of it all, when I spot Julian near the base of the grand staircase talking to a statuesque brunette who looks like she just stepped off the catwalk. I don’t want to intrude, but I do want to thank him for the invitation.
“Mr. Langley,” I say as I approach, offering a polite smile. His head turns my way, his hand coming to rest on the woman’s lower back. “Your home is… incredible. Truly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it in New York… or anywhere, for that matter.”
He gives a small, deliberately modest shrug, the kind that pretends humility while radiating pride.
“Ah, well… it’s just an old place with good bones.
I’ve done what I can to keep it charming.
” And yet, the faint sparkle in his eye tells the real story…
he adores every inch of what he’s built here.
Then ever the perfect host, he introduces me. “Daisy… this is Carolina Mellingham.”
I reach out a hand and she shakes it, the grip surprisingly firm as Julian says, “This is Daisy Turner. She works in PR for the team.”
Carolina inclines her head with an aloof smile, but before I can say anything else, Julian’s expression shifts, settling into that laser-focused seriousness I’ve come to recognize. He turns fully toward me, his voice dropping into a quieter and far less forgiving tone.
“Daisy,” he says, “you understand the importance of tonight, I assume.”
“I do,” I reply, trying to sound grounded, even though blood rushes to my head.
He nods. “Then let me make something very clear… we cannot have a repeat of last year.”
A prickle runs down my spine. “I heard about that,” I admit.
“This event,” he continues, “brings together every stakeholder in the Vipers organization—our players, sponsors, VIP ticket holders, league executives. I invite them into my home, my sanctuary, and I expect the evening to reflect the integrity of this franchise.” He pauses, his gaze heightened with authority.
“I will not tolerate any behavior that compromises that, particularly tonight under this roof.”
“I understand,” I say, my palms warming. “I’ll make sure everything stays under control.”
Langley’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Make sure he stays under control.”