Chapter 42 Suite Life Of A Spoiled Brat
Suite Life Of A Spoiled Brat
Harlee
Asnowflake kisses my face the moment I step onto the tarmac, and I damn near lose it.
It’s soft, delicate, a fleeting touch of cold that lingers just long enough to remind me it’s real.
The kind of touch that feels like a secret between me and the sky.
It’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand attention but somehow commands it anyway.
The snowflake twirls in the air before it lands, each movement deliberate, almost theatrical, like it knows it’s being watched.
For a split second, my chest tightens—not in panic or fear—but in awe. Pure, unfiltered awe.
This is winter magic, the kind that little Harlee used to dream about.
Back when my world was a fourth-floor walk-up with peeling wallpaper and a radiator that hissed like a snake in heat.
I’d fold laundry by the window and close my eyes, pretending that the hiss wasn’t the radiator but the muffled hum of taxis splashing through wet streets.
That above me wasn’t a leaky ceiling but the vast sky over Manhattan, full of snowflakes just like this one—dancing, falling, gracing the city with their presence.
I tilt my head back now, breath puffing out in soft white clouds that blend into the sky. And then I see her—the Statue of Liberty—standing proud in the distance, holding her torch high like she’s been waiting for me to show up all this time.
“August…” My voice falters as his name escapes my lips.
There’s so much I want to say, but none of it feels big enough for this moment.
My words catch somewhere between my heart and my throat as I look at him, standing beside me on this private runway in New York City…
during Christmas… because he decided I deserved it.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to.
His arm slides around my waist instead—solid, steady, familiar—and pulls me close like he already knows exactly what this is doing to me.
Like he planned every second of this moment with surgical precision because he knew it would hit me right here—in this buried part of my heart I didn’t even know still existed.
We slip into a sleek black car, its glossy surface gleaming even under the gray December sky—and because it’s him and only him, of course we do.
The door shuts with a gentle thud that sounds like luxury itself.
As the car glides forward, the city begins to unfold around us like pages in a storybook I thought I’d never get to read.
Neon lights flicker against brick facades, marquees shine with promises of Broadway brilliance, and horns blare in chaotic harmony—a symphony of life that somehow feels alive and electric instead of overwhelming.
I press my face to the chilled glass window like a kid seeing snow for the first time, drinking it all in with greedy eyes.
Every corner we turn feels like stepping deeper into some dream I’ve had on loop since childhood—the dream where New York isn’t just a place but an idea: possibility wrapped in glitter and grit.
“You okay over there?” August’s voice cuts through the hum of tires on pavement, calm and smooth but laced with amusement.
I turn to him slowly, eyes wide and full of wonder like he’s just handed me the moon wrapped in tinsel and ribbon.
“You brought me to New York,” I say softly, shaking my head as if saying it out loud will make it feel less surreal.
“At Christmas.” My laugh bubbles up unexpectedly—a mix of disbelief and joy too big to contain. “Babe… This is—”
I pause again because how do you even put this into words? It’s ridiculous in all the best ways.
“Ridiculous,” I finish finally, my smile stretching so wide it almost hurts.
His lips curve into that lazy grin—the one that says he knows exactly what he’s done without needing to hear me say it.
“I figured we could use a weekend away,” he says casually, leaning back against the seat like we’ve taken this trip a dozen times before and not like he’s just dropped me smack-dab into the middle of every daydream I never let myself fully believe in.
But I know better than to take him at face value. This isn’t spontaneous or random or impulsive—not for him. This is intentional down to every last detail.
And that’s what makes it dangerous.
The Whitmore Hotel doesn’t need flashing signs or bold declarations to announce itself—it lets its presence be known quietly but unmistakably.
Everything about it whispers money and intention: from chandeliers dripping with crystals that catch the light like frozen raindrops, to walls covered in deep emerald velvet so rich you want to reach out and run your fingers along them just to feel their softness.
The carpet beneath my sneakers is so plush it feels more like walking on clouds than any floor should have a right to be.
Even the air here smells expensive—polished wood intermingling with hints of citrus and something floral that lingers faintly in your nose without overpowering your senses.
I catch myself smiling for no reason at all.
This man didn’t just bring me here; he planned *me*. Every step from that snowflake on the runway to this moment has been designed with care—all roads leading here because he wanted me to feel something bigger than myself.
The concierge hands over the keycard with a smile practiced until flawless—a perfect balance between warm and professional—and we’re halfway across the lobby when a voice cuts through with effortless clarity.
“Well damn, little big bro,” says someone behind us, her tone low and teasing but full of affection. “You finally decided to show your face.”
I turn instinctively toward the sound and immediately spot her—striding toward us with an air of confidence so natural it’s almost magnetic. Her long chestnut curls bounce against her shoulders as she moves effortlessly across the marble floor like she owns every inch of space around her.
She looks… familiar.
Not in a have we met way—more like my brain already knows her face.
Like I’ve seen her somewhere and just can’t place where.
Those blue-green eyes feel borrowed from a memory I don’t fully have access to, the bone structure the same but softened—like if you took that face, warmed it up, let it live a little.
Like if you stripped away the polish, deepened the tone a shade or two, and let it breathe.
She’d look like someone I should recognize.
She’s barefoot, of course.
A flowy black jumpsuit drapes off her like it chose her—light, effortless, catching the air as she moves. No shoes, no apology, like the ground belongs to her as much as anything else in this room.
There’s something else, too.
Not loud. Not performative.
Just… present.
Like she’s fully here in a way most people aren’t.
She walks straight toward August without hesitation, like distance isn’t something she believes in.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” she teases, stepping into him like no time has passed.
She wraps her arms around him, grounding and easy, like it’s muscle memory.
“I felt you before I saw you,” she adds lightly, like that’s a normal thing to say.
“And you must be the woman of the hour, Harlee,” she says warmly as she turns her attention toward me without missing a beat, already looping her arm through mine as though we’ve been friends for years instead of strangers meeting for thirty seconds max.
“I’m Kennedy,” she adds brightly before winking at August over her shoulder. “Kelley’s my brother. But I'm the centered twin”
My jaw drops slightly before I can stop myself. “Wait… there are *two* of him?”
She grins, wide and unapologetic, a flash of teeth framed by lips that seem permanently curved into mischief. “Two of me. I’m older.” Her tone carries a playful lilt, the kind that makes you wonder if she’s ever taken anything too seriously—and if you should start worrying now.
August squeezes my hand, the pressure firm and grounding, a silent reminder that he’s right here. His voice, steady and sure, cuts through the moment. “Kennedy and Kelley are nothing alike.”
Kennedy raises a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression equal parts amused and unimpressed.
“That’s generous,” she says with a dramatic sigh, waving a manicured hand as though dismissing the thought entirely.
“I got the looks, the intuition, and the good karma. Kelley got… ambition and a big dick.”
The laugh escapes me before I can stop it—a sharp, unpolished snort that echoes louder than I’d like in the cavernous space of the lobby.
My hand flies to my mouth as if I can shove the sound back in, but it’s too late.
Kennedy notices. Of course she does. Her eyes light up like she’s just won a prize at some cosmic carnival.
As we walk further into the lobby, Kennedy gestures with an effortless grace that makes even her casual movements look intentional.
The sweep of her arm takes in everything: the polished marble floors gleaming beneath our feet; the towering columns that stretch toward a ceiling adorned with intricate gold-leaf designs; the soft hum of quiet conversations mingling with the distant clink of glasses from the bar.
“This place runs on good energy,” she says simply, her voice carrying none of the heavy weight of self-help clichés.
It’s not preachy or overdone—just matter-of-fact.
“If you treat people right, the rest follows.”
Something about the way she says it lodges in my chest, settling there like a seed waiting to grow roots.
By the time we reach the elevator, I already know exactly who she is—not just on the surface but deeper than that.
She’s all sharp edges wrapped in soft velvet; all charm and candor without apology.
The same face as her twin, yes—but an entirely different frequency altogether.
One hums softly; the other crackles with electricity.