Chapter 2
Two
SEBASTIAN
My temples throb as I pace the terminal, phone pressed against my ear. The cheerful Christmas music mocks me like a personal affront.
First, that green-eyed woman nearly destroyed a five-thousand-dollar suitcase, and now this. My girlfriend has vanished from the hotel where she’s supposedly staying.
“I need to speak with your manager.” I adjust my platinum cufflinks, channeling my frustration into the small, controlled movement. “No, spelling it differently won’t help. Rebecca specifically told me she’d be staying at your hotel.”
If there were a Lockhart property in Alaska, this amateur hour would never be happening. The first thing I’m doing when I get back to Chicago is drafting a proposal for our Board. This level of incompetence only confirms what a gold mine the Alaskan luxury market could be.
The luggage incident replays in my mind. That woman and her complete disregard for proper handling. The way she mocked my vocabulary, as if articulating oneself properly is worthy of ridicule.
“Listen carefully.” My voice drops, each syllable calculated. “I’m going to arrive in approximately twenty minutes. I expect this situation to be resolved by then.”
My fingers brush against the small velvet box in my coat pocket. Every Lockhart man for three generations has proposed with this ring—a family tradition my father reminded me of at least twenty times before I boarded the plane.
The weight of family expectations presses against my chest heavier than the diamond itself. But first, I need to actually find Rebecca.
I close my eyes and breathe, visualizing Rebecca at the Chicago Children’s Hospital gala last month, standing beside me in that midnight blue gown. Her smile never wavered through four hours of small talk with donors.
When the Ward Foundation pledge hit five million, she squeezed my hand under the table, our private signal that we’d succeeded.
Later, she whispered, “We make a formidable team, don’t we?” The perfect partner for business and life.
I picture her face when she sees the ring. Her blue eyes widening, her composure slipping. She’ll try to remain elegant, but I know her well enough to anticipate the slight tremor in her fingers as I slide the ring on.
The woman from earlier catches my eye again, slouched by the weather radar display.
Something about her presence intensifies my irritation—the way she exists, completely unbothered, while my plans collapse.
She’s one of those people who drift through life without consideration for proper planning or protocol.
I turn away, refocusing on my phone. “No, I’ll hold. And check the system again.”
I catch myself glancing at her once more—impossible to miss with that messy ponytail, strands escaping as if personal grooming is optional. Her green eyes scan the terminal with an intensity that contradicts her casual posture.
She stands taller than most women, with a lean build that speaks to a life of physical demands rather than boardroom negotiations.
But her behavior—that’s what truly grates. The casual disregard, the sharp retorts. I recall how she grabbed that suitcase with zero consideration for its value. The audacity to mock my speech patterns. Who does that?
She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable but masking it with forced nonchalance.
“Mr. Lockhart?” The hotel employee’s voice yanks me from my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“There’s no guest registered under Rebecca’s name. We’ve searched the records twice.”
“Expect me soon,” I say, ending the call.
I take a final look at the woman before heading toward the exit. Something about her pulls at me despite my better judgment. She stands out in a world that’s become painfully predictable. I push the thought aside; I have priorities.
“Let’s see if Alaska’s hospitality can salvage this mess,” I mutter, striding toward the doors.
The glass doors slide open. A blast of cold air follows me inside, carrying the scent of artificial pine, trying, and failing to mask years of neglect.
The lobby stretches before me, a monument to mediocrity. Water stains mark the ceiling tiles, and the carpet shows worn paths from insufficient maintenance.
A Christmas tree leans to one side in the corner, plastic ornaments clustered without consideration for balance or aesthetics.
At the desk, a young man in a blazer that hangs off his frame glances up from his screen. His name tag—James—sits crooked on his chest. Even his typing lacks efficiency.
“Good evening.” I set my briefcase down, adjusting my cuffs. “I need a room number for Rebecca Ward.”
The sound of his hunt-and-peck typing sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m sorry, Sir, we have no reservation under Rebecca Ward.” His voice carries that particular small-town drawl that makes everything sound like a question.
“Check again.” I grip the edge of the desk, forcing my voice to remain level. “She confirmed she was staying here.”
More typing, slower this time, if that’s even possible.
The ring box weighs heavily in my pocket, a constant reminder of why I’m standing in this monument to mediocrity instead of overseeing the holiday gala at my Chicago property.
My phone vibrates. Mother. I pull it from my inner pocket, already knowing what’s coming.
“Darling!” Her voice hits that pitch that means exactly two glasses of champagne. “Have you done it yet? I’ve already called the wedding planner!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mother, it’s hardly appropriate to plan a wedding before—”
“Nonsense! The Carlisle has a six-month waiting list for their grand ballroom. I had to call in three favors just to get them to pencil us in for June.”
The concierge’s fingers continue their glacial dance across the keyboard. I turn away, lowering my voice. “Nothing has happened yet. I’m still trying to—”
“The Vandermeres are already asking if they should block off the entire month. You know how they love to make everything about them. And your father’s already discussing the merger possibilities with Rebecca’s father.”
“Mother.” The word cuts sharper than intended. I adjust my tie, catching my reflection in a mirror. “I need to go. The hotel staff requires my attention.”
“But darling—”
“I’ll call you back.” I end the call, slipping the phone into my pocket where it sits like a brick beside the ring box.
The weight of expectations—Mother’s, Father’s, the Board’s—bears down on me. A perfect proposal for a perfect merger. No. A perfect marriage. That’s what this is about. Love, not business.
I turn back to the desk, where James has discovered a new level of typing incompetence.
My phone vibrates again, and this time it’s Rebecca’s name that lights up the screen.
Rebecca
Miss you so much, Bastian. Working through the holidays is torture without you.
I read the message twice, picturing her face. If she only knew I was standing in this sorry excuse for a hotel, trying to make everything perfect.
James is still making a show of searching his system. His performance would never survive a day at a Lockhart property. I catch my reflection. My hand rises automatically to brush an invisible speck from my lapel.
I step closer to the mirror, adjusting until it sits exactly center. The familiar motion steadies my pulse. Father’s voice echoes in my head. “Control what you can control, Son. Everything else is just noise.”
My fingers hover over the phone screen. I type back, each word measured.
Darling, I’m arranging a Christmas delivery for you. Need your room number to surprise you.
Perfect. Casual enough to avoid suspicion, and spoil the surprise, clear enough to get the information I need. I hit send and wait, watching those three dots dance across my screen.
I open my notes app, drafting a memo to our acquisitions team. “Alaska market research priority.” Below it I list the deficiencies: outdated infrastructure, untrained staff, lack of premium accommodations.
A complete renovation could serve as our flagship location. Modern luxury with rustic charm. High-end tourists would flock here for the northern lights with the right marketing.
Rebecca
Room 423. You’re so sweet thinking of me!
“Sir, I’m sorry but—”
I raise my hand, silencing him mid-sentence. The gesture comes naturally. I’ve used it in countless board meetings. “Never mind. I’ve found it myself.” I turn to leave, then pause. “Actually, I’ll need a key card for room 423.”
James blinks rapidly, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “I’m sorry, Sir, but we can’t just—”
I turn back slowly, placing both hands on the counter. “Let me introduce myself properly. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO of Lockhart International Hotels.”
His eyes widen.
“I’m planning to surprise my girlfriend with a proposal tonight,” I continue, lowering my voice.
“She’s staying in room 423, and I’ve arranged for a private chef and musicians, but they need access to set up.
” I pull out my ID and two hundred dollars, sliding them across the counter.
“I understand your hesitation. Discretion is precisely why I value this property.”
James studies my credentials, then glances at his computer screen.
“I’d consider it a personal favor,” I add, “one that Lockhart International would remember when we review potential acquisition targets in the region.”
The key card appears within thirty seconds.
“Thank you for understanding the...importance of the occasion.” I slip the card into my pocket, alongside the ring box. “I trust this interaction will remain between us.”
He nods vigorously. “Absolutely, Mr. Lockhart. And congratulations in advance.”
The elevator car creaks as it ascends. Third floor. The ancient mechanism groans. Fourth floor. The doors part with a reluctant wheeze.
I step into a hallway that smells of stale carpet and cheap cleaning products. My Italian leather shoes sink into the worn burgundy runner with each step. 419... 421... 423.
I adjust my tie one last time, muscle memory taking over when conscious thought fails. The proposal speech I’ve rehearsed a hundred times plays through my mind—carefully crafted words about destiny and forever, about two families united. About love.
The key card slides into the reader. A soft beep, a green light.
My hand rests on the handle. One deep breath. This is the moment—the perfect proposal she deserves. The future our families have planned. The marriage that will—
The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing from the single bedside lamp. My eyes adjust, taking in the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothes.
My body freezes mid-step. The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
Rebecca straddles a man on the bed, her back to me, her body moving in a rhythm that’s painfully familiar.
Her blonde hair cascades down her bare shoulders as she rocks forward.
The man beneath her—lean and tanned—grips her hips, his face flushed with pleasure, eyes widening as he spots me in the doorway.
My heart slams against my ribs, each beat drowning out all other sounds. Rebecca turns.
“Sebastian. Fuck.”
Her voice reaches me as if through water, distant and distorted. My body goes cold, every sensation dulled as if I’m watching this unfold from outside myself. The room tilts.
Rebecca clutches a sheet to her chest, as if modesty matters now. Her hand trembles—a detail that might have sparked pity if I weren’t drowning in shock and betrayal.
It’s strange how the mind fixates on small details with excruciating clarity. Like how she’s wearing the sapphire earrings I gave her for our anniversary. Or how the man behind her is wearing my favorite cologne—and nothing else.
The ring box in my pocket transforms from a promise into a mockery. My chest constricts as if the air has been sucked from the room. The sensation of something shattering inside me is so tangible I half-expect to hear the sound of breaking glass.
How perfectly fitting for this perfectly ruined night.