Rules Don’t Apply in Paradise

Chapter 1

Chapter One

LEXI

I’ve imagined the worst thing that could happen.

I’ve watched it unfold in my mind’s eye, sat back and played out every last possible outcome.

Doing this exercise with every spin-off scenario in my head makes all of them much less likely to happen.

Or so I thought. The meeting invitation currently in my inbox tells me I’m about to fly headfirst into an unforeseen shitstorm.

Unforeseen? Not quite. Oh Dad. Is this what it felt like? My heart seems to beat in my temple, way out of place.

There’s no doubt that this is about the security video—the one where I walk in on a certain celebrity being serviced by a man whose face is buried so deep between her legs, he’s basically unrecognizable.

My whole body has been in a chokehold these past two weeks, but now, somehow, I clench even more.

I pull a breath in and try to exhale as the words on the screen blur.

A few fast blinks at my useless tears and I refocus and read.

The last thing I should do is walk around the hotel with red-rimmed eyes.

At least the head of HR is also invited to this meeting with the GM and my section head, Sheila Foster, the rooms manager. They’re the whole ladder of the career I’ve envisioned for myself at St Chalamet Hotels and Resorts.

As rooms-manager-in-training, my office is situated underground, down with the laundry, deliveries, and all the out-of-sight hustle at a six-star hotel in the heart of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The meeting is in ten minutes in the GM’s boardroom, which is on the third floor.

My desk phone rings, and I jump. It’s the PA to the general manager. Holy Mother of God… One deep breath, and I reach for the phone with a trembling hand. “Good morning. How can I help you today?”

“Alexandra O’Reilly?”

“Yes.” She knows my name; I’m in the hotel directory. Nobody else should pick up this phone. I bet she can pick me out of a prison lineup, too, being the GM’s assistant. That video wouldn’t have skipped her inbox. “Yes, it’s Lexi.”

“Oh, okay. Lexi. There’s a meeting in seven minutes in Mr. McIntyre’s boardroom. You haven’t responded?”

I stare at the three options on my meeting invite. Yes. Maybe. No. None of the above isn’t a choice. Neither is being sucked into a vacuum and hurled into outer space right now. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Don’t be late.”

I lower the phone to its hook and take a deep breath. The writing isn’t on the wall yet.

After another shaky breath, I stand and straighten my uniform: a tight pencil skirt and sharp suit jacket in the best quality wool, midnight blue, with two gold buttons.

I close them to cover most of my white silk shirt and the “lure of my breasts,” as the St Chalamet staff dress code calls it—not in so many words, but I get the subtext.

My fingers quiver as I smooth my shirt’s collar over the jacket’s and make sure the hotel’s golden crest sits straight above my name pin.

I gather my wits. This situation won’t—can’t—get the better of me.

There’s a full-length mirror behind my open office door, and for a moment, I close it to give myself the once-over.

At St Chalamet, every employee must look put together, as if they might at any moment serve royalty.

Today my blonde waves are captured in an elegant French roll—my secret salute to the luxury hotel chain’s origins.

Perfect. The red flush on my pale cheeks is the only thing giving away the riot in my chest.

As for the rest, I look the complete package, everything St Chalamet stands for: exclusive luxury, prestige, money, and class.

I’ve come a long way since my first summer job as a restaurant runner when I was only fourteen, but one thing drills a hole in my head right now: I’m just an employee—one with a background that doesn’t reflect any of the above.

With a shrug that does nothing to shake off my foreboding, I grab my cell phone from my desk and stride out of my office. The scent of St Chalamet’s signature bergamot-and-lime detergent hangs thick down here. It’s subtle, and usually I love it, but today it’s as invasive as sulphur.

As I walk down the well-lit corridor to the elevators, I chant in my head, fake it till you make it.

Or rather, work until nobody questions your commitment or competency.

This has been my motto all my life, and so far, it’s worked.

I’m going to fake it for this thirty-minute meeting, too.

Nothing about my exterior can show what’s going on in my stomach, my head, my heart.

The elevator pings open and I step inside, relieved that I can take the service car and avoid guests. I force my hands to still their trembling, taking one deep breath after the other.

By the time I approach the GM’s boardroom, I’m outwardly calm. Yet as soon as I walk inside and three faces turn in my direction, I tighten like an animal that’s stepped on a leg-hold trap.

Mr. McIntyre, the general manager, looks grayer than he did two weeks ago. In fact, everybody around the table looks as if they’ve had weeks of sleepless nights. I’m in good company, then.

“Lexi,” Sheila says. “Take a seat.”

I sink into the chair, my gaze flicking from the HR director to Sheila’s downcast eyes. Oh, God. My stomach wants to bottom out just as nausea stirs and threatens to surge up. This is a termination meeting. It’s bad—I mean I’ve known it’s bad for days now—but they have nothing. Not really.

“Okay, Lexi. This is where we stand,” Mr. McIntyre starts. He pauses, takes a deep breath and sighs. “It’s been a rough two weeks. First the incident with Mia Reed and the unfortunate luck you had to walk in on her during that intimate moment—”

“As a guest, she wasn’t supposed to be in that area,” I interject. And luck had nothing to do with it. I’m going to fight for every inch of ground here.

“We know. Banquet halls, small or large, are off-limits to guests unless there’s an event or a site visit,” Mr. McIntyre says.

“And I was just doing my job.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“We know.” Mr. McIntyre drops his gaze, signaling he isn’t buying any of my bullshit. “But you should have reported it sooner. Per company policy. We appreciate your integrity, but when it comes to this type of thing, we require full disclosure as soon as possible.”

I close my eyes and bite my lip for the two seconds it takes to get a grip on the balloon blowing up in my throat.

There’s a reason I didn’t report the incident until five days after the fact—after the hotel’s security and IT systems had been breached by hackers.

Even now, as I sense things are going seriously south, I can’t open up and tell them everything.

“It would have given us a chance to wipe the security footage.” Mr. McIntyre’s tone is softer, and around the table, the other managers shift in their seats. “Now we have a situation.”

A situation. Shit. This doesn’t sound like a “clean-up on aisle four” where a bucket and mop will do the trick.

“What’s the situation?” I ask, my voice uneven.

“When we were breached,” Mr. McIntyre continues, “we thought the hackers were only after credit cards and guests’ personal information. Now Mia Reed’s agent has contacted us, saying the video footage of her and whoever, with you walking in on them, is being used for extortion.”

What the actual—“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were,” Mr. McIntyre says on a sigh.

“Our head office and IT security have been all over us this past week, trying to keep this hacking disaster out of the news. But this? This mess takes the situation to a whole new level. Who would ever trust a St Chalamet hotel again? Our integrity, our reputation, everything is on the line.”

Yours and mine both, buddy.

I’m shaking as if I were made of Jell-O and someone was poking and prodding at me.

I always do my work with the utmost integrity, and this first mistake cuts deep.

“What do you want me to do?” I can’t do anything, which is killing me.

I’m mid-tier management-in-training. Never mind that this is way above my pay grade, I have to stand by and watch my carefully crafted life spin out of control because of one little but very major misstep.

The HR director folds her hands together, slowly, every movement careful and somewhat rehearsed. “Alexandra…” she starts.

Ah, fuck. The way she says my name sounds like Nan when she’s ticked off. Here it comes. “Are you firing me?” I say on a gulp, my mouth chalk. Everything is coming to a head, but now I realize I’ve watched the hurricane slowly gather and twist into full speed over the past two weeks.

“No.” The HR director shakes her head. “We’re asking you to resign.”

“Why? The hacking disaster isn’t my fault.”

Mr. McIntyre leans back, and Sheila drops her gaze to the gleaming, polished wood.

“Miss O’Reilly,” Mr. McIntyre says, and I shrink at the cold tone in his voice.

In mere minutes he’s gone from Lexi to my surname, and it’s as if he’s done sharpening the guillotine’s blade.

“For decades, St Chalamet Manhattan has been the first choice of billionaires, movie stars, celebrities, anybody really who doesn’t have a place of their own in this city.

This situation threatens our very existence in that almost unattainable realm of luxury.

” He draws in a slow, deep breath. “We are only as strong as our weakest link, and this video, your appearance in it, irrespective of your role, is currently our weakest link.”

There’s a weighted pause in the room as his words sink in…and sink and sink and sink.