Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ROMAN
On the football field, I was a fucking demon—breaking tackles, breaking records, breaking jaws when I could get away with it.
I'd slam my helmet so hard it cracked, scream until veins bulged in my neck, but nobody cared because I delivered two state championships and I was awarded All-California honors.
In the pool, I'd swim until my lungs burned like they were filled with acid, pushing through pain that would make normal people quit.
I played the enforcer on my hockey team—the goon who'd slam opponents into the boards when they got too close to our star players.
My teammates knew: mess with them, deal with me.
My knuckles stayed split open all season, but that raw edge I couldn't control off the ice? On the rink, it made me valuable.
That same fury built my hotels, crushed my competitors, made me a goddamn billionaire before thirty-three. The grief wasn't a weakness—it was rocket fuel. It burned hot enough to launch me into the stratosphere, even if it left nothing but scorched earth behind me.
But now...I'm not exactly at peace, except when Lilith's around—which she isn't at the moment. What I do have is focus. Not the kind that comes from pure rage, but something more controlled—like I've taken those flames and channeled them into a blowtorch.
I'll need that precision today when I meet some investors who could potentially back my father's venture. I haven't mentioned to my father yet that I arranged this meeting. I'm still working up to facing him properly. Baby steps.
These investors represent the first move in my long game—eventually folding Sunstone by Kensington into my existing portfolio.
When I shared this with my brothers last night—sworn to secrecy from Dad, of course—they practically vibrated with excitement.
Max nearly hit the ceiling. But first things first: I need to sell these investors on the concept.
I clear my throat. "Let's begin." The investors settle into their ergonomic chairs, arranged around the Brazilian Rosewood table—Finn Juhl's masterpiece that took six months to source.
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the textured swirls of the Pollock behind me.
That painting was worth every penny of the $150 million I paid at Christie's.
These men need to see success before they'll invest in it.
Nothing communicates that message like sitting in the shadow of a nine-figure artwork while discussing projected returns.
The investors glare at me over my father's proposal—the one I gutted and rebuilt with cutting-edge sustainability specs that cost me three sleepless nights and a small fortune in consulting fees. The boardroom reeks of cologne and hostility.
"Green deals are financial suicide," Harrington slams his palm on the table. "A goddamn liberal fantasy bleeding money we don't have for a climate crisis that doesn't exist."
"Four Seasons isn't doing this. Ritz-Carlton isn't doing this," Matthews sneers, jabbing his finger at the page. "There's a reason."
"And this New Age horseshit?" Blackwell's face contorts with disgust. "Reiki? Meditation? Chakra balancing? You want to turn a luxury resort into some kind of hippie commune?"
Their objections hit like machine-gun fire. I feel my jaw clench, but I've prepared for this ambush. I have ammunition for every single attack.
I slam my palm on the table, making the water glasses jump.
"Gentlemen, let me be crystal fucking clear.
" I lock eyes with Harrington. "You think climate change is liberal propaganda?
Fine. But the ultra-wealthy—our target clientele—they're watching their children develop allergies and autoimmune disorders at record rates.
They're having their blood tested for microplastics and finding poison coursing through their veins.
They're paying top dollar for organic tomatoes because they're terrified of what conventional agriculture is doing to their bodies. These same people will pay a fortune for what we’re offering. Read the market research - Chapter Two.”
Harrington looks skeptical, but opens the proposal and reads the market research, nodding. I make a good point and he knows it.
I pace the floor and look out the window and then spin around to address the second concern.
"Matthews. You think being the only eco-friendly resort in America is a problem?
" My voice rises with each word. "It's a goddamn gold mine.
The eco-resorts in the Maldives and French Polynesia are booked solid two years out.
Two. Years. So don't tell me there's no market, Matthews.
There's a market. And we're about to own it. "
I fix Blackwell with a hard stare. "These so-called 'New Age' practices date back millennia.
The Four Seasons in New York—hardly some backwater motel—offers what they market as 'wellness services.
' Hypnosis. Aura readings. Chakra balancing.
Energy work. Crystal therapy. Spiritual guidance.
" I tick each one off on my fingers. "If the most prestigious hotel in Manhattan sees the value, I fail to understand your hesitation.
The Four Seasons sets industry standards—we'd be foolish not to follow suit.
" I clear my throat. "Our tarot service has become one of the resort's most sought-after experiences.
My reader, Lilith Sydney, has a three-week waiting list that includes European nobility, political elites, and tech moguls.
Turns out crystal energy and chakra alignment pair quite well with champagne and caviar. "
I slam down into my seat. What the fuck am I doing? Every ounce of sweat, every vein throbbing in my forehead—all for him. This is his goddamn baby. We build this thing, and he's the one running it, cashing in while I'm just the bank.
No—that's bullshit. My resort would be the parent company, so I'd rake in profits too. Plus, it would be my Laguna hotel he’d be buying for his flagship project. So I’d be intimately involved.
But it would be his victory lap. His redemption story.
And yet here I am, bleeding myself dry for these jackasses, fending off their pathetic objections like I'm his personal attack dog. For what? For fucking what?
For him.
And what does that say about me?