22. Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
~DECLAN~
Tonight, everything changes.
The Miami air is warm—the night of the Meridian Gala—as I stand in the ballroom of the Hotel Brickell Soleil watching twenty-four years of work crystallize into something real.
I’ve seen my fair share of opulence, but tonight?
Tonight, the room is particularly extraordinary.
The Hotel Brickell Soleil's grand ballroom has been transformed into exactly what a billion-dollar hospitality pivot deserves.
Soaring ceilings draped in cream silk that ripples when the ocean breeze moves through. Candlelight from a hundred floating arrangements drowning everything in amber and gold.
The tables are dressed in white linen and tropical florals—birds of paradise, white orchids, and something lush and dark green like the jungle.
The room smells like wealth, gardenias, and the salt air coming in off the Atlantic.
Floor-to-ceiling terrace doors have been thrown open along the entire ocean-facing wall, and beyond them the Atlantic sways and glistens under a full moon—silver and black and endless.
The sound of waves is audible beneath the chamber quartet in the corner, beneath the low murmur of powerful people making conversation that will move markets by Monday.
The Miami night air moves through the room in warm, salt-heavy waves, smelling like everything my father worked toward.
Everything he never got to see.
The Tulum property sellers—Eduardo and his partners—are across the room, laughing at something Quinn has said.
Quinn, who somehow manages to look like he belongs at every event he attends, his new wife glowing beside him.
Henrik Solvang, our money-focused Norwegian investor, holds court near the bar, commanding complete attention from a group around him.
And through it all, the Shaw Group's name is on every piece of material in this room.
And for the first time in twenty-four years, so is mine.
Not just serious Wyeth’s. Or unserious Quinn’s.
Mine.
Declan Shaw. Senior Partner, Shaw Group Hospitality.
I've been staring at it on the event programs all evening like it might vanish into thin air if I look away, like it's a trick of the light. Like at any moment someone is going to realize a mistake was made and quietly remove my name from the materials.
My father's name should be here too.
It should have been here thirty years ago.
"You're going to crease that program," Darcy says beside me.
"I'm not creasing it."
"You've been gripping it for twenty minutes. Your knuckle is white."
I look down and, sure enough, she’s right.
"It's fine," I say.
"It's very creased." She takes it from me, smoothing it against her palm before she hands it back. "There. Better."
I look at the woman beside me again.
And for a brief second, all of it—the room, the program, the twenty-four years—recedes slightly.
Because Darcy Madison is wearing a black dress that I am fairly certain was engineered by someone who understood exactly what it would do to me—and to every other man in this room.
The gown is floor-length, deceptively simple. The velvety fabric catches the candlelight when she moves, emphasizing her already drool-worthy curves.
Her dark, wavy hair is up, with the small diamond drops I gave her last night catching the light every time she turns her head.
My gaze trails, lingering over her collarbone, the line of her neck, the bare stretch of her upper back where the dress dips low toward her ass-crack.
Fuck. Me.
"Close your mouth," she says without looking at me.
Dammit. I nearly grin. "Who says I was—"
"You were." Now she looks at me. "I could feel it from here."
"I was simply observing."
"You were staring."
"I'm allowed to stare. You're my wife."
She makes a sound—not quite a laugh, and then there it is.
That thing I've been watching all evening underneath her tight composure.
The careful way her eyes move around the room—just a tad too analytical, too quick, like she's cataloging exits.
Her tension is apparent in the champagne flute she's been holding for forty minutes without drinking from, the way her right hand keeps drifting to the diamond at her left ear—touching it, twisting it.
Something is wrong. Has been wrong for weeks.
And tonight, I'm going to find out what.
"You look beautiful," I tell her.
"Thank you. You look handsome," she says, reaching up to touch my bow tie with her fingertips. "And a little unsettled."
"I don’t think—"
"Declan, you've been standing here for twenty minutes strangling that program like it owes you money."
"Fuck," I hiss under my breath, moving closer. My voice lowers. "It's the first time my name has been on—"
"I know." Her words are a breathy whisper next to me. "I know exactly what this means. I've read all the files, remember?" She looks up at me, and for a moment her practiced composure slips and I see something underneath it that makes my heart beat harder. "Your father would be proud."
The words hit somewhere I wasn't prepared to have hit.
I blink, saying nothing, and she frowns.
"Too much?"
"Too accurate." I look back at the room, at the program with my name on it, at the Tulum sellers laughing with Quinn, at Henrik Solvang holding a glass of water and commanding three hundred people's attention by breathing.
At the room my father should have been standing in, twenty years ago, thirty years ago, back when it was all still possible.
I touch Darcy’s elbow, reveling in the feel of her soft skin. "Tell me about the vendor setup. Distract me."
"The catering is flawless—they executed the tasting menu exactly as spec'd and the service timing is perfect.
The florals came in exactly as specified, not a substitution.
The AV team ran three full checks this afternoon, everything is landing clean.
We're currently running twelve minutes ahead of schedule. "
"Which means—"
"Which means we'll land exactly on time, because these events always run eight to fifteen minutes late regardless of preparation. It's physics."
"Is it physics?"
"It's hospitality physics. Trust me." She turns the flute of her untouched champagne and glances at the terrace doors. "The moonlight on the water is going to make the terrace announcement moment look extraordinary. The photographer is positioned exactly right."
"You thought of everything."
"That's my job."
"It's more than your job."
She looks at me again, and for a second I wonder if she’s going to tell me exactly what’s been going on in that beautiful mind of hers.
"Declan—" she starts, exhaling hard.
"Mr. Shaw." Henrik Solvang appears at my elbow like the Ghost of Money Markets’ Past. "The sellers would like a word before the announcement. Do you have a moment?"
I glance at Darcy, and she nods, a small gesture. "Go," she motions. "I’ll circulate. Everything is exactly where it needs to be."
I flash her a smile and she barely returns it.
With a final kiss to Darcy’s cheek, I take off, following Henrik across the ballroom.
And I try not to notice the way Darcy watches me go.
Like she's memorizing something.
For the next hour, everything is as it should be.
The seller conversation goes well.
The announcement lands perfectly.
The room applauds in exactly the right places.
Henrik shakes hands with exactly the right people.
And I stand there with my name on the program and my father's legacy finally moving somewhere clean, and I feel—for the first time in a very long time—like it might actually be enough.
Like it might actually all be over.
"Dec."
Wyeth wanders over, looking stone-faced—the very opposite of a man who’s been enjoying a successful gala. But when it comes to my older brother, not much gets a grin from the eldest Shaw.
“For fuck’s sake, what is it?” I ask, grinning. “Caterer sneezed in the canapés? Bathroom run out of hand soap?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Walk with me.”
“Jesus Christ, Wyeth—”
"Please."
I sigh, setting my champagne glass aside before we step through the terrace doors, away from the crowd, toward the far railing where the ocean is loud enough to cover conversation.
Wyeth pulls out his phone.
"The competing bid on Tulum?" he says. "The one that accelerated our timeline."
“Yeah, what about it?”
"My contact finally traced it." He holds out the phone. "Full report came in an hour ago."
Pulse pounding, I take a step forward, reaching for the phone.
The second it’s in my hand, I glance at the screen and see a familiar name that makes my jaw lock in place.
Cole Capital Management.
Richard Cole.
The name knocks the breath from my lungs like a punch I saw coming but couldn't dodge.
“Fucking hell,” I say.
"That's not all." Wyeth takes the phone back and scrolls. "My team pulled a background brief on Cole when the report came in. Standard procedure." He holds the phone out again. "Read the last paragraph."
I read it.
Personal: Richard Cole (58) has one known child, a daughter, Darcella Maria Cole (24). Last known location: New York City. Changed name legally approximately one year ago. Current name unknown.
My brain processes the words.
Darcella.
24
New York.
Changed name.
"Declan." Wyeth's voice is careful. "There's a photo attached."
He scrolls once more, and I look at the photo.
It's a few years old. But there’s no mistaking the woman in it.
Her dark hair may be a few inches shorter, the hazel eyes a touch sadder.
But it’s undeniably one woman.
My woman.
Darcy.
The room—the terrace, the ocean, the whole night—spins in my mind’s eye.
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut to ward off the feeling of falling.
Handing the phone back to Wyeth, I don't say anything.
I can't.
"How long have you known?" Wyeth asks quietly.
"I didn't." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "I didn't know."
"Dec—"
"I didn't fucking know, Wyeth."
He exhales, not responding, and all I can hear is the sound of the ocean just two hundred feet off.
"What are you going to do?" he asks after some time has passed.
Finally opening my eyes, I look back through the open terrace doors, into the party where my gaze scans.
I find Darcy immediately.