“Good. Because your mother would want you to finish this. She’d want them to pay for what they did.”
Would she, though?
Would Mom actually want me to destroy these people? Or would she want me to be happy?
I don’t know anymore.
“I need to go,” I say. “I have work to finish.”
“Samantha—”
“I’ll call you soon. I promise.” I hang up before he can say anything else.
The phone feels heavy in my hand. Contaminated somehow, like Robert’s words have seeped into the device itself. I set it on the window ledge and press my forehead against the cold glass.
What am I doing?
The answer should be simple. I’m here to gather information. To find leverage. To destroy the family that destroyed my mother’s business and, by extension, destroyed her.
That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan.
Except now the plan feels abstract. Distant. Like something that belongs to a different version of me.
I’m supposed to hate them.
Instead, I’m falling in love with them.
All three of them.
17
GRANT
The lobbyof the main resort is organized chaos at eight in the morning.
Guests are checking out. Families with ski equipment are arguing about who forgot what. Staff move through the crowd, answering questions, directing traffic, managing the controlled disaster that is the peak holiday season.
I stand near the concierge desk and watch my operation run.
Thomas, the head concierge, spots me and straightens. “Mr. Hale. Good morning.”
“Morning, Thomas. How are we looking?”
“Full capacity through New Year’s. We had a cancellation for the Summit Suite, but it was filled within an hour.” He pulls up his tablet. “Housekeeping is on schedule. Kitchen inventory is good. The only issue is Mrs. Bruce in 412.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She claims the heating isn’t working. Maintenance checked twice. Everything’s functioning properly. She just runs cold.”
I nod. “Send up extra blankets and a space heater. Complimentary bottle of wine with our apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Already done, sir. She’s still complaining.”
Right. Mrs. Bruce has been a guest here for five years running. She complains every single visit about something different. Last year, it was the thread count on the sheets.
“I’ll handle it.” I head toward the elevators. “Call up and let her know I’m on my way.”
The fourth floor is quieter. Thick carpet muffles sound. Holiday decorations line the hallway.
