At the center of the room sits my desk.
It’s a hand-carved mahogany monstrosity that once belonged to my great-great-grandfather, the original owner of this property and the man who built the hotel when railroads still carried men in wool suits and women in feathered hats across the American West. The desk is massive, and its dark wood ispolished smooth. The light from above reflects in it like the sun on the surface of a lake.
My father always said the desk was a statement piece.
I never asked what the statement was.
Behind it runs a custom-built credenza that stretches nearly the entire length of the wall. Shelves hold ledgers, leather-bound guest books, and antique hotel registers dating back a century. Cabinets conceal everything from spare clothing to financial files that only I ever touch.
But the thing that dominates the room—the thing everyone notices first—is the painting that hangs above the massive stone fireplace. An oil portrait rising nearly five feet tall.
My grandfather stands on the left, stern and square-shouldered in a charcoal suit. My father stands beside him, hand resting on the back of a leather armchair, his expression proud and calculating. And there I am, seated between them. Young. Confident. And smug.
The artist captured our resemblance perfectly. Three generations of the same sharp jaw, dark hair, and pale blue eyes.
A legacy framed in gold.
Across from the fireplace sits a long leather couch—deep brown, worn just enough to show it’s been used for decades. It faces the hearth, waiting for conversation that rarely happens. Most days, no one sits there.
To the right of the couch is a small bar, tucked neatly into the corner. Crystal decanters catch the dim light from the sconces mounted along the stone walls. Scotch, bourbon, rye. Only the good stuff.
Directly in front of my desk are two high-backed chairs, upholstered in navy velvet. Guests sit there. Employees sit there. People who need something from me sit there.
I like the chairs. They’re intentionally lower than my desk because perspective matters. My father taught me that. Being looked up at gives the illusion of power.
To the right of the office is an alcove, lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets. Decades of paperwork. Contracts. Insurance records. Architectural plans. The paper trail of the hotel and all that transpires within its walls.
And to the left is a door that leads to a private queen suite.
It’s identical to the smaller queen rooms upstairs—same antique headboard, same tiled shower in the bathroom, same marble sink and polished brass fixtures.
Except there’s no view. Because the room sits underground. No windows to gaze out over the mountainside. Just stone walls and carefully placed lighting.
My great-great-grandfather liked it that way. Said it kept him close to the foundation of the building. Said it helped him think. Personally, I think the old man just liked hiding.
Sometimes, I understand that instinct.
Still …
Spending most of my day down here makes me feel like a damn vampire.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling for a second, listening to the distant hum of pipes and muted footsteps somewhere overhead.
The hotel is alive above me. Guests checking in. Guests checking out. Suitcases rolling across marble floors. Dishes clinking in the restaurants.
But down here? It’s quiet, like a cave or a dungeon. My command center and my prison.
I stand and walk over to the bar, grabbing the heavy crystal decanter of scotch. The glass stopper makes a soft pop as I pull it free. I pour two fingers into a glass and swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the light.
Then I take a slow sip. The first one burns the back of my throat. The second tastes of smoke. It’s good scotch.
I carry the glass back to the desk and sit down.
The computer hums to life when I press the power button.
The glow of the monitor cuts across the old mahogany. I log in and pull up the hotel’s employee database. A few clicks later, the list appears, names populating the screen in neat alphabetical rows—front desk, doormen, valet, concierge, maintenance. Dozens of current employees.
Most of them I recognize. I make it a point to try to address everyone by their name. It’s an exhausting venture, but one I feel is important.
