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“Things have changed, true,” Gordon says with a nod. “But Katja is doing the best she can, considering.”
“Considering? Considering what?” I lean in closer to the man. “I didn’t just walk away and abandon The Whitney. Remember that. It wasn’t my choice.”
“But it was choices you made that caused her decision.”
“I didn’t do anything that my father hadn’t been doing. Katja just didn’t like it. But I wasn’t doing anything different.”
“Your father was more… discreet. The way he conducted business at The Whitney was different then. He conducted business with gentlemen, not thugs.”
I refuse to admit that maybe Gordon has a point in his observation. I did start allowing certain people through the doors that my father would have never admitted. He did have different standards, but for me… money and power trump all.
Was it wise? Maybe not. But it was necessary. I had to build my name and reputation as The Innkeeper, and not just as the son handed a legacy from Daddy.
“Yes, well… where is The Whitney we once knew now?” I question, hating the way this man can knock me down a few pegs.
“I fear the magic of the hotel died with your fathers, sadly.”
“It didn’t have to,” I snap, feeling my own composure dwindle.
“You can’t blame everything on Katja,” he says quietly, scanning the area to make sure no one is within ear shot.
“I can. I do.”
“You’re the one who got messy.”
“Messy?” I ask between clenched teeth.
“Your father kept… control. You started to make decisions that put The Whitney at risk as well as Katja. She did what she had to do.”
I swallow the lump in the back of my throat and paint the fakest smile on my face as I can manage. I reach out and pat his shoulder in a very condescending way. “Gordon, I appreciate the chat, but I think you should focus on what you’re good at and allow me to focus on what I’m good at.” I point to the closed door. “You’re good at opening doors for others. By all means… open it.”
He pauses, looks at me as if he’s about to say something more, but doesn’t.
“Good day, Mr. Cohen,” he finally says as he opens the door, biting back any retort that I know is sizzling in his body.
“Good day.”
I walk out of The Whitney and take a deep breath of the morning air. I’m exhausted, and not just because I haven’t slept all night.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t worry.
But as I picture Katja upstairs by herself, I consider spinning around and marching back up there to be by her side.
And do what?
I shake the thought out of my head as I hail a cab. I have to.
The past is the past. History belongs in dusty books placed on shelves in libraries.
I need to move forward with my life—with the plans already in motion.
I’m not the hero in her story. I can’t be.
Chapter Seven
KATJA
