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“It’s just… there’s a lot of unrest among the staff.”
“Of course, there is. We had a death on the premises, and that death has had…” I freeze. I was about to say the word consequences, but ever since my little run-in with Dex on the thirteenth floor five days ago, that word has taken on a whole new level of meaning for me. Pushing aside the memory of my humiliating belting, I end with a rather lame, “…rippling effects through the entire Whitney family.”
“Yes, that’s part of it. But it’s more. It’s…”
One of the things I like most about Mike Jenkins is his no-nonsense approach to all things. It unnerves me to see him unsure.
“It’s okay. I’m not made of glass.”
“You haven’t been out of your penthouse since Monday. The staff is used to you checking on the operation every day.”
“They do know my husband died, right?” I don’t add that I’m in mourning, since he knows me well enough to know that isn’t true. It’s part of the reason I’ve stayed hidden. With all I’ve discovered this week about Tristan’s financial straits, I’m afraid of projecting just how relieved I am that my husband is dead. At least now I have a chance of turning things around.
“Yes, and that’s actually part of the problem. Mr. Miller was a larger-than-life part of The Whitney. The staff members are feeling his loss, just as you are. And worse… the arrival of Mr. Cohen has triggered a lot of change which is leading to additional uncertainty.”
I know a lot about that additional uncertainty. If I’m honest with myself, Dex Cohen’s presence is the number one reason I’ve stayed upstairs all week. Just the thought of running into Dex… knowing he’s been enjoying the memories of my humiliation at being bared and belted by him makes my stomach churn.
Unaware of my spiraling thoughts, Mr. Jenkins adds, “Perhaps you might enjoy eating in the restaurant this evening instead of here in your suite. I’ll make sure to reserve your table near the back corner where it will be quiet. Maybe stop and say hello to the front desk staff and bellmen on your way upstairs afterward. I think it would go a long way.”
He’s managing me and I hate it. But, I also appreciate it. Unlike most others in my life right now, I do believe Mike Jenkins has my best interest at heart.
I sigh before responding. “Very well, I’ll make a short appearance. I gave Francesca this evening off to spend time with her family, anyway.”
A rare smile brightens the security officer’s face. “That’s great news. Would seven work for you?”
“Sure,” I reply, already regretting my decision. The only positive thing is I can pretty much guarantee Dex will be much too busy entertaining his band of thugs on his rooftop domain to be hanging around the lobby on a Friday night.
I step off the elevator into the lobby at precisely seven o’clock. I’ve spent the week hibernating in my penthouse, barely eating and showering, let alone dressing in my normal designer fashion wardrobe. Ironically, the clicking of my heels on the marble tile actually calms my nerves.
Glancing around at the opulence that is my hotel—my home—I realize my error in hiding. I may be shaken up by the changes of the last few weeks, but I’m still standing. With each step I lift my chin, stand straighter, forcing myself to remember who I am, and the power I still hold.
Mr. Jenkins was right. My absence isn’t hurting Dex. In fact, he probably loved having me MIA all week so he could seize control of decisions he has no right to make.
By the time I enter the lobby-level restaurant, I’m feeling better than I have all week.
Marilyn, the maître d’, greets me. “Good evening, Ms. Belov. I was happy to hear you’d be joining us this evening. We’ve missed you this week.”
“Thank you, Marilyn.”
“Let me show you to your table,” she says, moving before I can tell her I don’t need a guide in my own restaurant.
When she takes a turn into the heart of the restaurant, I reach out to tap her on the shoulder.
“I’d like to sit in the back corner tonight, please.”
I see the confusion on her face when he turns back in my direction. “But…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, or if she does, I don’t hear her. I’m too distracted by the sight of Dex Cohen seated in the middle of my restaurant… leaning close to laugh with some woman I’ve never seen before who is hanging on his every word.
I’ve been stuck on a fucking rollercoaster of emotions since Tristan’s death and a fresh wave of fury washes over me. It’s bad enough he’s taken over control of his portion of the hotel again, but he has no right to bring his long line of floozies into my restaurant.
Brushing past a stunned Marilyn, I beeline it to Dex’s table, glad he can’t see me until I’m next to him.
“How dare you bring your flavor of the week here,” I seethe, keeping my voice low enough to avoid announcing my arrival to the entire restaurant. I motion around the room with my hand just as he glances up at me from his seated position. “I’m sure your companion would be much more comfortable upstairs mingling with your kind of guests.”
A sharp intake of breath is the only response to my insult, and it comes from the woman sitting to Dex’s left. I pay her no attention. I’m too busy trying to figure out why Dex has a small smile playing on his lips.
Why isn’t he bothered? Better yet, leaving?
