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Charlotte’s cheeks burned with a mix of fatigue and shame. For a moment, she stuttered, searching for words.
But then, Louise seemed to break down.
“I’m sure your grandfather is willing to host you, Van, and the new baby in the apartment,” she said with a sigh. “Let me go over there this afternoon and talk to him.”
Charlotte collapsed in the chair behind her and rubbed her temple. Her mother was firing on all cylinders right now. She felt wrung out.
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered.
“Let me be clear, Charlotte,” Louise continued. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Van and the new baby.”
“I understand that.” Charlotte closed her eyes and wavered in her chair, on the verge of fainting. “I can’t thank you enough, anyway. She needs this.”We all do, she thought.
ChapterTwo
The New York Timescalled the exclusive high-rise apartment building on the corner of 104th Street and Manhattan Avenue “Charlie Bryant’s Greatest Accomplishment.” With sixty-five floors, eight swimming pools, three saunas, two grocery stores, an in-house Apple service station, several gardens with species from forty-four different countries, three movie theaters, and iconic apartment suites promised to film celebrities, it was truly “the place to be,” with a waiting list a mile long for Manhattanites wishing to move in.
On December 1st, the apartment building opened its doors to the public for the first time with an incredible Christmas party held in one of the upper-floor ballrooms. Attached to the ballroom were several bars and restaurants, which allowed the guests to feel as though they were on a cruise ship floating over Manhattan.
It was eight-thirty, which meant the party had begun a half-hour ago. Charlie stood in his tuxedo at the window of the apartment he’d decided to live in. It was located on the highest level of the apartment building, towering over the city below, making it seem as though the floor gently swayed beneath him. The swaying was something he would eventually grow accustomed to, he hoped. It was akin to being out at sea.
Twenty floors above the party, Charlie couldn’t hear any of its music, its gossip, nor the clacking of utensils as people ate expensive and decadent food. He hadn’t been involved in the party planning; he hadn’t even wanted to be invited. His tuxedo was altogether too stiff on him, brand-new. A designer had said this was to be his “big step forward” in this Manhattan scene. “You’re going to be seen by some of the richest people in Manhattan, all of whom will want to work with you. You need to look the part.”
Charlie’s assistant, Timothy, texted him, breaking through his reverie.
TIMOTHY: People are asking about you. Better make an appearance soon, don’t you think?
Charlie groaned, shoved his phone back into the pocket of his trousers, and tugged his wild, salt-and-pepper hair, which Timothy had recently suggested he should get cut. Charlie had resented this. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate what Timothy did for him— his guidance, as though Timothy was his mother, ensuring he ate enough protein and got enough sleep. Charlie’s career wouldn’t have been half what it was without Timothy’s clear vision and organizational skills. But more often than not, Charlie wanted to lock himself in his apartment, turn his phone off, let his hair grow long, and fade away from the rest of the world. Timothy wouldn’t let him. Charlie’s meteoric rise was important to Timothy— especially because Timothy had his sights on becoming a property developer in his own right.
As Charlie entered the party located in the forty-second-floor ballroom, upward of twenty faces flickered toward him, eyes opening wider. The man of the hour had arrived. Charlie touched the breast pocket of his tuxedo nervously but kept his face stoic. He couldn’t betray any emotion in front of these people. If he gave them any indication that he was weak, they would eat him alive. That was the nature of Manhattan. Timothy locked eyes with him from the back of the party and gave him a firm nod. The fact that Charlie had decided to show up meant that Timothy was doing his job, keeping Charlie in line. Charlie’s stomach twisted into knots.
“Charlie Bryant.”
Charlie heard his name and turned slowly. Baxter Bailey, the number one donor for Charlie’s iconic building project, strode toward him. Baxter was something of a king across Manhattan. He’d come from old money, which meant he didn’t necessarily flaunt it. His singular goal was to be seen as on the cutting-edge of Manhattan society, as being a mover and shaker, apt to alter the course of Manhattan’s history.
When Charlie was just thirty-two years old, Baxter had named him his number one property developer, a man through which he planned to strategize his next great maneuvers. Charlie knew that having Baxter as his ally was the single greatest event that had ever occurred in his professional life— one he should be more grateful for. But he’d struggled to feel grateful for anything in many years. Often enough, Timothy had suggested that Charlie thank Baxter more for all he’d done for him. Charlie hadn’t bothered.
Charlie and Baxter shook hands. Several photographs were taken by professional photographers hired to showcase the grand opening party. Baxter’s teeth were too straight; he was overly botoxed, giving his face an eerie, frozen quality. Yet, despite his seventy-eight years, he was still quite handsome. The date he’d brought to the event that night couldn’t have been more than forty. When Timothy had suggested Charlie bring a date for optics reasons, he’d said, “Over my dead body.”
“Quite a party, Charlie,” Baxter said, dropping his hand after the handshake and trying his best to smile wider. “And quite a building. I think it’s your best work yet.”
Charlie’s cheek twitched. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Baxter.”
“We both know that’s true.”
A waiter passed by with a tray of salmon puffs, and Baxter took one and ate it, closing his eyes as he moaned. “These are divine, Charlie. Has anyone told you you’re too skinny lately? You have to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
Charlie wasn’t hungry; it was rare he was hungry. Far behind Baxter, Timothy waved his hands and mouthed, “eat,” and Charlie took a puff and forced himself to chew and swallow it. Of course, it was exquisite, probably the finest-tasting thing in all of Manhattan right now. He didn’t care.
“I heard a rumor we’re neighbors, Charlie,” Baxter said. “Just down the hall from one another.”
This hit Charlie hard. “You’re moving in?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to move into the best apartment building in Manhattan?” Baxter said, spreading his arms out on either side of him. Several journalists around them pressed record on their phones.
“Tell us what it’s like to be neighbors with the great Baxter Bailey!” one of them called.
Charlie gritted his teeth. He knew he needed to stroke Baxter’s ego in front of these people. He also knew the journalists and the photographers were just there to do their jobs, just as he was. He felt as though they were all in the midst of a video game, each of them given a part to play. Perhaps whoever operated the game was in a basement somewhere, eating Cheetos, trying to get Charlie up to the next level in the game. But what was that level? Putting another building in Manhattan? Creating another beautiful world for rich people who already have everything?
