Chapter One
Chaya’s POV
Being a twin sucked.
Okay for some people it isn’t, but for me it does.
Twenty-four years ago, my brother Ishmael popped out of my mother’s vagina, and everyone fell in love. Thirteen minutes later, I arrived, and it felt like nobody cared.
It’s been that way for twenty-four years.
My mum was the usual stay-at-home mum-except think rich mum. She spent her days shopping and gossiping with all her other ‘mummy and me’ friends.
She practically kissed the ground Ishmael walked on. He was her precious boy.
I on the other hand- Well I got a mum that picked at every little physical flaw I had. Imagine growing up with that.
My dad owned hotels all over the United States. Cohen Retreats. My dad was a traditionalist and when he was to retire, Ishmael would take over the hotels.
I deserve that more than him!
I have worked my ass off from the day I was fourteen, putting sweat and tears into the hotel here in Long Island. I started off as a cleaner and worked through to the kitchen and then the front counter.
My brother was just handed the manager position here at eighteen. He refused to work till then.
Half the time Ishmael isn’t even here. I have to act on his behalf as manager when clients have any complaints.
I could ruin Ishmael. Tell my dad that at night Ishmael was street racing. But no, I’m a good sister and keep my mouth shut.
Until one day when I snapped.
It was a regular day at the hotel, when Ishmael strutted across the lobby like he owned not just the hotel, but the whole damn state of New York. His sunglasses still on, despite being indoors, he pointed at a bellhop.
“You call that posture? Stand straight, you look like you’re begging for scraps,” he snapped, before turning on the receptionist. “And smile. God, is it that hard to look pleasant? No wonder guests complain.”
I stood behind the counter, fists clenched. I had already fixed three mistakes he’d made this week, and he hadn’t even been here.
Then he turned his gaze on me.
“And you, Chaya.” He said my name like it was dirt in his mouth. “Try to look busy for once. Dad only keeps you around out of pity, you know. You’re never going to run this place. You don’t have the brains for it. You’re just... filler. The spare twin. Everyone knows it.”
And those last three words were the match that lit the fire.
So, I turned up one night to his races, and I joined the race.
I destroyed him.
And his enemy too.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Dimitri Ivanov. Not because he was handsome-though God, he was, in that untouchable, sculpted-from-marble way-but because I beat him. He and Ishmael, side by side, engines roaring like they were kings of the night, and me, the overlooked twin, slipping right past them to the finish line.
Dimitri didn’t look like the kind of man who belonged in the grime of a street race. He was too polished, too pristine, like he’d stepped out of some old European painting and landed in Long Island asphalt. His skin pale as moonlight, his hair slicked back so neatly that not even the wind dared touch it, and those amber eyes-God, those eyes-glowing faintly in the headlights as if they belonged to a predator.
He didn’t shout or laugh like the others. He stood still, calm, like he already knew he would win. Like he didn’t need to prove a damn thing. And yet-he lost. To me.
He tried to come over and talk to me after the race, but I rushed off.
Ishmael couldn’t know that I was there.
I just needed that single win to make me feel better about myself.
The front desk gleamed under the soft lobby lights, polished wood counters reflecting the afternoon sun streaming in through the glass doors. The faint hum of the air conditioning blended with the occasional ding of the elevator and the muffled wheels of suitcases rolling across the marble floor.
Thomas leaned on the counter, chin in hand, a mischievous glint in his eye as he posed the question. “Would you rather-” He paused, thinking it over like this was a matter of life or death. “Eat snails for the rest of your life or switch to veganism?”
I didn’t miss a beat, tapping at the computer as I checked a reservation. “Veganism. Snails are gross.”
He wrinkled his nose but grinned. “I think I could eat snails,” he said, leaning back as if weighing the prospect seriously.
I shot him a look over the monitor. “Of course you could. You’d probably make a whole show of it too-′ ah, escargot, ′ with a fake French accent.”
A pair of guests walked past, and Thomas straightened instantly, slipping into his polite, professional smile. As soon as they were gone, though, his grin returned, that boyish spark flickering back to life.
“You think about it, it’s just an oyster really,” Thomas drawls.
“Oysters are disgusting too,” I comment.
Thomas tapped his fingers lightly on the counter, the faint rhythm matching the swing of his mood. He was tall-annoyingly so-always looming just enough that I had to tilt my chin when we spoke. His tie was already loosened, jacket abandoned on the hook behind the desk, leaving him in his crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. It made him look casual in a way that seemed unfair for someone still technically on shift. His dark hair never stayed in place, forever falling into his eyes until he brushed it back with an absent flick of his hand.
I had once been caught off guard by that easy smile of his. For a few months, I let myself lean into the crush-daydreaming in stolen moments between check-ins and phone calls.
But then came the staff drinks night. I could still remember it: Thomas laughing as he casually mentioned his ex-boyfriend, the word rolling out like it was nothing, while my stomach had dropped like an elevator missing its floor.
I smiled now, shaking my head about the nonsense of it all. He leans closer, lowering his voice dramatically as though he were about to share some dangerous hotel secret.
“You know, Chaya, if I ever get famous, I’ll make snails my thing. Like... gourmet slime,” he says with mock solemnity.
I snorted, covering my mouth with my hand. “You’re actually disgusting.”
And look at that, now we are best friends.
“Your brother isn’t here today, is he?” Thomas asks. “I don’t want to be spat on.”
I shrug. “Who knows with him?”
“You should be a manager here,” Thomas says. “You do all his work anyway. And then your own shit too.”
“Yes, Thomas I am aware,” I deadpan. “But all my father sees me as, is a woman who should be having children and supporting her husband at home.”
“Your dad realises we aren’t in the 1900s anymore, right?” Thomas questions.
“He’s not the only one,” I sigh. “We have dinner tonight and no doubt my mother has some guy for me to go out with. Like I need a man to be happy.”
“They are just bonuses,” Thomas says with a wink.
