Chapter 1
Julian
“You have to pick a wife Julian, I’m not going to continue to be the joke of society because I have a tweny-nine year old son who hasn’t been seen with a woman.”
I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. I believe we have circled this topic more times than I care to count, but like my mother, he won’t let the topic die. Even though their marriage was arranged by their parents, you’d think my mother who is a lover of all things romance would be more inclined to allow her son the opportunity to find love. But even lately she’s taken up to being on his side about it. Why as the upper class do we feel this inate need to send our children off to the martial beds even centuries after the end of matiarchy.
“Father we’ve gone over this, I don’t wish to marry some woman that you deem worthy of the Whitemore name. Is it so unheard of in our circles to marry for love?”
He scoffs and shakes his head. I should have known he’d be against the idea. He claims to love mother, and even went so far as to say that eventually I would learn to love the wife they chose. ‘Son it’s a tradition dating back generations and you won’t be the first Whitemore to break it.’
What he really means is that I won’t be the one to embarass him and if I want to continue to be part of this family, I will fall in line just like every other person in our circle.
My mother clears her throat delicately. Always the one to calm a brewing storm in the room, her face slowly lights up like the sun peeking through dark clouds.
“Shall we have this conversation later? Possibly when we aren’t in the middle of a very important event? This is, as a matter of fact, the announcement of Julian’s takeover of the Whitemore Collection this fall, remember?”
The moment those words tumble out of her mouth, it feels as though my neck tie cinched even tighter around my throat. It’s not as if I didn’t know that it was coming, trust me, I’ve known. I think one of my earliest memories with my father was of him explaining how one day I’d rule it all. I remember feeling like Simba when Mufasa was giving him the speech over Pride Rock. Back then I looked at my mother with so much adoration.
Now though, I don’t look at him or the proposition with the same mindset. All I see is the gilded cage around me and my father walking away with the key when he hands over the empire to me.
“Yes, very well.” My father agrees with a curt nod. “Let’s get on with it then shall we?”
I pull in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. The moment is here, and I fear once he announces this all my dreams of a life outside of here with die right beside me on that stage.
My mothers hand snakes around my elbow as she tilts her head up at me. Like my father I tower over here at six foot three inches compared to her five foot four inches build. She’s always been such a beautiful woman to me. The classic beauty that artists would love to spend their days painting. All throughout my life she’s looked exactly as she does now, minus the silver gray hair she now wears proudly.
If you ask her why she doesn’t dye it, she’d tell you that women should wear their age like a badge of honor and to not try to hold onto our younger selves. I’ve always prided myself in saying I was her son.
“Dear, I know you want to marry for love, and I wish I could say that’s a possibility. But you know by now how these things work, and you know he’s let you get away with this as long as possible.” She quietly says as we weave our way through the crowd towards the stage.
The room is packed full of all the socialites of New York City, all of the vying for a chance to claim the bachelor of the Whitmore family. There are more times than not that I feel like a slab of beef dangling in front of a pack of lionesses, and it’s quite terrifying.
Have you ever felt as though people aren’t seeing you, but what they can get from you? Because that’s what it’s feeling like as my eyes scan over the sea of women all crowding around us as we walk. Each of them is only seeing my handsome face, chiseled jawline, and perfectly styled brownish-blonde hair. The suit that my tailor molded to my body and the walk that my father has perfected over the decades.
Always walk with your shoulders back son, never let a person think you don’t belong in a room. Whitmore’s walk as if they already own the space they are standing in, and we never bow our heads to others.
I hold back from sighing when I look down at her. “I know mother, but is it so bad to want someone who truly wants me, and not what I can afford them?”
We come to a stop at the stairs leading up to the stage as she pulls me to face her. Her nimble fingers work at my tie even though we both know that it isn’t messed up.
“Son as much as I’d love to say that you could find a soul in this world that doesn’t know who you are or what you can afford them. I just fear that isn’t a possibility. One day you’ll understand when you have to make the selection of a spouse for your own children. It’s never about control of your life. More to do with ensuring the selection will give the best outcome for everyone involved. Imagine if you married someone solely set out to drain your wealth. I’m sure whomever we select will eventually love you the way you have always dreamed of.”
My father clears his throat where only we can hear it and we both look over to him. His eyes bulge slightly as he tilts his head towards the microphone. That’s another thing about this life. We aren’t allowed to act as if the ground is falling out from beneath our feet. Prime and proper.
“I won’t speak on this matter again,” his eyes cut to mine. “You will take up your place in this family and do what you must. There will be no further negation or discussion.”
When he swiftly spun around and walked towards the mic, I almost felt as if he slammed the jail cell door closed, and with the click of his polished dress shoe against the floor was the ringing clang of the metal door. My eyes scanned the people, careful to ensure nobody was watching my internal spiral. But nobody seemed to notice or bother to care that I was slowly dying inside.
My mother gave me a tender smile as she patted my arm before even she turned to join my father at the podium. I’m alone in this world even when I’m surrounded by people. None of these people care about me, only what I can give them.
They might smile at my face and fill my head with all their complimentary words, but it’s nothing more than a facade to cover their true intentions.
As my feet moved across the shining wood floor, taking the ten or so steps to where my doom stands before me, I feel as if they are weighed down with concrete blocks. With both my parents staring at me I can feel each of their expectations adding more weight on top of my shoulders.
When I come to a stop next to them, my mothers hand slides around my arm as she presents the world with the picture-perfect family. I do my part and smile to the crowd of vulchers waiting for their cut of the meat.
“Thank you everyone for coming out to celebrate this monumental moment for the Whitmore family. As you know I’ve been building this empire for the better part of fifty years. With each new hotel, staff, and location, I’ve dreamed of the day that my very own son would take over and continue to build it until one day his own son would take over.”
Everyone claps and chatter breaks out around the room as the sea of men and women, all dressed in their suits and gowns, gleam up at us. The way their excitement is filling the room, you’d almost believe as if they had a hand in the building of this, and they too are proud of everything he’s done in his lifetime. It’s odd, really, because most of these people I’ve only ever seen at these kinds of events.
My father tilts his head and gestures for me to step over to him. I flick my eyes to my mother and find her eyes already glinting with unshed tears. Her head bows slightly as she takes a step back.
“I’m proud to announce that with the coming year, Julian, my son will be taking over as CEO and Chairman of the Whitmore Collection. He will continue to reside here at the [INSERT HOTEL NAME] until his marriage and home are finalized.”
Wow. He even managed to make a marriage sound like a business arrangement. As if it is nothing but a transaction to complete and move on from. Is a marriage license nothing more than a property deed to him?
I glance over at my mother, who has been married to him for fifty years this coming September. I scan all the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. One’s I’ve seen deepen over the years from laughter and smiles. Are none of them from him and the time they’ve shared?
The room may be cheering and clapping along with everything he’s saying, but inside I feel like a flower that is wilting; each proclamation is another petal dropping off my once beautiful, vibrant flower.
My father holds his hand up, silencing the crowd once more. He turns his head slowly to9wards me, and the look on his face tells me everything I need to know. Whatever he’s about to say will be him throwing the key to my jail cell down into the deepest parts of the ocean.
“I’ve got one final piece of news before we resume tonights festivities. Eleanore & I will be selecting a wife for Julian this year. He is officially on the market and will be marrying exactly one month after taking over the Whitmore Collection.”
My chest squeezes as my throat closes. He intends to ensure I’m fully commited to everything before he retires.
He leans in close to me, whispering where only I can hear. “If you don’t follow through, then you can kiss every single penny of my money good buy. So either smile and kiss some cheeks or pack your shit.”
With that he leans back up, claps his hands as he turns towards me, a pearly white smile plastered across his face as he joins in with the crowd on congratulating me.
But all I can hear is the sounds fading, a stone settling in my stomach, and my childhood dreams of painting beautiful artwork dying with each clap of his hands.
I have no choice but to shake it off and do what he says, even if I hate every minute of it. So I do. I bow at the waist, kiss my mother’s cheek, shake my father’s hand, and take the few steps down from the stage.
As I make my way through the crowd, it’s a blur of handshakes, congratulations, and women giving me their numbers in case I’m looking to add them to the eligible list of canadates. Meanwhile, the only thing I’m focused on is the door directly behind them, the one I know leads into the employee-only hallway. The one place none of these soul-sucking people can follow me.
Sure, they could buy their way into it, push their status around, but this staff doesn’t work for my father, like he thinks they do. No, these are my staff. People loyal to me.
Not long after my father told me I’d be taking over the main suite of this hotel, I quickly got to work knowing my staff and who all worked here. I didn’t want to know them only by their names and job titles. I wanted to know them for who they are and why they wanted to work here. It didn’t take me long to bridge from being the owner’s son to Julian. I don’t ask them to call me mister, although some still insist on it, like the doorman, Edwardo.
I push my way through the door, pushing past another woman presenting her name and number, and slam the door shut behind me. Silence fills the hallway, with only the air conditioner humming. My forehead presses against the cool wood of the door as I suck in a lungful of air. It feels almost like when you burst into the open air after holding your breath underwater.
The only thought running through my mind right now is how much I don’t want to be here. How I want to be anywhere but here. I shrug out of my suit jacket, tossing it down on the nearest maid cart as I begin to unbutton the buttons around my wrist. Every piece of this suit feels as if it’s attempting to cut off my life right along with my father.
I take off down the hallway, rolling up my sleeves as I go, when I see one of the maid closets open. There shouldn’t be anyone still cleaning rooms this late. I gave everyone the night off who wasn’t working the event.
I come to a stop right outside the door, ready to ask who is working this late, when suddenly my arms are full of a woman with dark brown hair and an armful of white linen towels. She screams when our bodies collide and all the towels go flying into the air.
Scrambling to catch her before she falls, I end up pulling her down on top of me, taking the brunt of the fall against my back. All the air whooshes out of me as we collide with each other and the very unforgiving floor beneath us.
The towels she was holding rain down in slow drifts on top of the both of us as we lay on the ground. Neither of us moves for a moment, both too stunned by what just happened.
For a moment it feels as though the world has paused. I can’t hear any sounds around me, no chatter down the halls, or even the hum of machinery that is always running in the background.
Instead, all I can think about is the warm, slender body pressed against mine and the rise and fall of our chests. Even in this moment, we have managed to synchronize our breathing.
Unsure what else to do, I clear my throat gently. “Excuse me, miss, are you alright?”
As if my words were an electric current to her body, she scrambles upright and jumps off of me. Her wild, frantic eyes scan the space as she turns around the face me. She’s smoothing down her black pencil skirt, checking her blouse for any piece that was untucked, and even running her hands across her perfectly slicked-back bun.
But it’s in that exact moment that I catch the one flaw to her perfectly put-together outfit—there is a smear of baby pink paint on the outside of her wrist.
Now what to do we have here? Someone has a hobby maybe? Is she a painter?
I scan my eyes down every single inch of her, scrutinizing everything that I can see. Hoping that something—anything—will tell me more about this part of her life.
“Excuse you.” She scoffs.
I blink my eyes back up to her and find that I’ve clearly given the completely wrong impression of what I was doing. Her hand is resting on her hip as she scowls at me.
“I’m not a piece of meat hanging on a hook for you to decide if you wish to make a purchase. Have some class and at least respect the woman you just plowed into.” She huffs before bending down to retrieve the towels now strewn across the hardwood floors. “Now I’m going to have to wash all of these towels and fold them so Mr. Bossy Pants doesn’t pitch a fit about a speck of dirt.” She mumbles under her breath as she rolls the towels into a ball and walks down the hallway.
I can’t help the smirk that spreads across my face as I watch her. Does she not recognize me at all? I could have sworn that I knew every single one of my staff and that they knew me. So why don’t I recognize this stunning brunette in front of me with a body that curves in all the right places and a uniform so well put together?
Yet the more that I watch her, the more certain that I am that I don’t know her. Which would explain why she’s grumbling about the boss and he’s standing right behind her.
“I know I took a job at one of the top hotels in New York City, but did he really need to supply his guests with towels that cost more than my light bill every month?” With a growl, she tosses them into the linen hamper on her cart, saying, “I mean, come on. I could pay my entire month’s worth of bills with this linen hamper alone. Didn’t know that a $20 towel couldn’t dry off your skin the same way a $300 towel could.”
With a laugh, I say, “Yeah, I can’t imagine what asshat would need such expensive towels to dry himself with. People with money, they are always so…so…” I trail off waiting to see what she’s going to say.
“Exasperating. Like, we get it, you have money. Woo for you.” She waves her hand over her head before she gasps and spins around. “You!” She points a finger at me. “Why are you still here? I mean…I’m sorry, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?” Her cheeks darken as she bows her head slightly.
This is going to be far too much fun to just walk away now. She doesn’t clearly know who I am, and for once I found someone who will not treat me differently because of my last name.
Her head tilts, those chestnut brown eyes of hers seeming to peer into my soul. I’ve never been one to pay much attention to the details of a woman. But something about the warm amber flakes is calling to me.
My fingers twitch against my arm. I want to paint those eyes, exploring all the different variations of browns I can find in them.
“No, I’m fine thank you.”
She nods her head once and turns to walk down the hallway. I watch her as she walks away, wishing there was a reason I could delay her, something I could do to keep her here. But as she turns the corner, disappearing around the corner, I know that I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.
Something tells me that until I pull out my hidden paint set and my canvases, nothing will relieve me of this torment.
