Even thinking about it gives me butterflies. Suddenly, the unpacked boxes taking up space in my apartment don’t feel like a burden anymore. Packing can wait.
This comes first.
Chapter Three
Roman
Flat. Boring. That’s what these designs are. All of them. They’ve been done time and time again.
It doesn’t scream luxury to me, nor does it spark an emotion that makes me feel like Ihaveto stay at this hotel.
I shuffle through the inspirational images and mood boards they have all provided. The amount of gray in these images casts a dull shadow over my mood.
Why are so many designers obsessed with gray these days? There’s nothing luxurious about the color gray.
Our cheapest room goes for twelve hundred a night. Where’s the incentive to pay that kind of money for a minimalistic room with depressing colors?
A knock sounds at my door. My assistant, Dorothy, peeks her head in.
Dorothy has been with me since I started in this position three years ago. It’s not easy being the president and CEO of a billion-dollar company, but she helps keep me afloat.
Not only does she keep me organized, but she isn’t afraid to tell me like it is. And I let her because I respect her.
“Mr. Bertini, Miss Harlow is here.”
“Let her in, Dorothy,” I respond distractedly as I shuffle all the boards in front of me together and place them off to the side.
When I pictured Walker’s sister, I may have visualized his face on a woman’s body. I’ve never claimed to have a great imagination.
What I didn’t expect was for the woman approaching me to be so damn beautiful. It’s a different type of beauty than what I’m used to seeing in this city. Most of the women here wear suits tailored to perfection, designer clothing top to bottom, so much makeup that you know there’s a different face underneath, and an air of confidence that dangerously nears the line of conceited.
I stand up and reach across my desk. “Hi, Miss Harlow,” I say as her hand meets mine.
Her smile is soft. “Please, call me Eva.”
“Eva,” I reply. “Take a seat.”
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” she says graciously.
Her plump lips threaten to distract me—something I’m not used to in an interview. This never happens at work. I shift in my seat—a subtle move to reclaim my focus.
“I appreciate you preparing something on such short notice,” I say. “I know this is moving fast, but it’s critical that the project starts immediately.”
“Of course,” she replies, voice steady. But there’s a faint tremble at the end—a hairline crack that gives her away.
“I’m not sure how much Walker shared, but we own a portfolio of luxury hotels across the globe. Our toughest competitor recently underwent a major renovation, and it’s hit our bottom line hard.”
Just saying it reignites the frustration simmering under my skin. I should’ve acted years ago—trusted my instincts instead of letting my father’s endless critiques derail the vision. Now we’re behind, and every move feels like damage control.
“I’m looking for a design that stops people in their tracks. Something bold. Sophisticated. The kind of luxury you don’t find anywhere else.”
She nods with quiet confidence. “I understand. There’s nothing more powerful than making people feel like they’re part of something unforgettable. Especially when it comes to this level of clientele.”
“That’s exactly right,” I reply.
They have all said that. Every designer I’ve interviewed promised the world—unique concepts, bold visions, fresh ideas. But their work? Safe. Predictable. Forgettable.
I glance at her portfolio, propped neatly against the leg of her chair. “Let’s see what you brought. No need to walk me through your background—Walker already gave me the full rundown.”