“There’s no way that we can keep this from getting out,” she says, sipping the coffee and shaking her head.
“True,” I agree. “But we can try to control how big the flame gets.”
“I’m never going to be able to show my face—”
“Stop.” I glare at her. “You’re going to keep your head held high and remember that scandals are quickly forgotten. It’s how you handle them that’s important. This is not the time to melt down or show you care. Don’t you dare show this has upset you. You have an empire to run and can’t be bothered with gossip. Rise above this, even if it’s just on the surface. Your father groomed you for crisis.”
“I think this is more than gossip. And yes, he did groom me for crisis. But not my crisis. Not a crisis that I got myself into.”
“It’s gossip. Don’t let that loser husband have the power to destroy you.”
“Don’t speak of the dead that way,” she mumbles without much conviction.
“He doesn’t deserve anything better. And the truth of the matter is you did deserve better. And anyone who catches wind of what happened is going to say those exact words. You were above that man in life and now in death. Don’t let this take hold.”
I sit across from her and observe her trembling hands. A part of me considers walking over to her, taking her into my arms, and offering the comfort she clearly needs. But the thought is quickly pushed deep inside of me. I’m here to help, but I still need to keep my boundaries. This is still the Katja that fucked me over. This is still the woman I can’t trust.
I can’t repeat history. Especially history where I didn’t come out the victor.
“You’re going to have to pull it together because that’s who you are. You are the strong, respected, and classy Katja Belov.”
She nods, though not with the strength and confidence I’m used to seeing. “I know… I just feel… broken.” She glances down at the ground and swallows a large gulp of the coffee. “But yes. I have a lot to do. I need to figure out the funeral—”
“I have your concierge starting the process,” I interrupt. “I also have Z working with her to make sure the guest list is correct. You’re going to want a mix of true friends and family and then the guests who will expect an invitation. It needs to be controlled, however, and not a free for all for spectators. We went with St. Marks as the church. Being indoors will help keep the media away. They’ll be forced to stay outside.”
“I don’t want mistresses one through eleven there.” Her eyes narrow and her jaw tightens.
“Too bad. They have the right to say goodbye, and it’s part of Z soothing the waters. He’s making sure none of them talk. Allow him to do what he needs to do to make sure the silence is kept. He’s good at his job. Let him clean up your husband’s mess.”
She sighs deeply and stands up. “I’m going to go get dressed. I need to deal with the legal stuff and…” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Thank you. I mean it. I needed this. I needed you. Please thank Z for me as well.”
When she closes the door behind her, I decide my job with Katja is done. My conscience can be free of any guilt. Fuck Z for being right… He knew I needed to step in and help. My father would have done the exact same thing.
But my duty is done.
As I enter the elevator, I notice the marble tile of the floor has a crack in the far corner. The grout is dirty too, and I’m disappointed. This never would have passed Katja’s white glove inspections she used to do.
Entering the lobby, I realize the once opulent chandelier that hung as a centerpiece of The Whitney is missing. What’s in its place is a modern knock-off chandelier that any Best Western could get their hands on, instead of the antique masterpiece that once mastered the room. The crystal droplets that once sparkled from above have been replaced by LED fixtures, and it makes me sick to see. Why would Katja let that monstrosity take the place of true art? The history and stories that old chandelier cast light on are priceless. It was just as much a part of the hotel as the name itself. Yes, it required a ridiculous amount of upkeep and repair, but it came with the beauty and magnificence of a time long gone. It saddens me to see it removed.
Today is the first time I’ve been inside The Whitney in three years, and the little things I’m observing are bothering me. I see the frayed carpet in the furthest corners of the room. I see the chipped crown molding in a couple of discreet areas. Nothing is obvious, and nothing is noticeable to the untrained eye, but Katja can’t not notice these things. Her eyes are as trained as mine.
The minute the staff see me, they all find busy work to make it appear that they are hard at work. Not to say they don’t work hard, but they’re making an extra effort in appearing so for me. It’s nice to see I still have that power and authority over them, even in my absence.
“Mr. Cohen,” Gordon says to me as I approach the exit. I’ve liked the doorman since I was a kid, and because of that, I’ll excuse his behavior upstairs in the penthouse. He’s always been protective of Katja, and I appreciate that fact.
“I think you can call me Dex after all these years, Gordon,” I say, noticing how the man is scowling at me still.
“Mr. Cohen,” he repeats. “I think Katja will be just fine.”
I nod. “She will be.”
“I don’t think she will be in need of your service in the future.”
“One can hope,” I say as I spin around and take in The Whitney, which is disappointing in more ways than one. “But it seems that being left on her own hasn’t exactly been the best for The Whitney, now has it?”
I see his jaw twitch, but I can also see the skill the man possesses in keeping his composure. “The Whitney is doing just fine.”
“Is it?” I prod with a raised eyebrow. “Is it The Whitney we both once knew?” My eyes dart to a small nick in the glass window by the front door. “It doesn’t appear so to me.”