Page 23 of The Haunted Hotel
Private.
I swallow hard and fist my hands at my side. My collar feels too tight, like my tie is attempting to strangle me. I chose this suit carefully; it’s one of my favourites and has always made me feel confident and in control like my own personal armour.
Warren was right—although I’ll never admit it to him. I did have to earn my place in our family business, even if not in the family. I wasn’t biologically related to Royce Hamilton, a fact the press never let me forget. My every move was scrutinised in a way that Warren never was.
My stepfather came from old money that went right back to the Gold Rush. His marriage to my mother was treated like a Cinderella story by the press: the poor, young, beautiful, grieving widow falling in love with a third-generation hotel magnate, their perfect son born barely a year after the wedding of the year.
It’s true that Royce never treated me any different from Warren. He loved us both and made sure I knew it. When he passed away, he left us equal shares in his hotel empire, but no matter how hard I work, I still don’t feel like I’ve earned it. I’ve spent my whole life under a microscope, always aware that my behaviour had to be above reproach—no partying at college, no affairs, no scandals. I knew the slightest hint of impropriety would bring the full scrutiny of the press down on me again. Things had only just died down since my stepfather’s passing. Once everyone knew about my inheritance, they’d dragged everything back up again—my biological father’s death, my mother’s marriage to Royce, the fact that I was not his son.
Somehow, it always boiled down to that.
He was a good man, a good father, and he loved my mother, as shallow as she could sometimes be. I even love my brother, even though we’re technically only half-siblings. I never resented Warren. I’ve adored him from the first moment he was placed into my arms, arms that at the time were barely big enough to hold a squirmy red-faced baby.
I never minded that I wasn’t Royce’s biological son, but somehow, that is always the yardstick by which I’m measured. The press has constantly tried to build up animosity and competition between Warren and me.
Frankly, it’s exhausting. I’m sick to death of continuously being judged. I swallow again as I stare at my grandfather’s door.
What the fuck am I doing here?
Why did I think it was a good idea to put myself in a position where my only remaining blood family could once again reject me? After my mother took me to New York, I never heard from him again. Not so much as a birthday card or a single phone call. I don’t remember this man at all, and it’s clear he doesn’t care about me.
I should never have let Warren talk me into this trip. It was a stupid idea, but before I can even consider turning around and heading straight back to my room, Ellis reaches up and knocks on the door.
He waits a few moments, then opens the door and pokes his head around. “Mr Ashton-Drake, it’s just us.” He opens the door wider and steps inside.
I stand frozen, unsure what to do. We haven’t actually been invited in and I’m not sure I feel completely comfortable just–
I don’t have time to finish that thought because Ellis grabs my arm and tows me inside. Caught off guard, I stumble into the room and nearly trip over my own feet. I find myself standing in… a sitting room, I suppose you’d call it. There’s an upright piano pushed against one wall, the lid covered in framedpictures. The walls are papered in a faded rose print, with more pictures mounted everywhere. Tucked in one corner is a worn armchair with matching footstool and next to it is a side table stacked high with magazines. A low coffee table is close by, and a tea tray on it contains an empty cup, a plate holding a few crumbs, and a teapot.
There are a couple more old sofas covered with crocheted blankets and frayed cushions, and a TV cabinet stands in the corner directly opposite the armchair. It’s the type I’d expect to see in a museum—small and boxy and built directly into the cabinet. It even has buttons and dials on it. Like the computer at the front desk, I wonder if it even works at all.
The room is silent except for the sound of our quiet breaths and the monotonous ticking of a small golden carriage clock sitting on the mantle above a fireplace.
I blink as I stare at it. It’s a real fireplace, complete with crackling flames and the vague scent of smoke, as opposed to an LED screen with the image of a cheerfully snapping fire.
It also appears that Ellis and I are completely alone. My grandfather is nowhere in sight.
“I thought you said he was expecting me?” My tone is more accusing than I intended.
“He is,” Ellis says simply. “Don’t worry, he won’t have gone far. He doesn’t ever leave his rooms.”
Before I can begin to unpack that sentence, Ellis calls my grandfather’s name loudly, and a door on the far side of the room creaks open. I have just enough time to register a mop of wild white hair before the door slams shut.
“Hey, Mr Ashton-Drake,” Ellis calls in that cheery way of his. “I brought you a guest, remember? Your grandson Morgan has come to visit. Isn’t that lovely?”
I just about hear a grunt come from the other side of the door. Ellis practically skips across the room whereas I shuffle along in his wake like I’m being led to the gallows.
“I think he’s feeling a little shy.” Ellis sends me an apologetic smile, then gives a polite little tap at the door. “Mr Ashton-Drake, wouldn’t you like to come out and say hello? Morgan has come all the way from America to see you.”
“Then he can ruddy well go back there. Bloody Yanks,” says the gruff voice on the other side.
“Mr Ashton-Drake.” Ellis fists his hands on his hips as he firmly admonishes the closed door. “That’s really very rude.”
There’s another huff from the other side and the door creaks open a fraction, revealing a wrinkly face with dark brown eyes, wiry white eyebrows that match the mop of hair, and a glower I see every time I look in the mirror. He then glances over at Ellis.
“Sorry,” he mumbles contritely, and I’m surprised at the dynamic between them.
Given that the formal way Ellis refers to my grandfather as Mr Ashton-Drake, I’d assumed they had a professional but distant employer-employee relationship. But I’m sure I’m not imagining the way his eyes soften with affection when he looks at Ellis.