Page 95 of Marrying His Brother

I’m not sure how to respond.

He clears his throat. “Can you meet me at the Riviera Lakeside?”

My heart stumbles. Pain, sharp and visceral, slices through me. He wants me to see it? The place where he’s altered everything my father held dear, everything that was part of his vision? It feels like a slap.

I manage to swallow past the ache and keep my voice steady. “I’m busy today,” I say, hoping this will put him off.

“Please, Emily,” Andrew says, his voice a quiet plea, and something about the way he says it crumbles my resolve.

I let out a slow breath, reluctant but resigned. “Fine,” I say, the word heavy in my mouth.

We disconnect, and I stand there, staring at the screen, wondering what I’ve agreed to. I’ll have to face him eventually—might as well get it over with.

I step back into the bathroom, running my fingers through my hair and reaching for my brush. My hands move automatically, pulling myself together piece by piece, forcing composure.

After drying my hair, I put on makeup, the familiar ritual calming me. My reflection looks back, more composed than I feel, but the slight tremble in my hand gives me away.

I pick out a simple outfit—a navy skirt and a white blouse, neat and understated. Nothing too formal, but something that gives me a sense of control.

Finally, I slip on my shoes and grab my keys, the thundering of my heart the only sound in the quiet apartment.

As I drive toward the Riviera Lakeside, I can’t stop wondering how it will feel to see him again. To stand in front of him, to look into those familiar eyes that once held such warmth, only to see them cool and distant.

When I finally pull up, the sight of the hotel stops me in my tracks. The building is freshly painted. I step out of the car.

Andrew has kept the same colors—warm, neutral tones that blend with the natural surroundings—but there’s a new vibrancy to the place, a feeling that it’s somehow been reborn.

My father’s hotel, yet different.

Then something catches my eye. My gaze lifts, and I see the name, clear as day, shining above the entrance: The Ace Riviera.

Emotion wells up, thick and uncontrollable, spilling over before I can stop it. Tears blur my vision as I stand there, feeling the enormity of what he’s done, of this gesture I never expected.

Footsteps sound beside me, and then Andrew is there. “I thought it was a good way to honor your father,” he says, his voice soft, filled with a quiet sincerity that reaches me through my tears.

I try to speak, but no words come. All I can do is nod, my throat tight as I swallow back the overwhelming gratitude, the mix of emotions I can’t even begin to name.

“Come on,” he says gently. “I’ll show you inside. There’s no one here this morning—I made sure of that.”

I follow him in, each step hesitant as if I’m afraid to breathe and break the spell of this moment.

The lobby is bright, bathed in morning light, and though everything looks new, the familiar warmth and charm are still here, lovingly preserved.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice trembling. “My father would have loved this.”

We walk through the space together, moving from the lobby to the staircase and then upstairs. He leads me into one of the newly renovated rooms, and I pause, taking it all in.

The room is elegant, understated, with touches of modern style blended seamlessly with the old-world charm my father loved.

The colors are soft and inviting, a mix of deep greens and warm wood tones, accented by tasteful art on the walls that echoes the local landscape. It feels like a place to breathe, a sanctuary that welcomes, without overpowering.

I turn to Andrew, tears filling my eyes again, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it all. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

He looks at me, his gaze intense but softened with an understanding I hadn’t expected.

I walk over to the window, trying to steady myself, looking out at the view of the lake, the gentle ripples on the water somehow mirroring the turbulence inside me.

Andrew comes to stand beside me, close but not quite touching. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, when he speaks. “How are you, really?”

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