Page 15 of Daddy Down Under

“I’ll gladly share everything I saw over the years with you, but I’m sorry to say that a lot of it will be sad memories.”

He squeezed my hand. “Thank you. I’d rather learn the sad truth than have these unanswered questions.”

For the rest of the taxi ride, we sat hand in hand as I stared outside. Sleek skyscrapers mingled with Victorian-era buildings, creating a unique skyline that spoke of progress and history. The streets were alive with energy, locals and tourists alike weaving through the afternoon bustle.

The driver pulled up to a Victorian-looking building and shut off the engine. “We’re here, Mr. Sullivan.”

The grandeur of the building, with its intricate art nouveau facade, was a stark reminder of the world I usually inhabited—a world of luxury and expectations.

“Come on,” Ocean said, “let’s check out that swanky suite.”

“Mr. Sullivan, welcome to the Queen Victoria Hotel,” a voice greeted us as we stepped out of the limo.

I turned to see a man in his mid-fifties, impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit, his short-cropped hair and manicured hands speaking volumes about the establishment’s attention to detail.

“I’m Mike Gerber, your personal concierge for the duration of your stay,” he continued, his tone professional yet warm. “May I assist you with your luggage?”

I cleared my throat, slipping back into the role of the confident billionaire. “Thank you, Mike. That would be appreciated.”

As Mike gestured at two bell boys who efficiently handled our bags, Ocean’s eyes danced with amusement.

“Pretty suave, Cash,” he whispered. “You sure know how to travel in style.”

Heat crept up my neck. “It’s part of the job,” I muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the opulence in a way that I hadn’t had in a long time.

Mike led us into the lobby, providing a brief history of the hotel. I tried to focus on his words, but my mind kept drifting to Ocean, to the airport restroom, to the way my carefully constructed world seemed to be tilting on its axis.

“Your suite is ready, Mr. Sullivan,” Mike said, breaking into my thoughts. “Shall I show you up?”

CHAPTER SIX

In which the presidential suite is presidential indeed and Ocean has an opinion on my underwear.

The presidential suitelooked fit to receive a king. The opulence was staggering, even to someone accustomed to luxury like myself. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the richly appointed living room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the intricate art nouveau details adorning the walls and ceiling. The plush carpets that seemed to swallow our footsteps, the gleaming antique furniture that spoke of a bygone era, the subtle scent of fresh flowers permeating the air—it was all designed to impress, and I had to admit, it was working.

The main bedroom had a four-poster king-size bed, and for some reason, Ocean seemed impressed with how sturdy it was. Maybe he was gauging how well it would hold up against the sex he planned on having with me? A man could hope, right?

The adjoining bathroom held a gigantic tub that would easily fit us both, plus a separate shower with a ledge at the right height to plant a foot on. Excellent. It was all marble, of course, with golden fleur-de-lis accents that screamed of wealth and class.

The second bedroom was much smaller with a queen-sized bed, though no less opulent, and had its own marble bathroom, minus the massive tub. The third room was a small office, and we also had a living room with all the expected entertainment options.

“Is everything to your liking, Mr. Sullivan?” Mike asked, and I spun around. I’d almost forgotten he was still there.

“Yes, thank you.”

Mike slid a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. It was a nice thick cardstock with a classic design and superb printing. “If there’s anything I can be of service with, don’t hesitate to call. I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Thank you, Mike.”

Mike made his exit, leaving Ocean and me alone.

“Do you ever get used to this?” Ocean asked, waving his hand around him. “To this level of luxury, I mean.”

“I’ve asked myself that question too, but it’s not quite so easy to answer. You do get used to certain small luxuries, like having a driver and rarely having to wait in line for something…or not having to do certain boring tasks. I haven’t cleaned, done laundry, or gotten groceries for myself in ages. And yes, I am used to being able to buy whatever I want whenever I want.” I chuckled at a memory. “Oliver once pointed out that if I wanted a Wagyu filet mignon, rare, in the middle of the night, he could make that happen…if I were willing to pay enough.”

Ocean chuckled. “You like steak?”

“I love Wagyu. Totally worth the hype. But not to the degree where I’d be willing to pay, say, five thousand dollars to get it at four a.m. That’s a waste of money if you ask me.”

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