Page 1 of One Weekend in Quebec City

ChapterOne

Spencer

God. Whata long fucking day.

As I lean back in my chair, the leather softly squeaking under my weight, and shove my fingers through my hair, the faint remnants of cologne on my collar and sweat from my pits waft up to my nose.

An image of Mom pops into my head. Thelast few times I visited; she never mentioned my hair once. Sheprefers it short and neatly trimmed. Alwayshas. Ifit simply grazes the edge of my collar, she openly criticizes the length, telling me I look shabby.

She hasn’t said a single word about it since Dad’s funeral. Eventhough I shouldn’t be so concerned about something as superficial as the length of my hair, I make a mental note to schedule an appointment with my hairdresser.

The sun is beginning to lower, creating a stunning array of burnt orange and pink behind the New York City skyline outside my office windows. Mostpeople have long since left their workspace and gone home to their families for the evening. IfI had left work at quitting time like a normal human being, I would have heard the distant wail of a siren, the steady rhythm of traffic, and the ceaseless chatter of people spilling out onto the streets. Buton the twenty-first floor, I don’t hear a damn thing. AndI only know it’s well past time to leave myself because of the setting sun. Andmy gurgling stomach. Ialso didn’t get to eat lunch.

I spin my chair away from the view and instead face the polished mahogany desk, its top scattered with various reports and documents. Mycomputer screen has gone black, andeven the light on the desk phone has stopped blinking. The walls of my office are lined with modern art and bookshelves filled with business tomes and family photos. Ioften wonder if Dad kept pictures of us growing up to remind him of his family waiting at home or the family he wantedothersto think he gave a shit about.

Father of the year, he wasn’t.

The central air sends a cool breeze against my skin, a welcome relief from the stifling summer heat that clings to the city like a second skin. Thescent of cold, stale coffee lingers in the air, a reminder of the countless cups I’ve consumed throughout the day.

My gaze shifts to the couch along the end wall. Ineed to get rid of that thing. Ican almost feel the stench of Dad’s indiscretions. It’slike a thick, choking smog that threatens to bury me.

Most people think I don’t give a damn about my reputation. Infact, they think I’m just like him. ButI do care. The anxiety and tension of trying to distance myself from his shadow coil around my chest, tightening like a vice.

Today was another day like the meeting from hell a month ago.

“Spencer, we need to discuss your… extracurricular activities,” Old Man Henderson had said, his voice dripping with disdain. Headjusted his ancient, wire-rimmed glasses, peering at me over the top of them like I was some kind of insect he wanted to squash. Theman was ninety if he was a day.

“My what?” I’d asked, keeping my voice even though my blood had already started to boil. Hendersonhas been riding my ass since the last shovel of dirt landed on Dad’s coffin.

“The models, Spencer,”another board member, Thompson,chimed in. “The constant stream of them. It’s… unseemly for a man of your stature.”

Unseemly? Myfather practically made a sport of sleeping with any woman who caught his eye—married or not—and these dinosaurs never said a word. Butbecause I occasionally enjoy the company of beautiful, consenting,singlewomen, women my own age, I’m suddenly a liability?

“My personal life ismypersonal life,”I’d ground out, my jaw so tight it still aches hours later. “It has zero impact on my ability to run this company.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, son,”Henderson had sneered. “Perception is reality. Andright now, the perception is that you’re more interested in chasing skirts than securing deals.”

That meeting ended like today’s meeting—with me stalking back into my office and pouring myself a very large glass of very expensive Canadian whiskey.

Today they were pissed about some social media influencer who’s decided to use my life to increase her popularity ratings. She’sbeen sharing whatever video or image she can dig up and adding her two cents, painting me as a rich, entitled man-whore. Apparently, the world now sees me as nothing more than a playboy, a headline, a scandal waiting to happen.

They’re comparing me to my father.

In reality, I’m a man trying to hold together a crumbling empire, a son trying to bring back honor his mother’s name, and a brother trying to pave the way for his siblings to join him one day in running the family business if there’s one left to run.

God, I fucking hate this.

Shoving my chair back, I jump up, startling Linda, my assistant. Hereyes dart to me as I spin around to face the floor-to-ceiling window again. Myreflection stares back, a thirty-three-year-old man withtousledtoo-long dirty blonde hair and eyes that look tired and slightly defeated. Thecool glass against my forehead is a soothing balm to the throbbing in my temples.

Behind me, Linda sits in the guest chair, her spiral notepad in herlap,and a displeased look etched onto her face. Regardlessof the hour, she’s impeccably dressed as always, her aged blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Thecrisp, fresh scent of her perfume—something floral and sophisticated—hangs in the air, a subtle reminder of her presence.

“Spencer, they want results,”she says, her voice crisp and professional, cutting through the silence like a knife. But there’s no harshness to the tone. Infact, she sounds sorry for me.

I glance at my watch and inwardly sigh. Aftertoday’s marathon session, she must be as exhausted as I am, yet she looks and behavesas thoughit’s nine in the morning, not eight at night. Likewe just didn’t spend hours behind closed doors, beating a dead horse, only to spend the rest of the workday holed up in my office, rehashing the entire fucking day.

Through the glass, I watch as she leans back and crosses her arms, her tailored black blazer wrinkling slightly with the movement. It’sthe first sign of relaxation since we arrived early this morning.

When Dad died, I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep his personal assistant. Ifshe’d been loyal to him and his bullshit and complicit in keeping his secrets, then I wanted nothing to do with her. I’mnothing like my father, regardless of what mainstream and social media want to believe. Buton my very first day in the office, Linda stalked in, head held high, hair pinned back, wearing one of her signature business suits, and not very subtly told me that if I intended to be a carbon copy of my father, she’d hand in her resignation, effective immediately. Thewoman is at least twenty years my senior, and I respect her more than any of the men who sat around that conference room table every third Monday of the month since the day I walked through those doors.

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