Doormen of the Upper East Side

I'm stuck in an uptown lobby while my dreams of making it as a model in New York hang by a single thread. Meanwhile, Olivier Arnaud lives his best life as a useless socialite, flaunting his wealth, his looks, and his privilege. His gaze taunts, and his nightly, condescending smirks burrow deep beneath my skin where I simmer with bitterness and hate. The day he asks me to deliver his mail directly to his twelfth-floor penthouse, he makes it personal, and the thread snaps—violently. With my hand around his neck, I feel alive for the first time in months.

I may be struggling as an artist in New York, but I'm a great doorman. Is it the easiest job in the city? Probably. And it gives my mind all the time it needs to wander. Sometimes to my current project or muse, but more often to the one who got away. I was the one he used to reach for in the middle of the night when the nightmares came. My adopted brother, once not much more than a stranger, became my closest friend during one of the most difficult times of his life.

My first love died in her sleep, and I ask forgiveness every day from a God I struggle to believe in. I write poems in a basement, keep my failures and secrets to myself, and live a life that feels like a lie. A life I owe to a man I barely know. Gibson Hayes is married, wealthy, powerful, and the man who gave me my job when I came to New York. He's the most generous of billionaires and the most mysterious of men.