Playing His Game

Chapter 1

Cameron

Sunlight pierces through my eyelids, and the throbbing in my head reminds me of last night's excesses. Something warm shifts beside me. Shit. Opening one eye, I catch a glimpse of honey-blonde hair spread across the Egyptian cotton pillowcase.

The memories flood back—martinis at the bar, her laugh, those legs in that dress. What was her name? Sarah? Sophie?

Doesn't matter. Time for the classic exit strategy.

I ease out of bed with practiced stealth, my muscles protesting as I gather my discarded boxer briefs from the floor. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I back away from the bed, watching her steady breathing. At least she's still asleep. 

In the living area of my suite, I run a hand through my disheveled hair and head straight for the espresso machine. The mechanical whir seems deafening in the morning quiet. I tap my fingers against the marble counter, willing the machine to work faster. 

"Come on, you overpriced piece of..."

The rich aroma hits my nostrils as the dark liquid finally streams into my cup. I glance at the clock—6:30 AM. Perfect. There's still time to slip out before she wakes up. My phone buzzes on the counter, a reminder of the life waiting for me outside these walls. 

I grab the freshly brewed cup like a lifeline and pad over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawls before me, already alive and pulsing despite the early hour. Yellow cabs crawl like insects far below, and the morning sun glints off neighboring skyscrapers.

I take a sip, letting the bitter warmth chase away some of the hangover fog. This view never gets old, even if the parade of morning-after encounters does. 

The coffee burns a path down my throat as I scroll through my phone, checking the latest messages from potential investors. My father's name pops up among them. Delete. I don't need his opinion on this venture.

The concept of The Veil has been living in my head for years—a voyeur hotel where discretion meets desire, where the elite can explore their darkest fantasies without fear of tabloid headlines or social media scandals. This week’s meetings have gone better than expected. These stuffy old money types practically salivated when I laid out the projected returns. I watched their eyes light up, dollar signs practically flashing across their pupils. 

My phone buzzes. Another message from the real estate agent about the downtown property.

"Perfect timing," I mutter, opening the attachment.

The building's bones are exactly what I need—art deco architecture, private entrance options, and enough square footage to create separate spaces for different... proclivities. The basement level alone could accommodate the more specialized requests I've already received from interested parties.

Taking another sip of coffee, I pull up the membership applications. Fifty pre-approved members already, each vetted through my private security firm. Each willing to pay an obscene amount for the privilege of anonymity and indulgence. The names on the list read like a who's who of New York's elite— CEOs, politicians, celebrities hiding behind shell companies and NDAs. Just the kind of clientele I need to make this venture successful. And with their combined net worth, the sky-high membership fees I've set won't even make them blink.

My father built his empire on luxury and tradition. Boring. Predictable. The Hawkins name has always meant old money and older values. But times are changing. The wealthy don't just want another five-star hotel—they want experiences. They want to shed their public personas and explore who they really are behind closed doors.

And I'm going to give them exactly that.

The sleeping beauty in my bed stirs, reminding me I need to make my exit soon. I have a breakfast meeting with the contractors in an hour. Time to transform this vision into reality, one private room at a time.

The marble bathroom calls to me like an oasis. I step inside, stripping off my boxer briefs and cranking the rainfall shower to scalding. Steam billows around me as I step under the spray, letting the hot water pound away the remnants of last night's activities.

My mind wanders to the blueprints for Voyeur as I work shampoo through my hair. The private elevator access points, the specialized soundproofing, the discrete parking garage entrance—every detail designed for absolute privacy. The trust fund babies and CEOs will pay through the nose for that kind of guarantee.

"No more 'Yes, Dad' and 'Of course, Dad,'" I mutter, rinsing off the lather. "This is my fucking legacy."

The water sluices down my chest, each drop a reminder of my resolve. I brace my hands against the cool tile wall, feeling the tension in my muscles. Twenty years of being the good son, following the prescribed path, playing by his rules. But not anymore. My jaw clenches as the steam thickens around me, obscuring everything but my determination. This is my time. My vision. My empire.

I shut off the shower and grab a towel, wiping condensation from the mirror. My reflection stares back—six feet two inches of carefully maintained perfection. Years of boxing and weight training have carved definition into every muscle. A fighter's body wrapped in designer suits. The steam has left my black hair damp and tousled, but that'll be fixed before my meeting.

"Time to show them what a real empire looks like."

I dress quickly and silently, sliding into last night's suit with practiced ease. The girl—Sandra? Stella?—hasn't stirred. Good. These goodbyes are always awkward, and I've got better things to do than exchange empty promises.

Grabbing my phone and wallet, I slip out of the suite without a sound. The hallway stretches empty before me, thick carpet muffling my footsteps as I head for the elevator. Another conquest left behind, forgotten before the doors even close.

I have bigger priorities. Time to build my kingdom.

The elevator doors slide open to the lobby, and I adjust my tie, catching my reflection in the polished brass. It's not that I'm an asshole—I just know better than to lead anyone on. These women deserve someone who can give them what they want, and right now, that's not me.

My shoes click against the marble as I approach the front desk. The morning clerk straightens up, recognition flickering across his face.

"Mr. Hawkins, good morning."

"Morning, James." I lean against the counter, keeping my voice low. "The guest in my suite—make sure she's comfortable. Room service, spa services, whatever she wants today. Put it all on my card."

He nods, fingers already moving across the keyboard. "Of course, sir. And regarding your information?"

"Complete discretion. Don't give her my name or any details if she asks."

"Understood, sir. Will there be anything else?"

My phone buzzes—the contractor confirming our breakfast meeting. "No, that's all. Thanks."

The guilt that used to nag at me during these morning-after exits faded years ago. Better a clean break than empty promises. These women come to places like this looking for their Christian Grey fantasy—some rich guy to sweep them off their feet. But I've got bigger plans than playing Prince Charming.

Besides, they always land on their feet. A day of pampering at a five-star hotel isn't exactly a terrible consolation prize.

I exit through the hotel's revolving doors and slide into the back seat of my waiting car. The Mercedes door closes with a satisfying thunk, sealing out the city noise. Frank, my driver, pulls away from the curb as I loosen my tie.

My phone vibrates. My assistant Jessica's name lights up the screen.

"Talk to me."

"They're in." Jessica's voice carries that precise mix of professional calm and barely contained excitement. "Just got off the call with Richardson. The other stakeholders followed his lead—unanimous approval across the board."

I lean back against the leather seat, a smile tugging at my lips. "Numbers?"

"Initial investment of fifty million, with the option to double once we hit our first-quarter projections. The contracts are being drawn up as we speak."

"And the special provisions?"

"Approved without question. They're practically drooling over the exclusivity clause."

"Fucking perfect." The tension in my shoulders releases. "Send everything to legal. I want those contracts airtight."

"Already done. And Mr. Hawkins?" There's a pause. "Your father called the office this morning."

My jaw tightens. "Delete the message."

"He mentioned something about the board meeting next—"

"Delete it, Jessica. I'm done playing heir apparent to his vanilla empire."

"Understood. Should I move forward with the staff recruitment?"

I watch the city blur past my window. "Green light on everything. It's game time."

"I'll set up the interviews for next week. Starting with security and service personnel."

"Good. And Jessica? Make sure they understand what they're signing up for. I don't want any pearl-clutching when they see what Voyeur really is."

"Trust me, the NDAs could survive a nuclear blast. Anything else?"

"That's all. Keep me updated."

I end the call and close my eyes, letting the satisfaction wash over me like a warm wave. Five years of relentless planning, of meticulously building connections, and of proving myself to investors who saw me as nothing but Harrison Hawkins's spoiled son. I've shed that skin. This is my empire now.

Now it's my turn to show them what real innovation looks like.