Chapter 1

Harper

The confirmation email glows on my laptop screen like a beacon, and I sit back in my desk chair with a grin that threatens to split my face in half. The Avery Hotel account. Mine.

"Luna Communications has been selected to represent the Avery Hotel's centennial celebration campaign."

I read the words three more times, savoring each syllable. My fingers drum against the polished wood of my desk—the one splurge I allowed myself when I moved into this Tribeca office space two years ago. Everything else screams "boutique agency on a budget," but this mahogany beauty whispers "Harper Lane means business."

My phone chimes with a text from my assistant Nia: "Saw you doing a victory dance through the glass. Good news?"

I glance toward the door where Miranda's stationed at her sleek white desk, then type back: "The kind that pays for your Christmas bonus."

She pops her head through the doorway, her silver hoop earrings catching the afternoon light streaming through my floor-to-ceiling windows. "Please tell me it's not another startup promising equity instead of actual money."

"Better. Much better." I swivel my chair to face her fully. "Remember that proposal I've been obsessing over for the past month? The one where I color-coded seventeen different mood boards and you threatened to hide my laminator?"

Nia's eyes widen. "The Avery Hotel? Harper, no freakin' way."

"The Avery Hotel. Yes way." I wave the laptop screen toward her like a trophy. "One hundred years of Manhattan history, and they want Luna Communications to tell their story."

She steps fully into my office, her expression shifting from excitement to concern. "But didn't you say they were hemorrhaging money? That the new owner might tear it down?"

The reminder dampens my victory lap, but only slightly. "Which is exactly why they need someone who understands legacy. Someone who can make the city fall in love with the Avery all over again."

"Someone who specializes in lost causes?"

I shoot her a look. "Someone who specializes in finding the extraordinary in what others overlook. There's a difference."

Nia crosses her arms, leaning against my doorframe. "And the budget?"

"Substantial enough to keep the lights on and then some." I close the laptop with a satisfying click. "Plus, if I pull this off, every historic property in the city will want Luna Communications on speed dial."

"And if you don't?"

I stand, smoothing down my emerald wrap dress and adjusting the copper statement necklace that belonged to my grandmother. "Then I'll have given the Avery Hotel the send-off it deserves. But that's not happening on my watch."

"Nia, emergency coffee run." I grab my purse from the desk drawer, fishing out a twenty. "Two pumpkin-spice lattes from Brew & Barrel downstairs. The good ones with the real whipped cream, not that styrofoam nonsense."

She catches the bill with practiced ease. "Are we celebrating or commiserating? Because your caffeine choices tell very different stories."

"Celebrating. Definitely celebrating." I sink back into my chair, already mentally cataloguing the treasure trove of ideas I've been hoarding like a strategic dragon. "And get yourself something nice too. Today feels like a pastry day."

"Now I know you're serious." Nia grins, backing toward the door. "Be right back with liquid victory."

The office quiets except for the distant hum of Tribeca traffic below. I pull out the leather portfolio I keep locked in my bottom drawer—the one labeled "Legacy Luxury" in my careful handwriting. Every concept inside represents months of late-night brainstorming, weekend research sessions, and those shower thoughts that demanded immediate capture on whatever napkin or receipt I could find.

The vintage postcard campaign. I flip through mock-ups of sepia-toned cards featuring the Avery's original facade, with modern QR codes hidden in the architectural details. Heritage meets technology without shouting about it.

The "Century Stories" podcast series. Local historians, former guests, staff members who've worked there for decades—everyone has an Avery tale. I imagine Oliver's British accent narrating the opening episodes, though I haven't met the man yet.

My fingers trace the edge of a mood board showcasing the "Ghosts of Glamour" event concept. 1920s speakeasy nights in the hotel's basement, complete with period cocktails and jazz musicians. Turn the building's age into an asset instead of apologizing for it.

The elevator dings in the hallway, followed by Nia's voice thanking someone for holding the door. Three years of building Luna Communications, countless pitches to clients who saw my age and assumed inexperience, endless nights wondering if I'd made the right choice leaving the security of my corporate position—it all crystallizes into this moment.

Every rejection letter taught me something. Every small client who trusted me with their story prepared me for this. The bakery owners who needed fresh branding, the boutique hotels in Queens looking to attract Manhattan tourists, the family restaurants trying to compete with chain establishments—they all led here.

Nia returns, bearing two perfectly topped lattes and a paper bag that smells like cinnamon and possibility.

"Alright, boss lady. Time to properly toast your empire."

Nia settles into the chair by my desk, pulling out her tablet while I fire up my laptop's browser. "Alright, let's see what we're working with. I need every angle of this place burned into my brain."

"Starting with the New York Public Library archives." My fingers fly across the keyboard. "They've got digitized newspaper coverage going back to the hotel's opening in 1924."

The first image loads—a black and white photograph of the Avery's grand opening. Women in drop-waist dresses and men in tuxedos spill out onto Fifth Avenue, champagne glasses glinting under the marquee lights.

"Look at that lobby." Nia leans forward, squinting at her screen. "Those crystal chandeliers are the size of my apartment."

I zoom in on the architectural details. Art Deco flourishes frame every doorway, geometric patterns march up the columns, and the concierge desk curves like a marble wave. "The craftsmanship is insane. They don't make buildings like this anymore."

"Because nobody can afford to." Nia scrolls through her tablet. "I found some color photos from the 1960s renovation. Oh wow, Harper, look at this ballroom."

She tilts her screen toward me. The Grand Ballroom stretches across the entire frame, its coffered ceiling painted in deep blues and golds. Massive windows overlook Central Park, and the parquet floor gleams like honey.

I picture myself standing in that exact spot, clipboard in hand, directing photographers as they capture every angle for the campaign. The late afternoon light would stream through those windows, casting long shadows across the floor while I explain to the creative team why we need both wide shots and intimate details.

"The bar area from 1978." Nia swipes to the next image. "Back when everyone wore leisure suits and ordered Harvey Wallbangers."

The Avery's Oak Room lounge spans before us in all its wood-paneled glory. Burgundy leather banquettes line the walls, and the bar itself curves in an elegant S-shape, backed by mirrors that reflect bottles of top-shelf liquor.

I imagine walking through that space during our first official photoshoot, pointing out the original brass fixtures to the lighting crew while the mixologist prepares period cocktails for the styled shots. My heels would click against the hardwood, and I'd run my hand along the smooth bar rail, feeling the decades of conversations and celebrations soaked into the grain.

"Harper, you're getting that look again."

"What look?"

"The one where you're mentally redecorating someone else's space." Nia grins, pulling up another photo. "Here's the presidential suite from the 1980s. Before they ruined it with that terrible mauve wallpaper. What the hell was that?"

The suite unfolds across multiple rooms—a sitting area with a grand piano, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and French doors leading to a private terrace. The bedroom features a four-poster bed that could sleep six people comfortably.

"I can see the 'Secrets of the Suites' social media series already." I lean back against my chair, latte growing cold in my hands. "Each post reveals one hidden detail or historical tidbit about a different room."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that three presidents stayed in that suite, or that Marilyn Monroe supposedly left a lipstick print on the bathroom mirror that housekeeping refused to clean for six months."

Nia raises an eyebrow. "Is that true?"

"It will be by the time I'm done with the storytelling."

"Girl, you are going to eat this up, and you're not leaving any crumbs!" Nia waves her latte like a conductor's baton, punctuating each word with theatrical flourish.

I burst into laughter, nearly spilling my drink across the keyboard. "Did you just quote TikTok at me during my professional milestone moment?"

"Professional milestone requires professional celebration language." She takes a sip and grins. "Besides, you know I'm right. The Avery Hotel won't know what hit them."

Outside my window, Manhattan puts on its October show. Golden leaves spiral down from the street trees, catching the afternoon sunlight like confetti before settling on the sidewalk below. A businessman in a charcoal coat steps carefully around a puddle, phone pressed to his ear, while a woman in red heels clicks past with a dog that's wearing a sweater nicer than most of my casual wardrobe.

"Look at that view." I gesture toward the glass. "Three years ago, I was working out of my kitchen table in a studio apartment in Queens, and now I'm watching Manhattan from my own office."

"With your name on the door and everything." Nia follows my gaze. "Remember when you were convinced you'd made a mistake leaving Mattheson & Associates?"

The memory hits like a cold splash. Those first months of uncertainty, the rejection letters piling up, the nights I stared at my dwindling bank account and wondered if I'd destroyed my career for an impossible dream.

"James Mattheson called me 'impulsive' when I gave my notice."

"James Mattheson's still stuck representing tech bros who think kombucha is a personality trait." Nia scrolls through her tablet again. "While you're about to make Manhattan fall in love with a century-old hotel."

I watch another gust of wind send leaves dancing past the window. A couple stops at the corner below, the woman pointing up at something while her partner follows her gaze. The way they move together, like they're sharing a secret only they understand, reminds me why I fell in love with this city's stories in the first place.

"You know what the best part is?" I turn back to Nia. "This isn't just about Luna Communications anymore. If I pull this off, I'm proving that heritage matters. That history has value beyond square footage and profit margins."

"And if you don't?"

"Then at least I'll go down swinging for something that matters." I raise my latte toward the window. "To leaving crumbs."

Nia clinks her cup against mine. "To eating it all up."