The next three days were a blur of furious activity: selling her Orlando condo, liquidating her stock options, and coordinating the Herculean task of moving her corporate life—a few boxes of tailored suits, her degree scrolls, and the cursed Walkman—to a forgotten island on the Mississippi.
She arrived at the mainland side of the Turner Landing just as the late afternoon sun bled into the humid evening sky. Maya parked the rental car by the small, ornate stone bridge that connected the mainland to the island. It wasn't a modern, functional bridge; it was a narrow, picturesque structure of grey stone, carved with intricate, damp ivy, looking more like an antique ruin.
As she stepped onto the island's neatly kept grass, the sheer scale of the Palace was staggering. Up close, the resemblance to Buckingham Palace was less a proud architectural statement and more a mocking absurdity, a gargantuan velvet theatre set dropped into a damp Southern landscape. The "well painted walls" she'd seen in the cab were now a fading, moss-speckled salmon pink, the occasional red scars she'd noted now revealed to be streaks of mineral runoff, giving the impression the building was weeping rust.
A dark, compact man in a crisp white shirt and black trousers was waiting for her near the Palace's main copper doors. He was lean, with forearms corded from work, and looked far too intense to be a doorman.
"Miss Driftwood?" he asked, his voice a low, melodic baritone with a soft, distinct Southern River lilt.
"I am Maya Driftwood. And you are?" she asked, dropping her heavy, leather handbag onto one of the ancient stone pathways.
He gave a slight, formal nod. "Liam O'Connell. I'm the estate manager and, lately, the head bartender. Welcome to the Isle Sainte-Claire." There was a wry edge to the welcome that Maya immediately disliked. She could already sense the resentment beneath the starched collar.
"Estate manager? The Palace is to be a hotel, Mr. O'Connell. I'm looking for the general manager and the head of guest services," Maya corrected sharply, reaching for the authority she was used to commanding.
Liam didn't flinch. He just gestured toward the hulking Victorian structure. "You're looking at him. And the gardener, the primary repairman, the concierge, and the night watchman. The Palace staff has been pared down over the last five years, Miss Driftwood. We are currently a staff of seven. And we are very busy."
He was beautiful, in a rugged, sun-weathered way that stood in stark contrast to the polished bankers and lawyers Maya usually dealt with. He was also her first and most immediate problem.
"Seven staff for 279 rooms," Maya repeated, her corporate brain already doing the math, calculating the catastrophic labor gap. She pulled a pen and a small notebook from her bag. "Right. The first order of business is recruitment and reorganization. I need a full staff roster, including duties and payroll history. And I need a full list of all existing maintenance issues, ranked by structural risk."
Liam took a slow step closer, his eyes a warm, dark hazel that seemed to hold the river's secrets. "The first order of business, Miss Driftwood, is usually finding the light switch. The old systems are touchy, and the last guests checked out six weeks ago. It's dark inside, and the ghost of your great-aunt is notoriously territorial."
He wasn't joking. At least, not completely.
Maya met his gaze, refusing to give ground. "I have a $20,000 flashlight in my carry-on, Mr. O'Connell, and I believe in amortization, not phantoms. Lead the way."