Liam took a key from his pocket—a heavy, antique brass skeleton key—and turned it in the main door, a grinding sound that echoed loudly through the humid air. The copper doors, Maya realized, weren't copper at all, but rather wood covered in badly oxidized verdigris.
Inside, the grand entrance hall was a suffocating tableau of faded luxury. A massive, winding marble staircase dominated the space, but the marble itself was dimmed by a film of river silt and dust. Giant portraits of stern, long-dead Driftwood ancestors stared down from the high walls, their eyes following Maya as she stepped over a loose Persian rug. The air was thick, musty, and cool, trapped there for years.
"Main power is a series of circuit breakers in the basement," Liam explained, pulling a battered, military-grade flashlight from a leather pouch on his belt. He didn't offer the light to Maya, who now felt ridiculous with her tiny, high-powered LED torch. "We run the essential wings on separate circuits to avoid blowing the main grid when the river humidity gets high."
"Efficient, in a 19th-century way," Maya muttered, trailing him into a reception parlor where all the furniture was shrouded in white cloth sheets. It looked like a graveyard of expensive things.
Liam flicked his flashlight beam over a massive, unpolished mahogany desk. "This was the primary receiving room. Used to be where your grandmother, Eleanor, would hold court for visiting dignitaries."
"It will be the hotel lobby," Maya stated, already visualizing the space: removing the sheets, replacing the rug, commissioning a modern front-desk terminal. "I want wi-fi boosters in here, a proper phone system, and two dedicated guest service agents—"
"And where would the two dedicated agents sleep, Miss Driftwood?" Liam interrupted gently, though the question was a sharp reminder of the 279 empty rooms surrounding them. "The staff quarters are across the bridge. Only a few of us stay in the Palace's annex, and we're already cramped."
She ignored the jab, moving through a sprawling dining room capable of seating fifty. She ran a gloved hand along the dusty surface of a long table. "The staff problem will be solved. Show me a guest room. One that's usable."
Liam led her back toward the grand staircase and up to the second floor. The Palace groaned with every step they took, the sounds of shifting foundations and old wood complaining in the silence.
"We keep the West Wing viable," Liam said, leading her down a hallway where the tapestries were mottled with water stains. "It's the furthest from the river, structurally sounder. This is the Driftwood Suite."
He opened a door to a room that was still immense but relatively preserved. A four-poster bed stood draped in heavy, dark fabric, and the windows offered a spectacular view: the wide, silver ribbon of the Mississippi flowing silently below, dotted with the running lights of barges. For the first time, Maya felt a tiny, almost imperceptible prickle of awe. The view was priceless.
Liam leaned against the doorframe, watching her closely. "It's a powerful view, isn't it? Eleanor used to say the river runs in the Palace's veins. It gives, and it takes."
Maya turned, pulling herself back to her corporate mission. "It's a strong selling point. But the wallpaper is peeling, the HVAC is clearly non-existent, and the electrical outlets are antique. I'm estimating fifty thousand in immediate renovation costs just for this wing."
Liam pushed off the frame. "Fifty thousand will buy you a new roof truss in the East Wing. This place, Maya—it needs heart, not just cash. You can't budget a legend."
"You can if you want it to survive," she retorted, staring him down. This was the crux of it: his sentimental loyalty versus her clinical pragmatism.
She walked past him, heading toward the doorway. "Now. Show me the kitchen. If we're running a hotel, I need to see the food service capacity. I want to know exactly what I inherited."
Liam sighed, a sound of deep, genuine weariness, but he led the way. "Just try not to have a meltdown when you see the oven."