Lost in Your Hidden Paradise

Chapter 1, Part 2: Behind Closed Doors

Joanna watched his retreating figure with a low whistle. "Tell me, how does someone like Hank Shepard even exist? A damn unicorn—that face paired with that brain? I’ve always thought he looked like Legolas from Lord of the Rings, if the elf ditched the blond for jet-black and upgraded to Armani suits. Half of Silicon Valley’s heiresses would bankrupt themselves to keep him as a trophy husband, but no—the man had to go and build a nine-figure design empire instead."

She swirled her wine, mock-exasperated. "God clearly played favorites—handed him Michelangelo’s bone structure, a mind for seismic architecture trends, and the luck to ride SoCal’s real estate tsunami. Though..." Her voice dropped to a stage whisper, "Rumor is he’s got narcissism so polished it could blind the sun. Zero relationships. Not even a fling. Makes you wonder if that mirror of his talks back."

Elaine couldn’t help but shake her head. "And they say tabloid editors are ruthless—Joanna Chambers, you’re a force of nature. Ever considered switching to TMZ?"

Joanna arched an eyebrow. "Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. A man like that walks up, and your pulse didn’t stutter even a little?"

Elaine met her gaze evenly. "Did yours?"

"That’s different," Joanna sighed, then after a beat, her eyes lit up with sudden mischief. "Wait—you two would actually be perfect. Both single, both ridiculously attractive, both at the top of your game. It’s like the universe designed you as matching bookends."

"From gossip columnist to matchmaker in ten seconds flat," Elaine deadpanned. "Impressive pivot."

"I’m serious!" Joanna leaned in, relentless. "You’re unattached, he’s objectively spectacular—letting that slip by is basically a crime against aesthetics. Go for it. Full moral support."

Elaine exhaled in amused defeat. "Eat your sea bass before it gets cold. And stop drafting romance novels in your head."

Only then did Joanna relent, pivoting the conversation to the latest Oscar contenders with the ease of a seasoned talk-show host.

Weston McCoy stood waiting as Hank approached, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

As a VIP at Golden Dragon, he was accustomed to the red-carpet treatment—the moment he’d stepped through the doors, the manager had scurried over with obsequious greetings. Half-listening to the man’s pleasantries, Weston let his gaze wander the dining room until it collided with a pair of piercingly intelligent eyes.

Joanna Chambers.

Her glance sliced past him with the indifference of a CEO scanning a spreadsheet, then flicked away as if he were part of the decor. Something about that deliberate dismissal hooked under his ribs—unexpected, irritating. He found himself staring at the sharp line of her jaw, the way her fingers tapped the stem of her wineglass like she was counting seconds until this entire scene bored her.

Hank gave him a casual nod. "Wes, just spotted a friend—gonna say hello." Before Weston could respond, he was already striding toward that booth.

Leaning against the bar, Weston watched the trio with amusement—their profiles etched against the ambient glow of pendant lights, a study in aesthetic harmony. Even later, settled into the private dining room’s plush banquette, the afterimage lingered: that razor-sharp bone structure framing eyes dark enough to drown in.

Hank, who had collaborated with Weston on numerous projects and become a close confidant, recognized that familiar glint in his friend's eyes. When Weston couldn't resist asking, "So, Hank, who were those two stunners you were chatting up? You've always had all the luck," Hank merely chuckled.

"Not what you're imagining," he deflected smoothly. "They're both industry peers."

Weston's interest visibly sharpened. "Do tell."

"The one facing away is Elaine Young—COO of Milano Vision USA. Brilliant strategist and designer. The firm's Italian parent company is legendary; they headhunted her two years ago to spearhead their Stateside expansion. They've skyrocketed to prominence in just eighteen months—everyone's talking about them." Hank took a sip of whiskey.

"The other woman is Joanna Chambers, EIC of Urban Living. Her magazine basically dictates upscale interior design trends. A single feature from her can turn a furniture startup into a household name." He met Weston's gaze meaningfully. "When titans like that cross your path, you pay respects. Bad business not to."

"Damn, women these days," Weston chuckled, oozing old-school machismo. "So you and this Milano Vision COO—what’s the history? Friendly competition?"

"No history at all," Hank replied easily. "We’ve bid against each other on projects. Mostly my wins."

"So she’s your rival?" Weston’s laugh boomed. "Where’s your chivalry, man? Next small project, throw the game. Make the lady smile."

Hank’s grin remained polished. "No bidding wars on small jobs—we’d never even cross paths. No room for gallantry."

Their most trusted subordinates followed close behind. Jason Cole, Hank’s assistant, took charge of the menu, then passed it to Weston’s right-hand man, Alex Carter, for review. The two deliberated over selections before finally nodding to the maître d'—only to defer, "Let Mr. Shepard have the final look."

Hank skimmed the proposed dishes and added two more. But Weston waved it off. "C’mon, Hank. This isn’t some client schmooze-fest. Overordering just makes everyone uncomfortable—let’s keep it reasonable."

"Fair point." With a gesture, Hank had the maître d’ trim the order, then gave the final approval.

After the maître d' exited, a server entered with their selected premium red wine, presenting the bottle for Hank’s inspection. With his nod of approval, they moved aside to uncork it.

Weston, lost in thought for a moment, suddenly remarked, "Let’s invite them to dinner sometime."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "That’s unexpected. Don’t tell me it’s love at first sight?"

"Cut the crap," Weston dismissed with a wave. "You know me—hardly some starry-eyed provincial. But beautiful women are like fine art. When masterpieces cross your path, you don’t just walk by."

Hank’s lips curved knowingly. "Why not? You’re single, they’re unattached—if sparks flew, it’d be the talk of the industry. Though fair warning: their rejection lists read like Fortune 500 rosters. Not exactly the… approachable type."

Weston’s competitive streak flared, though his expression remained smooth. "You seem unusually informed. Why haven’t you made a move? Unless—" He feigned shock. "Don’t tell me LA’s most eligible bachelor’s sworn off marriage? Your father’s going to disinherit you over the grandson issue."

"Lack of confidence," Hank admitted quietly.

Weston barked a laugh. "Now that’s comedy. Since when does Hank Shepard fear rejection?"

"Modern women terrify me," Hank deadpanned. "They out-research you at due diligence, out-negotiate your best offers. No room for… creative persuasion."

"Ain’t that the truth," Weston groaned. "Ignorant women bore you; brilliant ones exhaust you."

The table erupted in the relieved laughter of men who’d rather joke about vulnerability than admit it.

Just then, the appetizers arrived—artfully arranged on chilled porcelain plates—as the server poured their wine with practiced precision.

Hank lifted his glass. "To another successful collaboration, Wes."

"And to ten more years of putting up with each other," Weston countered, clinking his goblet against Hank’s with a conspiratorial grin.

They drained their glasses in unison. As the server moved to refill them, a weighted silence settled—broken instantly by Alex’s discreet intervention: "We’ll call if we need anything further."

The staff, trained to read billionaire body language, vanished faster than startup capital in a bear market, sealing the soundproofed door behind them.

Weston’s smile faded into CEO gravitas. *"Hank, securing the Emerald Valley development came with strings—city council demands a masterplan approved by their ivory-tower consultants within 90 days. Fail that, and the deal evaporates."* He swirled his bourbon. "I’d hand this to you outright, but the board insists on an RFP process. Too many ‘independent voices’ lately."

"Boardroom turbulence?" Hank’s eyebrow lifted a millimeter.

"Minor mutiny." Weston’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Contained. But you’ll need to out-design every firm in California—including Milano Vision."

Hank’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I could arrange… complementary bids."

"Too risky." Weston leaned in. "When that RFP drops, expect sharks—both clueless startups and our ‘friends’’ planted competitors. This’ll be a knife fight in marble corridors."

"Horizon’s reputation is bulletproof," Hank shrugged. "Winning clean just makes the victory sweeter."

Suddenly, Weston’s grin returned. "Think your ‘peers’ will bite when the RFP publishes?"

"Guaranteed." Hank smirked. "Having second thoughts about playing fair?"

"Please," Weston scoffed, raising his glass. "I multitask—crush competitors and charm beauties with equal vigor."

Their laughter rang hollow against the private room’s acoustics.

As Alex signaled the waitstaff back in, Weston raised his crystal tumbler with a wolfish grin. "To the women who make deal-making worthwhile."

Hank clinked his glass, the ice cubes rattling like dice. "Any toast that includes ‘beautiful’ deserves bottom’s up."

Outside, Elaine and Joanna had finished their meal. When they requested the check, the server returned with a message: "Your bill has been transferred to the Spring Blossom private dining room—Mr. Shepard has taken care of it."