The rain had slowed to a light drizzle by the time we reached the flagship hotel on Park Avenue.

The Monarch rose thirty stories into the night sky, its stone arches illuminated by gold floodlights that cut through the mist.

As the town car pulled up to the grand entrance, I could see two workmen on tall ladders under the canopy.

They were using brass wrenches to unbolt the large, heavy letters spelling out ‘WHITLOCK’ from the granite archway.

The letter ‘W’ was already gone, leaving only a dark shadow on the stone where the brass had protected it from the city soot.

I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking on the damp, red carpet that lined the entryway.

The doorman, dressed in his heavy green coat with gold piping, stood at attention and pulled open the massive glass and brass doors.

“Welcome back, Ms. Aurelia,” he said, using my family’s original name.

“Thank you, Thomas,” I said, stepping into the warmth of the lobby.

The lobby was a vast, open space of polished white marble, giant crystal chandeliers, and towering arrangements of fresh white lilies.