Serena Astor

Serena grew up splitting her time between three grand old hotels, learning to read a profit-and-loss sheet before she learned to drive. At twenty-two, she tattooed her throat to her wrists in heavy black florals; her father said nothing, so she kept going. At thirty, he died and left her the hotels, three properties and ten thousand decisions a week. Now she runs the hotels he built and walks into every gala in her ink, finishing an argument with a ghost. Every tattoo was a bid for her father to see her, and she only admits it to someone who has finished their own losing argument.