Free The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry

He was invincible. He always knew just which card to play to bring her down. Not because he wanted to beat her, but
     because he loved her. And he was moulding her in his own image.
    It was so frustrating. She had been determined that this time he wasn’t going to win, but he had her over a barrel.
    What she didn’t understand was why? She had done the poxy hospitality course he had asked her to do. Three bloody years of
     projects and essays and assessments and placements in hideous hotels that had nothing to teach her. And now he wasexpecting her to join the company and do its management course like any other graduate trainee. Did being his daughter count
     for nothing?
    She had been fed the Amador philosophy from birth. It was in her blood. She had been to every single one of the hotels in
     the chain. She understood exactly what it was that made them stand out, why they were bastions of luxury and indulgence, why
     they rarely, if ever, received a complaint from one of their guests. She didn’t
need
to have the company ethos drummed into
     her by joining the rest of the hopefuls that had been weeded out of the huge number of applications the company received on
     an annual basis. Who wouldn’t want to work for Amador, with its super-luxurious hotels in stunning locations? They avoided
     the obvious – Vegas, Dubai, Miami – and went for the exotic and out of the way.
    Justine didn’t want to be a manager. She wanted to scout for new locations and be instrumental in the development of new hotels.
     She wanted to work with the architects and the designers, perfecting and finessing service and facilities for people who wanted
     the best but didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by glitz and flash. Just pure understated quality and unrivalled comfort.
     ‘Heaven on earth’ was the Amador slogan. This meant the ultimate in bedding, superlative chefs, state-of-the-art sound and
     lighting, stunning artworks, and the best design in furniture. And none of the hotels was the same. Each was individually
     designed, drawing on inspiration from its location, utilising the best local resources and craftsmen.
    She had brought her father a proposal that morning, to prove she was ready. She had found a run-down hotel in Berlin that
     was ripe for renovation. She had found an architect, drawn up plans, put together a detailed proposal complete with artist’s
     impressions and, most importantly, a meticulous budget. Her father had just thrown the folder to one side and laughed.
    ‘Don’t you think I’d already have it, if it was any good?’
    Bastard.
    Justine had got the measure of Benedict Amador when she was fourteen and had deliberately engineered her expulsion from her
     exclusive boarding school. She was desperate to go to the London day school her friends went to. She couldn’t see the difference,
     the results were the same, the facilities were the same, but for some inexplicable reason her father had refused to let her
     go there. He had insisted on her staying at Fortescue House. She’d stuck it out for as long as she could bear, but in the
     end had organised a prank phone call to the school office, announcing there was a bomb hidden in the gym. The school had been
     evacuated, the fire service swept every square inch of the building – and the swotty, spotty cow who Justine had made sure
     had overheard the call grassed her up. Her bags were packed and she was put on the train home before everyone had finished
     filing back in from the netball courts. A triumphant Justine was certain she would now get her way.
    Her father just shrugged and enrolled her at the comprehensive adjoining the sink estate half a mile down the road. You were
     never far from slums in London, even if you lived in a six-million-pound mansion like the Amadors.
    She had been outraged at first that he would let her go there. She had thrown tantrum after tantrum, but he had been to buy
     the uniform himself and driven her to the gates on the