6. Cole
SIX
Cole
My office view rivals any Manhattan penthouse, but all I see is the quarterly projection that's killing my laptop screen. A blizzard of numbers that usually brings clarity now blurs beneath the weight of exhaustion and distraction.
My intercom crackles. "The board is waiting in your virtual meeting room, Mr. Houston."
I roll my neck, feeling vertebrae crack in sequence. "Thank you, Angela."
Ten faces materialize on my wall display, all wearing the careful expressions of men who have both everything and nothing to lose. I recognize the look. I've perfected it myself.
"Gentlemen." I settle into my chair, deliberately relaxed while I scan their faces. "Let's not waste time."
Lawrence Pratt, our CFO with his signature worried expression, clears his throat. “Cole, Q3 projections are coming in softer than expected. We’re tracking a fifteen percent downturn across several southeastern developments. ”
“Which ones?” I ask, not looking up from the spreadsheet I’m reviewing. I already have a guess.
“The Miami high-rise and the Charleston mixed-use site are the two biggest underperformers.” He adjusts his tie, a tell that makes Marcus Cavanaugh shift in his seat.
“Any movement on the rezoning approvals in Charleston?” I ask.
“Still delayed,” Lawrence says. “Which means no movement on pre-sales.”
Marcus leans forward on the screen, voice grave. “We need to start talking about asset strategy. If these trends continue, divestment or operational consolidation might be necessary.”
I finally look up. “Let’s hold the fire sale talk until we hit the fire.”
“There’s another matter,” Victor Reeves cuts in, his Boston accent thick with importance.
"What is it?"
“We need to schedule in-person meetings in West Palm. These virtual sessions aren’t cutting it for the scope of decisions ahead. We need boots on the ground to make sure this goes through.”
My calendar app is already open. I scroll past next week’s board review, thumb hovering over the block I’d already marked for Palm Beach.
“I’m already scheduled to be in Palm Beach next Thursday through Saturday morning for the Q2 facilities and staffing review,” I say.
"I think we need more time than that."
“If it helps calm the waters, I can extend my stay. What do you think? Monday meetings?”
“Two weeks would give us the full window between the initial board session and the finance committee’s end-of- month presentation,” Cavanaugh says, jumping in like it was his idea all along.
"Two weeks?"
“That gives you time to meet with key staff, assess department buy-in, and prep a full proposal for the next restructuring vote. We're going to push for a Friday vote.”
I nod once. “How about Wednesday to the following Sunday? That's twelve days. I can work from there on the other things. I have a few in-person meetings that week, but I'll get Angela to move some things around."
I tap a finger against my desk, the only movement I allow myself. The others wait, their faces a gallery of practiced patience. They think I’m considering numbers. Weighing optics. Playing the long game.
I already made the decision last night when I texted her. The only problem is, she left that one on "Read," too.
“I need specifics on what we’re telling the public. Are we announcing operational changes or maintaining the current messaging?”
Lawrence exchanges glances with Reeves. “Maintaining, for now. We emphasize our commitment to community healthcare while we explore optimization strategies.”
Optimization. Corporate-speak for cutting anything that doesn’t return a high enough yield.
“The Taylor Wing remains untouched in any restructuring proposal,” I say, not phrasing it as a question. I hadn't planned this, but something about seeing the connection with her, I want to try to protect that.
A beat of silence.
“That particular wing operates at a thirty percent loss annually,” Reeves replies, trying to keep his tone neutral.
I let the silence stretch until it gets uncomfortable. “The Taylor Wing remains intact, at least in the initial plan. Non-negotiable at this point. There are still lots of other opportunities to increase revenue.”
That ends the conversation. No one asks why it matters. They’ve learned not to question me. It's one of the benefits of being feared more than liked.
As they sign off one by one with practiced corporate goodbyes, my jaw tightens. It's not from the pressure of work. Pressure has always been my element. It's something else swirling inside of me, something foreign.
My phone buzzes against the glass.
Depends on the day. I’d have to check my schedule… but I’m definitely intrigued.
Her name on the screen pulls more from me than I expect. A spark of something I haven’t felt in a long time. Not just want. Anticipation.
Not a yes. Not a no.
But I’ll take intrigued.
And I plan to make her even more so.
I close my laptop and lean back in my chair. Close my eyes against the glare of Manhattan sunlight.
Twelve days in Palm Beach. Twelve days in her orbit.
My eyes open. I have work to do before Wednesday closes.
I spin back toward my desk, confronted by the chaos of papers I've left scattered. It's so unlike me.
The Good Samaritan file sits open, tabs color-coded with my personal system, financial projections neatly lined in columns. But for the first time in years, the numbers don't hold my full attention.
"Twelve days," I mutter under my breath, the words hanging in the air like a countdown. Or, maybe it's a warning.
My fingers trace the hospital's structural layout. Surgical wing. East corridor. Where she works. Where I first saw her through that glass, focused and fearless, while others fumbled.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image.
I flip to the section detailing the Taylor Wing. It was named for her mother, I'd discovered during my late-night research. A charity operation running at a loss, serving patients who can't afford premier care.
It's the exact kind of inefficiency my company aims to eliminate.
The muscles across my shoulders knot tighter. I roll my neck but find no relief.
My phone buzzes. It’s the contractor confirming the Mariner’s Reach house is finished and prepped for my arrival.
Perfect timing.
I’ll be next door. Close enough to keep an eye on things—on the property, the hospital, and the people involved.
I stand and walk to the window, the skyline stretched beneath me in sharp, ordered lines. Manhattan is clean in its chaos. Predictable. Mine.
Palm Beach isn’t. Not yet, anyway. But that’s what this trip is for.
I've got less than two weeks to meet with stakeholders, smooth resistance, and get the board aligned behind the restructuring. I’ve done it before.
It's my superpower. I'll step in, assess assets, trim what bleeds, and reshape operations into something profitable and without pressure, everyone will fall in line.
The hospital is no different. The east wing’s underused. The Taylor Wing runs at a loss. But public goodwill, donor sentiment, and strategic optics keep it on the protected list. For now.
I don’t need sentiment. I need leverage .
I press my palm to the glass. Cool. Solid. A good reminder.
She’s not part of the plan. But she’s in the middle of it, whether she knows it or not. I didn’t get where I am by avoiding complications. I manage them. I control the narrative.
I turn back toward my desk. Meetings are set, the house is ready, and the message is sent.
I slide into our usual booth at Three Kings, the leather cold against my back. Dorian’s already at the table, drink in hand, looking like he just billed someone five grand for the pleasure of his company.
He lifts his glass when I sit. “To Palm Beach.”
I raise a brow, but clink anyway. “You make it sound like a vacation.”
“It’s not?” he says, leaning back with that smug lawyer smirk that’s made him a fortune and gotten him punched more than once.
"Dickhead."
“You’re staying a good amount of time in a multi-million-dollar oceanfront house with a woman who isn’t shy about getting you into bed. Most people call that PTO.”
“I’m not most people.” I take a long sip. Let the burn settle low.
“No, you’re the guy orchestrating a complete surgical gut job of a legacy hospital while pretending to care about wellness and community outreach.”
He says it without malice. Just facts.
I glance out the window and watch the cabs crawl down 7th. “It’s not pretending. It’s strategic alignment. At the end of the day, this keeps the hospital open, so it's good for everyone. Even if they don't realize it yet.”
"Truth."
“We keep the urgent care center open, maintain community branding for another quarter. Change is always hard at first, but that hospital is changing no matter what. We are just guiding it.”
Dorian grins. “Spoken like a man who charges $1,500 an hour to rename layoffs.”
I shrug. “You make it sound so cold. I didn't invent this problem. I'm just offering a solution.”
Dorian chuckles. “You're the boss.”
“You know why we bought the debt.”
“Of course.” He leans forward, tone dropping.
"This one is a no-brainer. It's in Palm Beach, for Christ's sake."
“You got in cheap. We have limitless ways to restructure operations. Cut bloat, boost profit, polish the asset. Then we sell the paper to some healthcare REIT for double, possibly triple. It's what dreams are made of.”
“Triple if we move fast,” I say. “Before the next reporting cycle hits. Q4 needs to show upward movement, or the buyout valuation takes a hit.”
Dorian nods. “And if the REIT gets a turnkey operation with pre-vetted concierge infrastructure, everyone's happy.”
“Then we’ve got a $200M asset we bought for forty-seven. Plus a six percent yield on whatever debt’s still tied up in the conversion phase.”
“You should write fortune cookies for sociopaths. That’s cold as hell,” he mutters, sipping again.
“It’s business,” I say, even though the Taylor Wing still burns in the back of my mind.
“Semantics. ”
That’s the plan. Clean. Clinical. It’s worked a hundred times before.
But this one came with a wildcard I didn’t see coming. Her. The daughter of the woman whose name is etched across their most sentimental, least profitable wing.
“Did they vote on the concierge model yet?” Dorian asks.
“Not officially. But it’s headed that way.” I keep my tone even. Strategic. “The CFO’s pushing numbers hard. They’re softening the board.”
"Good."
“East wing conversion, private surgical suites, high-margin diagnostics. We make the place elite, exclusive, and turn it into a money-printing hospital.”
“And you’re steering the ship from the board seat they handed you without realizing you were the guy holding the purse strings. Brilliant.”
“After this trip and the vote, we should be done with our part.”
“And your girl?” he asks like it’s nothing, like we’re talking about office furniture.
“She’s not my anything,” I say too fast.
"Touchy."
“We slept together once. She’s a surgical resident, not involved with any of this, so she isn't even a factor.”
Dorian arches a brow. “How do you think it would go if she somehow found out?”
“She won’t.”
That’s the plan, anyway.