18. Cole
EIGHTEEN
Cole
The hospital's glass entrance stands forty yards from my car. People flow in and out like white blood cells through a vein.
I grip the door handle. It’s hot as hell, even with the AC blaring at full blast.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Bradley asking where the hell I am. The fourth this morning.
"Fuck."
I tap my thumbs on my knee, keeping time with my racing pulse. Sam hasn't answered my messages since yesterday. The concierge vote is tomorrow, and she knows. Someone told her, the timing of her ghosting isn't coincidental.
My reflection in the rearview mirror looks hollow. I have dark shadows under my eyes from a night spent staring at my ceiling. When did I last lose sleep over anything besides a deal?
I reach for my phone and dial Angela.
"Good morning," she answers.
"I need you to make some changes to my schedule. "
"The McAllister Group is expecting you in twenty?—"
"Cancel it."
A pause. "I'm sorry?"
"Cancel the McAllister meeting. And move the video call with Singapore to next week."
"But sir, they've been trying to get on your calendar for?—"
"Just do it, Angela. I'm tied up with this hospital stuff right now."
I end the call before she can respond.
She doesn’t deserve that. But I can’t pretend to care about anything else right now.
I keep watching those hospital doors, picturing her stride through like she owns the place. Scrubs, a tight ponytail, and that look in her eye that dares anyone to stop her.
Yesterday morning, that same fire was in my bed. Her skin still warm from sleep, her mouth swollen from our kisses.
The memory makes my chest tighten. This was never supposed to be more than fun and maybe some occasional sex.
But now I'm sitting in a luxury car worth more than most annual salaries, canceling meetings, hoping for a glimpse of her.
I rub my hand across my face.
“Let’s go,” I bark at the driver.
I need to get back to my house and salvage what's left of my day. I've already canceled my meetings because I can't focus right now. Maybe if I bury my face in numbers, I can drown all of this out.
My phone rings.
Sam's name lights up my screen .
My heart stutters, then accelerates. I stare at her name, suddenly uncertain. What will I say? What can I say?
I answer before I can think better of it.
"Sam."
Her name hangs between us, suspended in the digital space between my phone and hers.
"We need to talk." Her voice is clinical, detached.
"Are you okay? You didn't answer my texts, and you never came home. I was starting to worry."
"Any chance you're at the hospital?"
I guess my question doesn't deserve an answer. Maybe she had an overnight shift.
"Actually, yes."
"Okay, I'll meet you in the cafeteria in ten minutes."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I start the car and pull into visitor parking. My usual calculated approach to conversations has abandoned me. For once, I have no strategy.
I stride through the sliding doors and loosen my tie, suddenly feeling like it's choking me. The cafeteria sits on the second floor, bustling with white coats, blue scrubs, and sad-looking visitors.
I spot her immediately.
Sam sits alone at a corner table, both hands wrapped around a coffee cup, staring down at its contents like they hold tomorrow's lottery numbers. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and the shadows under her eyes mirror my own.
She doesn't meet my eyes as I approach, and instead, she gives a short nod when I reach the table. No smile, no hello.
I sink into the plastic chair across from her. The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and heavy .
"Something tells me this isn't a friendly meeting." I finally break it as I run a hand through my hair.
"We're friendly. At least we're both fully clothed this time." A hint of humor flashes in her hazel eyes. Or, is it sarcasm?
An unexpected laugh escapes me. "Okay. So, what's up?"
The tension doesn't disappear, but it shifts and becomes something more manageable.
Sam takes a sip of her coffee, then sets it down with purpose. "I talked to my father."
My stomach tightens. "About us?"
"About this shit going on with the hospital. He told me there's a vote scheduled for Friday. I can't help but wonder why you didn't mention that the other night, or even yesterday morning when I woke up in your bed." She leans forward, her gaze direct and unwavering.
I nod, choosing my words carefully. "You didn't ask."
"Not directly, but I did ask you what I can do to make sure my voice is heard."
"I told you things were moving forward. I'm not sure what else I could have said, Sam. Nothing you or I do at this point will change what is coming. I said as much."
Sam's fingers drum against her coffee cup. A nervous habit I've never noticed before. "Why does it seem like you're hiding something?"
"I'm not sure. I guess you're saying that because I didn't tell you the meeting date, I was hiding that. I just didn't want to go there. I wanted to be with you without all of that. Us talking about it wouldn't solve anything except to upset you."
"Convenient." The challenge in her voice is unmistakable .
A nurse passes our table, stealing a curious glance at us. I wait until she's gone before leaning closer.
"I don't know what you want from me, Sam. This thing between us, it was never about the board.”
I hear it too late, the deflection in my voice, like I’m trying to make this her fault.
“I just wanted to keep it separate from us, from you,” I say, trying to smooth it over.
I knew the moment we slept together that this would get messy. I never imagined I would care so much about it, though. That's the problem.
Sam studies me, her expression unreadable.
"I need to know what you're voting for on Friday."
I sit back, my pulse thudding slowly and hard in my ears.
There’s no point dodging it now. Not after the way she’s looking at me, like the answer might be the last thread holding us together. Or the final cut.
She will inevitably find out anyway. She might as well hear it from me now.
“I’m voting in favor of the restructuring.”
Her mouth parts slightly, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. I feel the disappointment roll off her in waves. I press my palms against the table, anchoring myself there.
“It started as a business decision. Profit. Return. The usual bullshit.” I meet her eyes, willing her to see the part of me I’m not proud of.
“But it stopped being about that the moment I walked through those doors and saw what this place means to you.”
She still doesn't know the extent of my involvement. She doesn't have to know that. My words are true. I did want to change directions after I learned about her and her family and how much this hospital means. But it was too late by then.
She doesn’t flinch or look away.
“We’re out of time, Sam. If this deal doesn’t go through, the hospital won't make it to the end of the year. Any solution will be even harder, if not impossible, at that point.”
Her jaw tightens. Still, she doesn’t interrupt. She lets me dig my own grave, one slow word at a time. Her silence is worse than if she were to yell at me.
“This vote is the only path left to keep the doors open before the end of the fiscal year. That’s the reality. I’m not going to pretend there’s a magic fix.”
What I don’t say, what I’ll never say, is that I know exactly how this deal goes through. Because I orchestrated the whole thing. Only, the logistics were in place long before I ever knew Samantha Taylor.
She nods once, slow and deliberate. “Okay.”
I lean forward. “Sam?—”
“No.” Her voice is flat. Final. “Thank you for being honest.”
But it doesn’t sound like gratitude.
It sounds like goodbye.
The kitchen clock reads 11:38 p.m. I’ve been staring at the same prospectus for over an hour, but nothing sticks.
Sam’s voice from earlier keeps looping in my head. What a fucking way to end things.
I close the laptop and walk to the window. Palm Beach glows across the water, polished and powerful. I used to feel the same, but now all of this has me doubting everything.
A knock sounds at the door. I open it and find Sam standing there in worn jeans and a gray t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. She doesn’t wait for an invitation.
“I don’t want to talk,” she says.
I step back and let her in. “Okay.”
The door closes behind us, and the air shifts.
She doesn’t waste a second. Her hands press flat against my chest, pushing me back until I hit the wall. Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s urgent, unfiltered, and completely unlike the ones we’ve shared before.
There’s no pretense or question of how far we’ll go. I kiss her back, just as hungry, but I don’t mistake this for tenderness. This is about reclaiming power.
Sam pulls away just enough to look me in the eye. “I don’t want gentle tonight.”
“You won’t get gentle,” I say.
She drops to her knees in front of me and unbuckles my belt, her hands steady.
I bury one hand in her damp hair, my fingers tightening as her mouth wraps around me. She’s slow at first, dragging her tongue along the underside of my shaft before pulling me deeper, inch by inch, until I feel the back of her throat.
I thrust into her, letting her gag tell me when I've pushed her to the limit. She doesn't want gentle, I'll give it to her.
She doesn’t flinch and holds there, eyes flicking up just once, then retreats with a soft, wet pop before sinking back down with more intent.
My breath stutters. I brace one hand against the wall behind me, fighting to stay upright.
She picks up the pace, each stroke firmer, wetter.
The suction is relentless. Her hand works what her mouth can’t reach, twisting at the base while her tongue flicks over the head with maddening precision .
My hips continue to move, helpless against the pull of her mouth. She moans, and the vibration nearly unravels me.
I don’t know if this is about control, about punishment, or just release. Maybe all of it. All I know is the way she’s devouring me feels less like giving and more like taking. Like she needs this. Like she’s reclaiming something.
My head knocks against the wall. I groan through clenched teeth, barely hanging on. “Jesus, Sam.”
She doesn’t stop or ease up. She grips my thighs to hold me in place, swallowing me down again until my vision goes all white for a second.
I tug her hair once, not hard, but enough to signal I’m close.
Only then does she pull back, lips slick and swollen, breath hot against my skin.
I reach down, haul her to her feet, and kiss her hard. Her mouth tastes like me. Her lips are slick, hungry, and unapologetic.
I carry her to the couch, her legs tight around my waist like she doesn’t trust me to get us there fast enough.
I don’t ask. I don’t need to. She came here for this.
I rip her jeans down her legs, drag them off with a force that makes her breath hitch.
Her shirt follows. I run my hands along her waist, palms pressing into her, pushing up to her ribs. Her muscles twitch under my touch, her whole body tight, waiting to be wrecked.
“Look at you. Already shaking and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
She glares like she wants to fight me and fuck me at the same time. I lean in and lick her bottom lip.
“You want to act like you don’t care?"
"I don't. Stop talking and fuck. "
I reach for my wallet, tear open the foil. She watches the whole time. I slide the condom on, slowly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
“You came to get fucked, Sam?”
She doesn’t answer.
So I push her back onto the cushions, crawl over her, and let my mouth hover just above hers.
“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you,” I whisper.
Her breath catches. “I want you to ruin me.”
I press into her with one hard thrust, and her nails dig into my shoulders like she's already there.
“You feel that,” I murmur, my lips brushing her throat.
"Yes! Yes!"
“You can pretend this doesn’t matter, but your body says otherwise.”
“Don’t stop.”
I grip her hips like I’m holding on for dear life. “Even if you hate me right now, you’re still mine. Right here. Right now.”
She doesn’t answer with words. Her hips rise to meet every thrust, breath catching, fingers digging into my back. I thrust harder, faster, until she’s shaking, her eyes wide and wet, her mouth parted with a sound that wrecks me.
My fingers find the spot between her thighs, and she breaks apart, clenching around me, gasping my name, legs tightening like she’s trying to keep me right there.
I follow with a curse, buried deep inside her, head dropped to her shoulder, breath ragged against her neck.
For a long time, neither of us moves. I hold her because I don’t know what else to do. Her heartbeat thrums against mine.
And that’s when the weight comes rushing in.
I should tell her. At this point, I don't have anything else to lose. She deserves to know I’m the reason this is happening at all. That I bought the debt, that I set this vote in motion months ago.
I tell myself the same thing I’ve told myself since the start: if it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else. Someone who wouldn’t have given a damn about her wing, her family's legacy, her.
But that doesn’t make this feel any less like betrayal.
Her fingers brush against my chest. “You still leaving Saturday?”
I nod once, although she isn't looking at my face. “Yes.”
She lifts her head, now putting her eyes on mine. “So that’s it?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know what she’s asking.
She exhales through her nose, the edge already creeping back into her voice. “You’re gonna fuck me one last time, then show up Friday and vote to gut my family's legacy?”
We stare at each other, nothing between us but heat and half-truths and too many things unsaid.
“I’m trying to fix it. It was already broken when I got here, Sam.”
Her brow lifts. “That supposed to make it better?”
She pulls away before I can stop her, gathering her clothes in silence.
"Sam," I plead. She doesn't even look at me.
And just like that, she’s gone.