20. Cole
TWENTY
Cole
My pace slows as I approach the conference room. My pulse is still pounding from chasing after Sam. The door's ahead, slightly ajar, with muffled voices floating out.
Just as I reach it, the door swings open and Kip steps out. His shoulders are tight, and his eyes scan around like he’s hoping to disappear.
It's clear he didn't expect to see me. Stops short when he does.
"Jesus. Where's Sam?"
“I don't know. She’s upset.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, no shit. You ask the board to reconsider the vote, then vote for concierge anyway. Kind of a mixed signal, man.”
I meet his gaze. “I didn’t ask them to reconsider. I asked them to think. There’s a difference.”
“Why even bring up the hybrid model? What was that supposed to be, a head fake?”
“It was an option, one they weren’t going to consider unless someone planted the seed.”
“But you didn’t push for it. ”
“I didn’t have the votes.”
“You didn’t even try.”
His words are direct and biting. They aren't emotional, but I can understand his confusion. But I don't owe him anything.
“I’m not here to be anyone’s white knight,” I say finally. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I did more than anyone else in there.
I glance away. Bringing it up in the room, putting a new model on the table, was putting my own neck and profits on the line. I could’ve just stayed quiet, voted, and cashed out. That was the plan.
I've been up since four this morning, running and rerunning the numbers, trying to think of any way to buy more time. This was all that was left. But I'm only one vote on the board.
He watches me for a long second, then nods once. “Well. Good luck in there.”
I watch his back disappear around the corner before turning to the boardroom. Hand on the handle, I pause and then step back in.
The energy’s different now. There's less tension and more transaction, like the vote was the climax, and now we’re in cleanup.
A few heads glance up, half acknowledgment, half curiosity. No one asks where I went. No one mentions her. But that unexpected speech I gave, and then following her out, will inevitably raise questions.
I don't give a fuck, I'm out of here after this anyway.
Dr. Morris adjusts his glasses and leans forward, tapping the folder in front of him. “Alright. So the motion carries. Let’s talk post-vote logistics.”
Wilson nods. “We’ll issue a statement to department heads by the end of the day. Communications has a draft queued up depending on which way the vote went, so we should be able to roll pretty quickly.”
Beside me, Nadine Weller, the VP of finance, speaks up. “Just to reiterate for the record, this morning’s vote satisfied the terms of the acceleration notice we received.”
They think the lender forced their hand. In a way, I did.
I sent the notice three days ago because I had to, because the deal needed movement or it risked rotting. I didn’t expect it to trigger guilt.
But when Sam and I talked the night before last, suddenly I needed a way to slow it down, not speed it up.
That’s why I've been up since four, running scenarios I already knew the answers to. I wanted to buy her time without stopping the train.
I told myself I could slow it without compromising the deal. I thought if I floated the hybrid idea, maybe the board would take the bait.
They didn’t.
She continues, like she’s reading from a script. “We were given until the end of next week to produce a credible restructuring plan or face default.”
I don’t blink.
“Is that what prompted the vote to be moved up?” Someone asks.
Weller nods. “Yes. Once legal reviewed the terms, it was clear the board needed to act before Friday. Any delay would’ve removed any wiggle room, and if we fell short, it would have triggered a full technical default.”
“Messaging to staff?” someone asks.
Lansing glances at his notes. “Framed as modernization, patient-focused and improved access, personalized care, reduced delays. You know the playbook.”
The next few minutes are a blur of logistics, legal notices, staffing realignment, and partner onboarding. My job here is done. I was here only to get through the vote.
“We’ll need to engage new provider groups within the next sixty days. Some physicians won’t transition under the new model.”
“Timeline to rollout?”
“Three months for initial conversion. Six months to full execution. Sooner if we keep moving cleanly.”
Cleanly.
I glance at the empty chair where Sam was sitting less than an hour ago. There’s nothing clean about this.
The boardroom empties slowly once the meeting is over. Folders close, suits adjust, and chairs scrape back.
I stay seated longer than I need to, gathering my things. I need to call Dorian and let him know we are good to go.
Eventually, I push to my feet and reach for my jacket. The room’s quiet now. Only a few stragglers remain.
“Mr. Houston.”
I turn. Dr. Samuel Taylor stands near the door, his posture composed, voice unreadable.
“Can I have a word?”
I nod, buttoning my jacket. We step just outside the room into the hall, where the carpet absorbs everything but the tension.
He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he looks at me with that same surgeon’s steadiness Sam carries when she’s pissed.
“You surprised me in there,” he says finally.
I try to gauge where he's going with this, so I say nothing.
“Floating that hybrid model was a bold eleventh-hour move.”
“I thought it deserved consideration,” I say evenly .
“But you didn’t push it.”
“No.”
A beat passes.
“Why bring it up at all?” he asks, and I hear what he’s saying beneath it.
I can't tell him I didn't want my fingerprints on it. I couldn't be in the minutes as the one who proposed an amendment that was contrary to what Kings Holdings had in place.
I glance down the hallway. “Felt like the board needed to consider it.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You followed my daughter out. Was that part of your board duties, too?”
That lands with precision, but I say nothing.
He studies me for another beat. “Are you sleeping with her?”
The question hits like a sucker punch. I meet his eyes, but I don’t answer right away. Because anything I say next is going to cost something.
He lets the silence hang.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You need to end it,” he says quietly but very matter-of-factly.
Still calm and measured, which makes it worse.
“For her sake. And yours.”
He gives me one last look, then walks away.
And just like that, my job and whatever I was doing with Sam are over. But the damage is just getting started.
The back door closes with a soft thud as I slide into the car. The AC hums, and the cool leather is a welcome sensation against my back. Javier nods at me in the rearview.
“Back to the house, sir?”
“Yeah.”
I unbutton the next button on my shirt as we pull out of the hospital parking lot. Then I tap Dorian’s name on my screen.
He answers on the second ring. “Tell me it’s done.”
“It’s done.”
“Full vote for concierge?”
“Passed by a wide margin.”
He lets out a short, satisfied laugh. “Beautiful. That’s what I like to hear.”
I lean my head back against the seat, watching palm trees blur past the window.
“So what’s the timeline?”
“They’re estimating three months for soft rollout. Six for full execution.”
“That fast?” he says and whistles.
“We gave them no choice.”
Dorian chuckles. “Shame about that aggressive notice they got. Some real shark must be behind that one.”
I don’t reply.
“Alright. So, how do we play it? Now that the vote’s in, what’s the timeline on our end?”
I close my eyes, walking him through it out loud.
“We keep our name out of it. Let the board take the heat during rollout. They’re going to trim staff, sunset departments, and reassign budgets. Once concierge is operational and billing improves, we’ll order a re-appraisal on the asset. Full valuation under the new model.”
“And then we sell?”
“Then we sell.”
“To a system, or a fund?”
“Whichever offers the best return. Once the new revenue model stabilizes, a concierge hospital in Palm Beach is going to be worth three times what we paid for the debt. ”
Dorian exhales. “Not bad for a bankrupt nonprofit with rotting pipes and legacy overhead.”
There’s a pause.
Then he asks, “You want me to start lining up suitors?”
“Give it a week. Let the dust settle.”
“Yeah, that makes sense."
I'm not in the chatty mood, and Dorian is on cloud nine. All I want to do is get off the phone.
"You flying back tonight or staying through the weekend?”
I pause. The vote’s done, nothing is keeping me here. Except that she hasn’t looked at me since I let her walk out.
“I’ll stay through Saturday, as planned. At least at this point. That could change.”
“Copy that. And the neighbor? That still a thing?”
I let out a dry breath. “It was just a fling. I doubt I'll see her again before I leave.”
“Right.” Dorian doesn’t push. It's not because he's being respectful. He's already counting his payday.
I hear him typing something in the background. “Okay. I’ll prep internal briefings on the exit strategy. Let me know if anything changes.”
“Will do.”
I hang up and stare out the window. We’re two blocks from the house now.
Just a fling. I said it because it’s what Dorian expects to hear, and because saying anything else would make it real. But it was never just that. Not after she looked at me like I might be more than what I came here to do.
Javier slows as we pull into the circular gravel drive. The tires crunch softly beneath us. I reach for the door handle, then pause.
Her 4Runner is tucked under the raised stilts of her house, exactly where it stays when she's home .
I step out of the car and close the door behind me. Nothing about this feels like a win.
I toss my phone on the counter and shrug off my jacket, hanging it on the back of a club chair in the living room.
The house is quiet and still. It's too clean. Too empty. Maybe I will leave tomorrow, after all. Being here in this house isn't good for my psyche.
I move toward the bar and pour two fingers of scotch. No ice. No pretense.
The glass is cool in my hand, steady where everything else feels off-kilter. I take a sip, let the burn hit the back of my throat.
I don’t know what I thought would happen. This was always the end here. I knew that as soon as I found out who she was. And I still let this unfold, I let my dick do my thinking.
I close my eyes. I don’t have the right to want any of that.
But still, my mind runs the math anyway. Maybe she would be open to an apology. She saw me try to pump the brakes. I didn't do that for any theatrics, as Kip suggested. I truly thought that if we could buy more time, we could figure out a solution.
The glass hovers at my lips when my phone bounces on the counter. I assume it’s Dorian. It’s not. It's Sam.
Are you home? I’d like to talk.
I stare at the screen.
She’s the last person I ever expected to hear from again. After the way she looked at me in that boardroom, how she wouldn't turn around when I chased her out, like I was a stranger she regretted ever knowing, I assumed I was dead to her.
I set the glass down. My hand’s already moving before I think better of it.
I’m here.
I don't give away too much. I can't quite read what kind of talk she's looking for.
A few seconds pass.
I’ll walk over in a minute.
That’s it.
No fury, no ice. A completely neutral text with no context, which somehow makes it worse. I have no idea what to expect.
I set the phone down slowly and stare at the door.
She’s coming and wants to talk.
And I have no idea if she’s here to find some closure or rip my balls off.