24. Cole
TWENTY-FOUR
Cole
The jet engines wind down on the tarmac at Teterboro, and I step into the humid night air. The smell of jet fuel mixed with New Jersey grime hits me immediately. Nothing like the salt breeze off the Atlantic that I've been breathing for the past week.
Nothing like her.
I pull out my phone and dial Dorian as I walk toward the waiting SUV. He picks up on the second ring.
"Well, well. Didn't think you'd be back in the city till Saturday. What happened to soaking up some of that neighbor ass before coming back to the smog?"
My jaw tightens. The casual way he talks about Sam, like she's just another conquest, makes something violent twist in my chest. I kick the rear tire of the SUV hard enough to make my driver flinch and step back.
"I left early to refocus on the Singapore deal."
The words come out tight and controlled. Dorian doesn't need to know that I spent three hours pacing my living room after Sam walked away today. Nor does he need to know that I watched her leave for a run and drive off to go God knows where.
I had to get out of there. Watching her every move isn't good for anyone.
"Singapore? Christ, Cole, that's not for another month. You sound wound up. Shouldn't you be celebrating our Good Samaritan win? Meridian has all but signed for the acquisition, and we haven't even started restructuring. Want to meet for a drink at Three Kings?"
There's nothing to celebrate about that.
"No, I'm good tonight. We did what we set out to do, but no need to sit around and sing Kumbaya."
"Shit, you're even more broody than usual."
I climb into the backseat and slam the door harder than necessary. The driver jumps.
"5th and 72nd. Avoid 7th if you can."
The driver nods and pulls away from the curb. Through the phone, I can hear Dorian moving around his apartment, and ice clinking in a glass.
"Since you're done with the beach house early, mind if I crash there next weekend before you sell? I could use some sun and sand therapy myself before you unload it."
The thought of Dorian in my space, in our space, makes my stomach turn.
"We'll talk about it next week at the Kings Holdings meeting."
"Come on, just say yes. What's the big deal? You said yourself the deal's done. The place is just sitting there empty now."
"I said we'll talk next week. It's going on the market, so I need to make sure that won't interfere. I'll let you know once I talk to the realtor."
Dorian pauses. When he speaks again, his tone is different, almost curious .
"Alright, man. Whatever's eating at you, work it out. See you Tuesday."
The line goes dead. I stare out the window as we merge onto the highway, the city spreading out ahead of us in a maze of lights. But all I see is her deck, her bare feet in the sand after our short jog, the way she looked at me when she rolled over in the bed a couple of mornings ago.
Christ. Was it only this week? It feels like a lifetime ago.
Because it was.
The elevator climbs toward the forty-second floor, and I check my watch. I'm seven minutes late. Angela catches me the second I step into the lobby of Houston Enterprises.
"They're already in the conference room."
Her heels click against the marble as she walks beside me, tablet in hand. The Kings Holdings boardroom sits at the corner of the building. The mostly glass and steel room was designed to intimidate. Today, it feels more like a cage.
I push through the doors, and five faces turn toward me. The usual suspects: Dorian, Harrison, Blankenship, Rodriguez, and Mitchell. They've already started without me, coffee cups half-empty and papers scattered across the polished surface.
"Sorry. Traffic was worse than expected."
Harrison waves me off. "We’ve got the interim management team in place. The rollout of the concierge model starts this quarter. We were just going over the initial plan.”
I take my seat at the head of the table and pour water from the crystal pitcher. The ice cubes clink against the glass.
Blankenship leans forward, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Full conversion to the concierge model should be complete within three months. We're looking at an exit in six months maximum."
"Buyers?"
Rodriguez grins. "Already circling. Two major hospital chains have expressed interest. Meridian is our top candidate. They like what they see—prime real estate, established patient base, minimal debt after the restructuring. Unless something unforeseen comes up, we're closing with them."
Sam's face flashes through my mind. The way she looked when she saw me vote in favor of the restructuring guts me all over again.
"There's something we should consider."
The room goes quiet. Harrison raises an eyebrow.
"I think we should preserve some kind of legacy program. Bundle it as an incentive for buyers."
Mitchell laughs. "What are we doing, charity now?"
I keep my voice steady, professional. "It's about optics.
Larger hospital systems care about community reputation.
Having a subsidized care component shows goodwill.
That way, whoever buys Good Samaritan they aren't putting all of their eggs in one basket.
You've got the wealthy, cash-paying demo, and the public hospital component. "
"Clean and quick is how we make money. Adding complications just creates liability and drags this out," Blankenship says, shaking his head.
"It wouldn't be complicated. Just maintain one floor?—"
"Cole." Harrison's voice cuts through mine. "We didn't get into this business to run soup kitchens. Good Samaritan will be a premium facility. That's the plan. That's what will make us 2.5%. That's what Meridian wants."
The others nod in agreement. Rodriguez pulls out his phone, already moving on to the next deal. Blankenship closes his laptop while Mitchell straightens his tie.
"Anything else?" Harrison asks.
I shake my head. "Nothing else."
They file out one by one, their voices fading down the hallway as they discuss lunch plans and weekend trips. I stay behind, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Manhattan.
The city stretches endlessly in every direction. Concrete and ambition as far as the eye can see.
What a fucking life.
I walk back to my office, each step heavier than the last. The familiar weight of my door closing behind me should feel like relief. Instead, it feels like another cage.
Angela’s voice comes through the intercom. “Mr. Houston? Elliott Bancroft from Coastal Baptist is holding on line two.”
I settle behind my desk and pick up the phone. Elliott’s voice is warm and professional, but there’s a finality under it I clock right away.
“Just calling to check how the vote went,” he says.
“They went with the full concierge model,” I say. “Unanimous.”
A beat of silence.
“Well,” Elliott says, “thanks for keeping me in the loop. I appreciate the courtesy. But as you know, Coastal Baptist doesn’t partner with concierge-based hospitals. That’s not the direction we’re headed.”
“I understand.”
“Best of luck to you, Cole.”
He hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone.
There goes that thread.
The last real shot at finding a buyer who might’ve kept some shred of the Evelyn Taylor Wing intact .
The door opens without a knock. Dorian strolls in, loosening his tie.
"You've got people asking questions."
He drops into the chair across from my desk and crosses his ankle over his knee like he owns the place.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Harrison's assistant reviewed the last minutes of the vote meeting in Palm Beach and flagged them for him. He just called me, so I had to come back up here to ask you myself. You tried to derail the deal?"
I lean back in my chair, keeping my expression neutral. "Just like I said in there, it's smart business. Opens up new buyers."
Dorian raises a brow. "Has nothing to do with your neighbor, who happens to have the last name of Taylor?"
The casual way he mentions Sam again makes heat crawl up my neck. How does he know what her last name is?
"It was a strong program. It made the hospital more than just another boutique health club. I was exploring its value. I didn't call for a vote or make an amendment, I only posed a question."
"Cole." His voice drops. He pauses for dramatic effect. Or, maybe he's waiting for me to say something. I don't.
"This board doesn't want vision. They want ROI. And you've got a whisper campaign starting."
My hands tighten on the armrests of my chair. "What kind of whisper campaign?"
"The kind that says you're getting soft. That maybe your judgment is compromised. Harrison's already asking questions about your time in Palm Beach." He leans forward.
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest. These bastards think they can question me? After everything I've built? I'm the CEO of this company and the brains behind every successful acquisition we've done.
"Then tell them to say it to my face. I'm not some fucking intern. I am Kings Holdings."
The words come out harder than I intended. Dorian's eyes widen slightly, and he holds up both hands.
"Easy, man. I'm just giving you the heads up. You know how these things go."
I know exactly how these things go. Board members whisper during smoke breaks. Side conversations at dinner parties. Votes of no confidence dressed up as strategy sessions.
My fists clench hard enough that my knuckles crack. "I built this company from nothing. Every deal, every acquisition, every fucking dollar in their portfolios came from my vision."
Dorian stands slowly, like he's dealing with a wild animal. "I know that. You know that. Just watch your back, okay?"
He backs toward the door, shaking his head. "And maybe consider that the neighbor situation might be more complicated than it's worth."
The door clicks shut behind him. I look down at my hands, still clenched tight enough to crack bone.
The whiskey tastes like regret. I've been standing on this balcony for three hours, watching the city lights blur together as the bourbon does its work.
My bare feet stick to the cold stone tiles. The wind cuts through my dress shirt until I finally strip it off and toss it through the sliding door. Now it's just me, the scotch, and a mile of floors of nothing between me and the street below.
My phone sits heavy in my palm. The screen lights up when I tap it, showing Sam's contact. No messages between us since before everything blew up. Just that photo I took of her on my deck, wearing my Harvard sweatshirt and smiling like she trusted me.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I start to type.
Thinking about you.
The cursor blinks. I delete every letter.
I try again.
I hope you're doing okay?
Delete that too. Am I questioning that I hope she's doing okay, or am I asking her if she's doing okay?
Fuck it. I don't need to text her anything. She made it clear where we stand. I chose the money. She chose her principles. Clean break.
I just need to get her out of my head.
My chest squeezes like someone's wrapped a fist around my lungs. I lower the phone and set it on the marble railing, next to my empty glass.
“Fucked this one up."
The words float out into the night air, swallowed by the hum of traffic forty floors below. A helicopter passes overhead, its spotlight sweeping across neighboring buildings before disappearing toward the Hudson.
I could call Elliott back tomorrow and push harder for the hybrid model. Perhaps there is another way to salvage this, even if no one else thinks it’s the way to go.
But what's the use? Even if I could somehow save the Taylor Wing, Sam would never trust me again. I chose my board over her. I voted to destroy her mother's legacy. There's no coming back from that.
The Macallan burns my throat as I finish what's left in the glass. Behind me, my penthouse glows with warm light, imported marble, custom furniture, and art that cost more than most people make in a year .
It has everything I thought I wanted.
In front of me, Manhattan stretches endlessly into the darkness. Millions of people are living their lives, making their choices, and building their futures.
And somewhere in Palm Beach, Sam's probably asleep in her bed beside my empty house. The one where I held her just a few days ago.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and keep being Cole Houston, the billionaire. I'll find another deal, another acquisition, another way to prove I'm still the king of my little empire.
I'll pretend like the last ten days didn’t shake something loose.
But they did.
And for the life of me, I can’t seem to put it back.