Longing For Him

CHAPTER 5: Him

Jace

I wake up irritated.

I stare at the ceiling for several seconds, trying to figure out exactly why.

Then I remember.

Leslie.

She’s still asleep beside me, the sheets gathered loosely around her. I glance at her and feel absolutely nothing beyond mild annoyance that she’s here.

Last night was good. It’s always good with Leslie. She knows what this is, and I like that about her. There are no awkward conversations afterward, no questions about where we stand and no expectations I have to manage. Whatever happened between us a few hours ago felt exactly like it always does ; efficient, mutually satisfying and absofuckinglutely empty.

And somehow, every morning after, I wake up angry.

Irritated.

Restless.

It sits beneath my skin before I even open my eyes— a hot, restless tension coiling through my chest causing my jaw to tighten.

I hate the feeling of waking up beside someone and realizing I don't want them there.

Maybe that’s why it has never happened at my place.

A hotel room. Her apartment. Anywhere but my home.

I shove off the covers and swing my feet to the floor. My teeth are clenched and my temper is already burning, disgusted by how predictable it has become. Every time, the same thing. Every morning, I am left with the unsettling certainty that whatever I was looking for, I still haven't found it.

I get up without waking her. Not out of kindness, I just don't particularly crave conversation. My chest feels too tight. My skin feels too tight. I grab the glass of water on the nightstand and shove it contents down my throat.

The digital clock on the nightstand changes from 6:13 to 6:14 in bright red numbers. Forty-six minutes until I need to leave if I want to beat the worst of the morning traffic.

I scrub both hands over my face and stand, ignoring the mattress shifting behind me.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and find seven notifications. Three emails and two missed calls. One message is from my assistant reminding me that the Irish delegation has already arrived.

I place my phone back on the nightstand and walk toward the bathroom.

The hotel suite is quiet as I cross it, the thick carpet swallowing my footsteps. I don’t look back at the bed. The bathroom door closes behind me and I turn on the shower and stand there for a moment, listening to the water rush through the pipes.

Then I step beneath it and the heat hits my shoulders. I close my eyes and for a few seconds I let the water drown everything else out. It doesn’t work.

My mind immediately starts running through the meeting.

The Irish acquisition.

The revised numbers.

The clause my legal team flagged yesterday.

The valuation.

The board.

The possibility that they’re going to push back on the terms we offered.

I reach for the shampoo, working it through my hair as figures and projections run through my head. I know exactly what I want from this deal. The question is whether they’re prepared to give it to me. My jaw tightens.

I rinse the shampoo away and open my eyes. By the time I step out, the worst of the anger has settled into something more useful.

Focus.

I towel off and put on my clothes from last night. I check the time.

6:42.

I have no intention of walking into Sterling Group in yesterday's clothes. I grab my phone and keys and leave the suite.

My car is waiting downstairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Sterling.”

“Morning.”

I get into the back seat.

“Take me home.”

The chauffeur nods.

I sit back and check my emails.

The Irish delegation wants a concession on one of the financial terms.

Absolutely not.

I type my response.

A few seconds later, another email comes through.

I open it.

Then another.

By the time we reach my house, I've already worked through half the issues waiting for me.

I cross the quiet living room and take the stairs two at a time. The house is silent around me. I reach my bedroom push the door open and walk straight inside not bothering with the lights. The morning has already begun spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the room in a pale glow. I cross to the walk-in closet.

I run my fingers along the rows of shirts before pulling out a crisp white one. Then a charcoal suit with a matching jacket. I add a dark silk tie, cufflinks and the watch sitting in its case. Black leather shoes.

I stand in front of the mirror, adjust my collar, straighten my cuffs and leave the bedroom.

I walk through the living room toward the double doors, my footsteps barely making a sound against the polished marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one side of the room, flooding it with the pale morning light. Everything around me is carefully chosen — the furniture, the artwork, even the flowers sitting on the console.

I step outside my house and my chauffeur is waiting.

We pull into traffic ten minutes later. Cars crawl along the avenues. Yellow cabs weave between black SUVs. People hurry along the pavements with coffee in their hands, already late for work.

I watch everything through the tinted window. My phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. It’s another message from my assistant.

I type a short response.

‘Handle it.’

Then I put the phone away.

We arrive at Sterling Group and the moment I step through the revolving doors, I notice the change. People straighten and conversations stop.

A receptionist who was laughing with another employee immediately sits up.

“Good morning, Mr. Sterling.”

I give her a brief nod.

Another employee walks out of the elevator, sees me, and nearly walks into a pillar.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Sorry, sir.”

I keep walking.

A few steps later, two junior employees standing near the reception suddenly become very interested in whatever is written on the papers in their hands. They weren’t reading them five seconds ago.

I almost smile. Apparently, I have that effect on people.

A receptionist hurries after me.

“Mr. Sterling?”

I stop.

“The Irish delegation arrived about ten minutes ago. They’re waiting in Conference Room—”

“I know.”

She immediately falls silent. I continue toward the elevators. The elevator doors open and I step inside. The doors close, and the noise from the lobby disappears. My office is on the top floor. When the doors open, I walk straight into the private reception area.

My office waits beyond it. I step into my office and the city opens up before me. The entire far wall is glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, turning Manhattan into a living backdrop. Morning light spills across the pale-grey stone floor, catching against the black edges of my desk and the sleek charcoal furniture arranged around the room.

A black leather sofa sits against one wall. Two grey armchairs face my desk. The walls are a soft, cool white, almost stark against the dark details. Even the artwork is monochromatic—abstract shapes in charcoal and black on white canvas.

I walk toward the windows and look down. Manhattan stretches beneath me, enormous and restless. Buildings rise in every direction, glass catching the early sunlight. Traffic crawls through the avenues, tiny from this height, while people move along the pavements like dark specks between the towers.

I have a view of a city that once felt impossibly out of reach. Now, it sits beneath my feet. And I built my place in it. I remember when my family lived comfortably enough. We had food on the table. We had a roof over our heads. We didn’t go hungry. But there was nothing remarkable about us. Nothing anyone would look at twice. No money to throw around, no influential surname and no doors opening simply because of who we were.

So I built my own doors. My own name. My own empire. Sterling Group.

And then, she crosses my mind. I don't invite the thought. It arrives anyway, uninvited and unwelcome and stirs something in my chest.

It passes. I make it pass.

I straighten my tie, smoothing the knot with precise fingers until not a crease is in sight.

My face settles into its familiar expression. Cold and controlled.

I turn away from the window and sit down and open the folder.

The Irish are waiting.