NINETY DAYS OF WANTING YOU

chapter 4

He picked the rooftop bar because it belonged to her.

The Riverview Lounge was perched up on the forty-second floor of Cole Dynamics. Sure, it was leased out to a hospitality group, but that didn’t really change anything — the hostess always recognized Mara Cole, and nobody ever sat at the west-facing corner table before nine on weeknights. Sometimes Mara worked late and wanted her table. Elias knew all of this — he’d picked it up from the building’s management. So he booked a table for 8:30 and arrived early by 8:15 ordering only water .

Through the glass, Detroit sprawled toward the river. City lights made the Renaissance Center glow, blue and gold, the Gordie Howe Bridge stretched white in the distance. And the river — that darkness below, threading between two countries. Back in Grosse Pointe, Detroit was a place you drove to. Or didn’t.Being so high above the city made him feel overwhelmed and unsure about what he was experiencing.

At 8:28, the elevator bell rang . He didn't turn. He just listened: her stride was unmistakable — fast, confident, like waiting was for other people. She never hesitated as she crossed to his table.

“You booked my table,” she said.

“I made a reservation.” He glanced up. “Turns out it’s the best spot in the place.”

She paused, as if judging whether this earned any sort of answer. She didn't give one. She sat down — dark coat, purposeful shoulders. But something in her was… wound tight. Different. He’d only seen this alertness after Tuesday. Something had changed.

“You said you wanted a document review,” she said.

“I do. But that’s not why I asked you here.”

The server appeared. She ordered sparkling water and a glass of Barolo. He was stuck with just water. Once they were alone , her body language and expression showed she was losing patience and no longer interested in polite conversation .

“Just say what you came to say.”

So he did.

He laid it all out: Wolfe Industries’ board, the press hungry for a mess, the two companies knotted together by 22% debt — basically joined at the hip, for better or worse. He told her what the board wanted: ninety days of ironclad cooperation. Personal, professional, and above all, visible. Something that would calm the investors who’d been raising hell since Elias walked into her boardroom. They wanted a show of unity. A narrative even Wall Street couldn’t misread.

She listened in silence. That meant a lot, actually. Mara Cole usually interrupted when she was comfortable. The stillness meant the opposite.

When he finished, she said, “You’re describing a performance.”

“It’s a strategy.”

“A strategy that requires us to pretend to be—”

“Aligned. And we are, at work.”

“That’s a pretty convenient definition.”

He handed over the contract. Just twelve pages, her name right there at the top — typeset like it wasn’t a last-minute thing. Like this had always been inevitable.

She studied it the way she studied every crucial document: not nervous, just focused.

“A formal contract,” she said.

“Verbal agreements invite trouble.”

She read. Didn’t touch the wine. Just her eyes moving, hand steady on the table. That kind of attention that says, This page is my whole world right now. Silence stretched. The city hummed outside. He watched a freighter creep downriver, lights painting lines on black water.

Then she landed on page seven.

He could already guess what she would say next .

She went quiet and tense , like something was about to snap her jaw tight as she carefully chose her next words .

“Section 4.2,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“This says cohabitation.”

“It does.”

“You want us to live together.”

“The board wants to see personal alignment. Living together is the easiest way to make that clear — to investors who don’t care about nuance.”

She cut him off, sharp. “Elias.” His name was a flat line, as if to say: Drop the corporate script.

He stopped.

“You want me to move into your apartment,” she said.

“The Ren Cen penthouse. Guest room’s yours. Separate entrance from the corridor. It’s all in Section 4.2, subsection C.”

She looked at him for a while, unreadable. The Barolo stayed untouched. The city continued busy, independent life , unaffected by anyone's personal struggles

She set the contract carefully in the centre of the table

“What if I refuse?”

He planned a careful answer for this — something formal but gentle, a way to keep her steady without pushing. Then he decided honesty was the only thing worth offering.

“The debt’s immediately due. The board will call it on February first. Cole Dynamics doesn’t have enough cash to cover it. You’d have to sell off the transit contract.”

The $340 million transit contract. The deal she’d spent a year and a half building. The deal carried her father's legacy, even if no one else recognised it . The thing that was supposed to rewrite the Cole family legacy one more time.

She paused for a while , thinking carefully before responding.

Elias stayed silent on purpose,giving her space instead of speaking too quickly he chose not to interrupt the moment. He figured she deserved it.

She picked up her wine. A slow drink, not a gulp, but something close. Set the glass down. Looked out at the city — at the gold-lit towers, at the river, at a freighter nobody on the streets above cared about.

§ 4.2 — Cohabitation & Personal Alignment

Both parties agree to live together for the 90-day term. That means telling everyone — the public, the press, institutional folks — that this is a personal decision. Both retain control of their own spaces. Physical boundaries are clear, no wiggle room. Neither can change this clause without written sign-off from both and from counsel.

§ 4.2(c) — Termination Trigger

If either party breaches this section, it’s a material breach. If Cole breaches, the entire $47.3M becomes due at once...

Mara pulled the contract back to her, set a pen on page twelve. It was a real pen — something weighty, made to last.

She hovered over the signature line.

Waited. Looked up.

“One condition,” she said.

“Name it.”

“No lying. Not inside this apartment. We play the board’s game outside, but once the door shuts, it’s the truth. Can you actually do that?”

He thought for a moment about the sealed file in his desk — the restitution plan, two years in the making. Her father’s name scribbled on the tab. The thing he still hadn’t explained to anyone.

He wondered if telling the truth would make that easier. Or harder.

He nodded anyway.

“Yes.”

She signed in firm black ink. No hesitation, no drama — just the signature of someone who’d made the call a long time ago.

She slid it over. He signed below. His handwriting was smaller. He’d always noticed what people’s signatures revealed — the things they never said out loud.

Capped the pen. Looked up at her.

“Ninety days,” she said.

“Ninety.”

She finally drank most of her Barolo. Stood up. Buttoned her coat. Gave him an unreadable look — something he wasn’t used to. Maybe something for him to figure out later.

“I’ll need two days to move.”

“Of course.”

She walked to the elevator. He watched. The doors opened, she stepped in, and for one second — before they closed — she looked back. Not with boardroom confidence or controlled composure, but something rawer. The look of someone who’d just set something irreversible in motion, and was fine with it.

The doors slid shut.

He sat at her table in her bar, looking over her city.

He took out an index card and wrote three words.

She said yes.

Then, because the contract said no lying — and because the agreement started now, and nobody ever read these cards but him — he wrote the rest.

I was not prepared for that.