Chapter 2
1014 Words
The Atlanta skyline bled amber and rose through floor-to-ceiling glass as Cole Hartwell eased back into the warm current of his rooftop pool, one arm draped lazily over the infinity edge.
Forty-three floors up, the city hummed beneath him like something alive — distant sirens threading through the low throb of morning traffic on Peachtree, a helicopter carving a pale arc over Buckhead. The water was exactly 82 degrees. It always was. Just how he liked it.
He stayed that way for a while, eyes half-closed behind Italian titanium frames, a glass of cold-pressed grapefruit juice sweating on the teak ledge beside him. The July sun was already flexing, gilding the rooftop garden in deep gold — birds of paradise, white gardenias, a Meyer lemon tree his housekeeper, Celestine, had been tending for three years. The whole terrace smelled like citrus and warm stone.
When Cole finally pulled himself from the pool, he did it with the unhurried ease of a man who had long since stopped answering to clocks.
By eight-fifteen, he was already showered, draped in a slate-grey linen shirt left open at the collar, barefoot on heated marble. Celestine had left a breakfast spread on the kitchen island — sliced mango fanned like a sunrise, a short double espresso, half an avocado seasoned with Maldon salt and a thread of chili oil. He ate slowly, standing, scrolling through nothing in particular on his phone, enjoying the act of not rushing.
The penthouse was quiet in that specific, expensive way only true square footage could buy. Twelve thousand square feet of restrained excess — raw concrete columns softened by linen curtains that caught the morning air, original canvases from artists whose names he'd forgotten but whose work he still found himself staring at. A grand piano no one played. A wall of books, half of which he'd actually read.
Then, around nine, something shifted behind his eyes.
He set down the espresso cup with a soft click and moved with purpose.
Cole's workspace occupied the apartment's entire east wing — a deliberate contrast to the rest of the penthouse's warmth. Here, the aesthetic was sharper. Leaner. A long walnut desk ran the length of the window wall, its surface lit by the hard, clean morning light pouring in from the east. The city sprawled beyond the glass in every direction — a reminder, or maybe a scoreboard.
A long curved monitor stood in a slight arc, dark and waiting. Beside it: a single legal pad, a matte-black pen, and a leather-bound portfolio that had traveled with him from Dubai to São Paulo to Singapore and back again. The room smelled faintly of cedar and the ghost of last night's bourbon.
He pulled the chair back — it moved without a sound — and sat.
He opened the portfolio.
The documents inside were flagged in three colors: gold tabs for the Atlanta acquisition, red for the regulatory filings threatening to slow the port deal, and a lone blue tab at the back for something his attorney had called sensitive over the phone and refused to elaborate on.
Cole had gone through hundreds of employee dossiers. None had caught his attention like the one in his hands right now.
Jade Williams.
A faint smirk crossed his face, as if he were somehow familiar with the person in the small passport photo on the document. Reclining further into his chair, he held the page up in the air, studying it as though looking for a hidden message, squinting at it in curiosity. Her portfolio was exceptional — a one-in-a-thousand find, paired with a striking face.
Then it hit him.
She was the one he had shared the elevator with the other day. And she looked far better than the passport photo suggested.
He reached into the drawer, pulled out a phone, and made a call.
Meanwhile, Jade had been throwing glances at the elevator at intervals while trying to work — almost as if waiting for someone.
Her hair was a touch neater than usual, her lipstick a shade redder, and her favorite perfume drifted around her in a subtle cloud. She had made an effort. This went on for hours. Until he never came.
The day ended too quickly. She left with a twisted expression, frustrated that the opportunity she had been waiting for had never arrived.
"Are you crazy, Jay? Because I'm worried about you."
Malia shouted over the phone.
Jade lay in her pajamas, rolling across her bed with her phone speaking loudly from the nightstand. Tired from a very long day.
"I'm fine, Mal. He was rude. Someone needs to stand up to him."
"Yeah, I totally agree — except for the part where he fires you right after. Or worse. Who knows."
"He's a billionaire, Jay. He can do and undo. Now, the crazy thing is that the other day you were practically eye-worshipping him, and now you hate him. I don't get you sometimes, love."
Malia added, making Jade actually process her thoughts and what she had in mind to do. The risk was high — but she had to put him in his place. At least the voices in her head agreed.
"I'm still going to say something to him, Mal."
"Oh God. You know what, girl — you do you, Jay. I've still got your back. From a safe distance, though."
"Fair enough. Talk later, Mal. I have to take this call from my mum."
The call ended, and another began right after. Vivian's voice came through the phone, marinated with love and warmth that filled Jade and her small room.
Jade sat up and swiped her phone to her ear. The poker face she wore couldn't quite hide how happy she was to hear her mother's voice.
They spoke for over an hour, bouncing from work to relationships, before Jade finally caught her mum up on her encounter with the famous Cole Hartwell.
Jade went to bed ignoring the missed call from Drew, the thought of why he had called the last thing on her mind.
- Writer
