Derek Cole
The phone rang sharply across Derek Cole’s desk. He didn’t look up right away. His eyes were fixed on the figures scrolling across his screen, currency shifts, market predictions, and the red glow of a competitor’s stock dipping lower. He let it ring twice before he picked up.
“Cole,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Mr. Cole, the Singapore board is on the line. They’re ready for you in ten minutes,” his assistant’s voice announced.
Derek didn’t look at the clock. He knew he had time. He tapped a pen against his desk and said, “Make it fifteen. I want the final revenue reports in my tablet before I step into that meeting.”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ended, and silence filled the office again. The quiet suited him. He preferred it that way. The world outside, the honking, the chatter, and the endless noise of a restless city was nothing more than distraction. Inside his office, there was order. Numbers, plans, and targets. Every detail mattered.
He leaned back in his chair. At twenty-seven, Derek Cole was the CEO of Cole's Enterprise. He was already labelled one of the youngest billionaires on the global stage. The papers called him relentless. Investors called him a genius. His rivals used other words like shark, vulture, and machine, but Derek didn’t care what name they gave him. What mattered was that they all knew his name.
The office itself reflected his approach. No wasted space. No unnecessary decoration. A black desk, a row of screens showing live feeds of global markets, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. He hadn’t inherited this. He had built it, brick by brick, deal by deal. Every line on those reports represented nights of calculation, risks taken, and moves executed without safety nets.
His tablet pinged. Reports delivered. Derek swiped across the screen, eyes flicking over numbers, percentages, and projections. He processed quickly, his mind already forming a strategy. Fifteen minutes was more than enough time to dismantle a boardroom full of men who thought they could corner him.
Just as he set the tablet down, his phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen froze him for half a second.
Henry Cole.
His father.
The man who owned oil rigs, shipping lines, and more influence than most governments.
He let it ring once. Twice. On the third, he answered.
“Derek,” his father’s voice carried weight, low and commanding. “You’ve been ignoring my messages.”
“I’ve read them,” Derek replied, his voice cool, unreadable.
“And?”
“I don’t need your money. Or your influence. I told you that years ago.”
There was a pause, then the sigh of a man who wasn’t used to being refused. “You’re wasting time proving a point. Pride will only take you so far.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. His gaze shifted toward the skyline beyond the window.
“It’s not pride. It’s proof.”
“Proof of what? That you can survive without me?”
“That I can win without you.”
A silence stretched between them, heavy and sharp. Derek ended the call before his father could answer. He set the phone down and exhaled slowly, forcing the weight of the conversation back into its corner. His father had loomed over him his whole life, but he refused to let it control his steps now.
A knock came at the door. His assistant leaned in, tablet in hand.
“Sir, the board is connected. Fifteen minutes are up.”
Derek stood. His suit was sharp, the kind that drew no attention to itself yet commanded respect. He adjusted the cufflinks and then took the tablet without another word.
The assistant hesitated. “Do you want me to remind them of the time zone differences? Some of the Singapore executives have been waiting since dawn.”
“Good,” Derek said, slipping the tablet under his arm as he walked past. “It means they’re hungry.”
The hallway outside his office buzzed with energy. Employees glanced up as he passed, some nodding respectfully, others stepping quickly out of his way. Derek didn’t acknowledge them. Respect wasn’t earned with smiles. It was earned by results. And no one in the building doubted his.
As he approached the boardroom, his mind moved like a machine. Numbers, leverage points, and exit strategies, all lined up in precise order. To Derek, deals weren’t battles. They were wars fought with information and timing. And he never stepped onto a battlefield unprepared.
He entered the room, and the chatter fell silent. The Singapore executives filled the screens at the far end, their faces pixelated but sharp. Around the long table, his own directors straightened as Derek took his seat at the head.
“Mr. Cole,” one of the executives greeted. “We’ve been waiting.”
Derek set the tablet down, his eyes locking onto the screen. His tone was calm, almost indifferent. “Then let’s not waste more time. You know what I want. The only question is whether you’re willing to pay the price.”
Gasps of quiet surprise rippled among the men at his table. Derek didn’t flinch. Deals weren’t about pleasantries. They were about control. And from the first word, he always seized it.
For the next forty minutes, the meeting unfolded like a chess match. Proposals, counters, and feigned hesitations. Derek navigated each move with precision. Where others saw numbers, he saw patterns. Where they saw risk, he saw leverage. By the time the call ended, the Singapore board had agreed to terms closer to Derek’s side than they had planned.
The directors broke into murmurs, impressed. Derek closed his tablet, stood, and left the room without acknowledgement. Victory didn’t need a celebration. It was expected.
