Until You Choose Me

Ethan Cole’s name was everywhere. It lived on magazine covers stacked in airport bookstores, in business headlines that praised his instincts, in social feeds that tracked his private jets and rumored romances. “America’s Youngest Power Billionaire.” “The Golden Heir.” “The Man Who Has It All.” Most days, Ethan felt like he was reading about someone else. At thirty-two, he was the public face of Cole Horizon Group, an empire built by his father and grandfather—tech investments, real estate, renewable energy, private equity. The company touched everything from smart cities to satellite networks. He signed deals worth more than entire towns. He moved markets with a sentence. And yet, in every article, he was still framed as the charming heir. The boy who got lucky. The man who smiled too easily and dated too often. His office on the forty-eighth floor of Cole Tower was all glass and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan. The city buzzed beneath him, alive and endless. Ethan stood near the window, jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled up. His phone buzzed again. “You’re late,” his assistant, Mara, said through the speaker. “The car is waiting. The Monroe Gala starts in forty minutes.” Ethan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Remind me why I agreed to this?" “Because the board chair personally asked you. And because every major donor in the city will be there. And because you promised your mother you’d stop skipping these things.” He sighed. “Right. The holy trinity." “You can survive three hours,” Mara said. “Smile. Shake hands. Leave early.” “Story of my life.” He ended the call and reached for his jacket. The mirror on the wall reflected a man who looked like he belonged in every headline—tall, clean-cut, confident. The kind of man people trusted on sight. No one saw the weight behind his eyes. ================================ The gala was held in a restored historic train hall turned event space. Chandeliers glowed overhead. A string quartet played near the entrance. Guests in tailored suits and sleek gowns moved in slow circles, glasses in hand, voices low and polished. Ethan stepped inside and immediately felt the familiar shift. The mask slid into place. His shoulders straightened. His smile came easy. “Ethan Cole,” someone called. He turned. “Senator Brooks. Good to see you." Hands were shaken. Compliments exchanged. Questions asked about quarterly growth, expansion plans, rumors of an acquisition. He answered them all smoothly. “This city is lucky to have you,” a donor said. “We need more leaders like you,” another added. Ethan nodded, thanked them, moved on. Every conversation felt the same. Everyone wanted something. Access. Approval. Influence. He drifted toward the bar and ordered sparkling water. He had stopped drinking at these events. Alcohol made it harder to pretend. He scanned the room, looking for the nearest exit. That was when he noticed her. She stood near a large display of old city photographs... Black-and-white images of streets long gone, buildings that had once stood where glass towers now rose. Around her, a small group of guests listened as she spoke. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t gesture dramatically. But people leaned in. “The structure still exists beneath the modern layers,” she was saying. “If we remove the later additions carefully, the original brickwork can be preserved. It’s one of the few remaining examples of early civic architecture in that district.” A man in a gray suit frowned. “Isn’t that more expensive than rebuilding?” “It is,” she said calmly. “But rebuilding erases history. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.” Ethan watched her for a moment. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t selling herself. She was explaining something that mattered to her. That alone made her different. He approached slowly, stopping at the edge of the group. “The Monroe Cultural Foundation has already restored three sites in the last two years,” she continued. “Each one now serves the community again—libraries, learning centers, public halls. These spaces aren’t just buildings. They’re memory.” Someone nodded. “And this project?” “This one could become a public archive. Free access. Workshops for local schools. It gives the neighborhood something permanent.” The group murmured approval. Ethan stepped forward. “You make it sound simple.” She turned. Her eyes met his without surprise, without awe. Just polite attention. “It isn’t simple,” she said. “It’s just worth doing.” A few of the guests glanced between them. “Ethan Cole,” he said, offering his hand. She shook it. “Clara Monroe.” “The Monroe Foundation,” he said. “I’ve heard of it.” “Most people have,” she replied. “They just don’t remember why.” He smiled slightly. “And why is that?” “Because preservation isn’t flashy,” she said. “It doesn’t trend. It just stays.” One of the guests laughed. “She’s stubborn about it.” Clara smiled at them, then turned back to Ethan. “Are you here as a donor or a skeptic?” “Tonight?” he said. “Mostly as a hostage.” Her eyebrow lifted. “That bad?” “I was promised free food.” She considered him for a moment, then nodded. “Then you should at least get something interesting with it.” She gestured to the photos. “This was your building.” Ethan looked. One image showed the train hall a century earlier—arched ceilings, crowded platforms, steam and movement. “You own the property,” she continued. “Your company funded the renovation. Without it, this space wouldn’t exist anymore.” He studied the image. “I didn’t realize.” “Most people don’t,” she said. “They just enjoy the result.” He felt an unexpected tug of something—curiosity, maybe. “So what happens to this one?” he asked. “We’re still fighting for it,” Clara replied. “The land is valuable. Developers want it. We want to keep it public.” “And if you lose?” “Then another story disappears.” Her voice didn’t carry drama. Just fact. The group slowly drifted away, pulled by new conversations. Soon, it was just the two of them. Ethan realized he hadn’t felt the urge to check his phone once. “You don’t sound like someone who enjoys these events,” he said. She gave a small shrug. “They pay for the work. That’s enough.” “You don’t enjoy convincing people?” “I enjoy convincing people who listen.” He laughed quietly. “Fair.” She glanced at his untouched glass. “You’re not drinking.” “Neither are you.” “I’m on duty.” “So am I.” “Your duty seems more flexible.” He tilted his head. “Is that what you think?” She hesitated. “It’s what the papers suggest.” Ethan's smile became wider, as he couldn't take his eyes off her...