Cole's POV

The city never sleeps, but tonight, even New York feels hollow. I sit in the back of my black town car, skyscrapers flashing by like blades of glass. My phone buzzes for the tenth time in as many minutes, messages from my assistant, reminders of board meetings, negotiations, the endless demands of running an empire worth billions of dollars. I swipe them away. For once, I can’t stomach another deal, another number on a spreadsheet.

“Rough night, Mr. Harrington?” My driver asks from the front, catching my mood in the mirror.

I don’t answer. Instead, I look out at the glittering skyline, the very one I practically own a piece of. The world knows me as Cole Harrington, the billionaire investor, the man who turns failing businesses into gold, the ruthless shark with no patience for weakness. They don’t know the truth. Money buys everything but peace. It has been eight years since that night. I shouldn’t even remember her. A drunken mistake, a faceless woman in a crowded bar, a night fuelled by whiskey and whatever demons I was trying to drown. I had women before and after her, fleeting and forgettable, unlike her.

I remember the way her eyes had looked at me, not calculating like so many others, not filled with greed or awe at the Harrington name, but raw. Shattered. She had been bleeding inside, just like me, and for one night, we stitched ourselves together with desperation and heat. Then she was gone. I had to leave the hotel, but when I returned. She already left. No name. No number. Nothing but a ghost I couldn’t shake. I tried. God, I tried. I buried myself in the empire my father left me. I took meetings in Tokyo, London, and Dubai. I bought penthouses, yachts, and an island. Women flocked to me, all of them eager to taste the billionaire fantasy. I gave them expensive dinners, glittering jewels, nights of passion, but never promises, because none of them were her.

My phone buzzes again, and this time when I check, it is a news alert. Whitmore Industries prepares to announce new leadership following the death of matriarch Evelyn Whitmore. I frown, skimming the article. Evelyn Whitmore, I remember her. She was sharp, cunning, a woman who built her empire from the ground up. I’d crossed paths with her company once or twice, almost invested, but she’d been too protective of her holdings to let an outsider in. She had one heir, if I remembered correctly, a granddaughter. The article doesn’t name her. Interesting.

“Take me home,” I tell the driver.

The penthouse is immaculate when I step inside, the skyline stretching out in glittering perfection beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But even surrounded by everything I could ever want, I feel restless. The place is cold and empty, like my heart. I pour myself a glass of scotch, letting the amber liquid burn down my throat. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, the polished suit, the sharp jawline, the man the world respects and fears. Yet beneath it all, I am still that man from eight years ago, haunted by a nameless woman who looked at me as if she saw more than my money, more than my name. I wonder, sometimes, what became of her. Did she go back to her husband? Did she forget me as easily as I was supposed to forget her? I set the glass down, running a hand through my hair, frustration coiling tight in my chest. She shouldn’t matter. Not after all this time.

The scotch burns less on the second swallow, though it does nothing to clear the restlessness gnawing at me. I loosen my tie, the city glittering beyond the window, when the elevator chimes. I don’t need to check the monitor to know who it is. Only one person has the code besides me, Madilyn. Her heels click across the marble floor before I even turn around. She’s draped in silk, her blond hair falling in waves over her bare shoulders, lips painted the kind of red that leaves stains on everything it touches.

“Cole,” she purrs, letting my name drip like honey as she shrugs out of her coat. She doesn’t wait for an invitation.

“Madilyn,” I reply evenly, setting my glass down. She comes straight to me, arms winding around my neck, pressing her body against mine. To anyone else, it would look like intimacy. To me, it’s possession. She smells expensive, looks flawless, but her affection is always sharpened by need.

“I hate when you brood in this penthouse alone. You should let me stay. Permanently,” Madilyn whispers against my jaw. I ease her grip from my shoulders, stepping back.

“We’ve talked about this,” I say coldly. Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes flash.

“You can’t keep me at arm’s length forever. I’m not just anyone, Cole. I’ve been with you for years. Everyone sees us together. They expect … they expect the next step,” Madilyn hesitates for a moment in the middle of her sentence, her gaze flicking to my bare hand. Marriage. The word she doesn’t say hangs in the air like a threat. I pick up my glass again, ignoring the question.

“You knew what this was from the start. You wanted access to my world, the parties, the jet, the glittering lights. I gave you all of that. Nothing more,” I say. Her mask cracks, just for a second. Anger flickers, quick and ugly, before she covers it with a brittle laugh.

“You make it sound so cold,” Madilyn says.

“It is cold, because I won’t give you what you’re asking for,” I tell her, my voice flat.

She studies me in silence, then crosses to the window, her reflection shimmering in the glass beside the skyline. She looks like she belongs here, tall, perfect, untouchable, but I know better. Madilyn isn’t content with borrowed shine. She wants ownership. She wants my name, my empire, the lock and key to everything I’ve built.

“You’ll change your mind, I will wait,” She says finally, turning back to me with a smile too sharp to be real. She kisses my cheek, a claim, not affection, then gathers her coat. The elevator doors close behind her, leaving the penthouse silent once again. I sink into the leather chair, rubbing the back of my neck. Madilyn is beautiful, intelligent, and ruthless. Any man would be lucky to have her. But she isn’t the one I want. The truth is, I don’t even know who I want. I only know who I can’t forget. The woman with shattered eyes and trembling hands from eight years ago has more power over me than Madilyn ever will.