Cole's POV

The boardroom smells faintly of polished mahogany and power, money woven into the very air. The table is sleek, a slab of glass that reflects the city skyline spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan gleams beyond us, its towers spearing into a grey winter morning, but inside this room, the only thing that matters is control. The men and women gathered here, the CFO with his droning monotone, the legal team flipping through endless contracts, the investors who cling to my every word are all part of a machine that I built, that I maintain with precision. They look at me as if I am inevitable, as if without my command the empire itself would collapse. It should be satisfying. It always has been. But lately, I find myself detached. Bored. I sit at the head of the table, fingers pressed together, jaw tight, and listen as numbers flow like static. Acquisitions, market share, percentages. All the right words. None of them means anything today.

“…quarterly projections have exceeded the forecast by three point four per cent…” my CFO drones.

My mind wanders. Always back to the same place. Her. Eight years. A single night carved into my memory with a blade I cannot dull. The press would laugh if they knew that Cole Harrington, Harrington Enterprises’ ruthless CEO, a man who reduces competitors to ashes, still dreams of a nameless woman he spent barely a handful of hours with. But it’s true. She has haunted me, every shadowed corner of my mind filled with her voice, her touch, her eyes. My hand flexes on the table. Her eyes were the one thing I could never forget. I snap back to the present when silence descends. I glance up to see two dozen eyes watching me, waiting.

“Mr. Harrington?” the CFO ventures nervously. For a moment, irritation flares. Then I school my features into practised neutrality. I clear my throat, lean forward, and let authority roll off me like a weapon.

“We move forward with the Whitmore acquisition. No hesitation. Evelyn Whitmore is gone, her empire fractured. We strike while her so-called heirs are disorganised. No delays. No excuses. By the end of this quarter, I want Whitmore Industries under my control,” I say. Murmurs ripple across the room. Notes are scribbled. Heads nod. This is my world. Power and precision where predators devour the weak. Yet, when the meeting adjourns, when polished shoes scuff against the marble floor and suits file out of the room, I remain seated. I am alone. The glass walls around me reflect not the empire I’ve built, but the man at its centre: sharp, immaculate, untouchable, and hollow. I press my palms against the table, leaning forward, jaw clenched so tight it aches. What the hell is wrong with me?

The answer comes instantly. I am missing her. The unknown woman of eight years ago. I leave the boardroom before the emptiness can consume me. My driver is already waiting in the lobby, the black SUV idling at the curb. Cameras flash as I stride past the reporters gathered outside Harrington Enterprises, their voices clamouring, questions sharp and eager:

“Mr. Harrington, are the rumours true about Whitmore Industries?” One shouts.

“Are you in talks with Evelyn Whitmore’s heir?” Another asks.

“Will there be a merger?” They are all shouting questions at me. I don’t answer. Let them speculate. Let them twist themselves into knots trying to predict me. The car door shuts behind me, sealing me into leather and tinted glass. The city outside blurs as we glide into traffic. I lean back, closing my eyes, trying to shake the sense of restlessness crawling beneath my skin. The video screen in my car plays softly in the background, some finance talk show reciting market news. My mind is elsewhere until a single name slices through the fog.

“…the late Evelyn Whitmore’s sole heir, Ms. Elena Dawson, has returned to New York to assume control of the family estate…” The voice says. My eyes snap open.

“Turn that up,” I bark. The driver fumbles with the dial. The voice sharpens.

“…Elena Dawson, previously residing in Paris, made her first public appearance this morning on the steps of the Whitmore estate…” It continues. Then I see her. The screen embedded in the console flickers with the live broadcast. She stands surrounded by microphones, cameras flashing like lightning. Her hair, darker now, pulled into a sleek knot. Her face was sharper, more defined, but unmistakable. It’s her. The ghost. The woman I’ve hunted in dreams and waking hours alike.

I lean forward, my pulse hammering in my throat, as if proximity to her image could close the chasm of eight years. She speaks, her voice calm, measured, but it doesn’t matter what she says. I hear only the echo of her laugh, the way it once wrapped around me in the quiet dark.

“Elena,” I whisper, the name foreign and electric on my tongue. The driver glances nervously in the mirror.

“Sir?” He asks. I ignore him. My eyes devour the screen. She’s real. Not a ghost. Not a hallucination conjured by whiskey and loneliness, and she has a name. Elena Dawson. Paris. That’s where she disappeared. That’s where she’s been hiding. A thousand questions slam into me at once. Why did she leave that night without a word? Why vanish for nearly a decade, only to resurface now, tied to one of the most powerful estates in New York? Why does my chest feel like it’s burning just seeing her face again?

“Find out everything,” I snap. The driver blinks.

“Sir?” He asks again.

“Elena Dawson. I want a full report. Where she’s living, who she’s with, what she’s hiding. Every detail,” I bite out.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington,” He answers. I sink back into the seat, my reflection fractured in the tinted glass of the window. For years, I told myself she didn’t matter, that she was a mistake, a fleeting distraction, but the truth is sharp, undeniable. She was never a mistake. She was the only thing that ever felt real.

The SUV carries me uptown, past glittering towers and bustling streets, but the city feels different now. Alive. Electric. Because she is here. Breathing the same air. Walking the same ground. The emptiness inside me shifts, not gone, but filled with something darker, sharper, a hunger I had not felt in a long time. This isn’t business, this is personal. I will find her. I will have answers. I will not let her escape me again!