Chapter 2 - The Cold Morning After
The penthouse suite at the St. Regis in Aspen smelled of expensive champagne, pine needles, and Sierra’s lingering vanilla perfume. Cole Whitmore stretched luxuriously against the eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, feeling like the king of the world. He had closed a multi-million-dollar deal on Friday, slipped away from his boring, meek wife on Christmas Eve, and spent the night in the arms of a twenty-four-year-old runway model.
Life was effortless when you were a self-made billionaire. Or so he had spent five years convincing himself.
He rolled over, picked up his gold-plated iPhone from the mahogany nightstand, and glanced at the screen. It was 7:14 a.m.
There were no text messages from Lauren. No frantic missed calls asking when he was boarding the private jet back to Teterboro. No tearful voicemails begging him to come home to open presents with their eleven-month-old twins.
Cole smirked. *Good. She finally learned her place.* For months, he had been wearing her down, chipping away at her confidence, making sure she understood that without him, she was just an anxious, helpless mother trapped on the fifty-fourth floor of a Manhattan high-rise.
He slid out of bed, tied a silk robe around his waist, and stepped into the living area where Sierra was lazily sipping room-service espresso.
"Morning, handsome," Sierra purred, tilting her head back against the velvet sofa. "Did you book our ski helicopter for noon?"
"I’ll take care of it right now," Cole said smoothly, picking up the hotel room phone to dial the concierge. "Charge the private helipad excursion to my Centurion Black Card on file."
"Certainly, Mr. Whitmore," the concierge replied politely.
A moment later, the line fell dead quiet.
"Mr. Whitmore?" the concierge’s voice had changed, losing its deferential warmth and turning stiffly formal. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but your American Express Centurion has been declined."
Cole chuckled, shaking his head. "That’s impossible. It has no preset spending limit. Run it again."
"I did, sir. Twice. The authorization code states 'Account Revoked by Primary Trustee.' Do you have an alternate card?"
A sudden, cold pinprick struck the back of Cole’s neck. "Primary trustee? What the hell are you talking about? Try my corporate Visa."
"One moment." Keystrokes rattled over the line. Then: "Declined as well, sir. Reason: Administrative Freeze."
Sierra lowered her espresso cup, her painted eyebrows drawing together. "Cole? What’s going on?"
"It’s a banking glitch," Cole snapped, slamming the receiver down. His heart began to hammer an irregular, ugly rhythm against his ribs. He grabbed his cell phone and opened his private banking portal.
*Access Denied. Account Status: Frozen under Section 14-B of the Bennett Family Trust Indenture.*
Cole’s breath caught in his throat. Bennett.
That name wasn't supposed to exist in his world anymore. He had made sure Lauren signed over management rights five years ago. He had isolated her from her father’s old friends. He had made her believe she was nobody.
Hands trembling with sudden fury, he dialed Lauren’s cell phone.
*The number you have reached has been permanently disconnected.*
Panic, icy and sickening, clawed into his chest. He dialed the penthouse landline.
May you like
A click, followed by the dry, measured voice of Arthur Harris, the legendary Wall Street litigator who hadn't taken Cole's calls in three years.
"Cole," Arthur said evenly. "Don't bother flying back to the Manhattan apartment. Building security has already revoked your biometric passes. Merry Christmas."
