The Unrest
(Andrew Dole’s Point of View)
“Mr. Dole, the Hong Kong call is in ten,
Veronica’s voice floated through the intercom–soft, precise, unbothered by urgency.
I didn’t lift my eyes from the papers spread before me. “Have them hold.”
A slight pause. “Right away, sir.
The intercom clicked off. Silence reclaimed the room.
The rye whiskey sat in its crystal tumbler, dark and promising. My fingers brushed the rim, but I didn’t reach for it. Clarity was what I needed, not the fog of liquor.
The boardroom door creaked open.
“Claus walked in like he owned the tension in the room–sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, jaw set. As both my friend and associate, he never wasted time on formalities.”
“We going through with this circus or not?”
“So,” he started, dropping a thick folder on the table, “are we really doing
this?”
“We’re already doing it,” I said, spinning the Montblanc pen between my fingers.
He looked at me like I’d announced I was marrying a ghost. “A contract
marriage? To Jane Frank?”
I leaned back. “Don’t say her name like it’s a risk assessment.”
“It is a risk assessment, Andrew.” He pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit. “She hasn’t responded to a single call or message.”
“She’s thinking.”
Π
“No. She’s ghosting you.” Claus’s voice was sharp, almost biting. He leaned in his eyes narrowing. “And maybe that’s her right, after everything Nathan’s done. The wreckage he’s left in her life the past few weeks… She’s still bleeding. Andrew. She doesn’t even know if she can trust you yet.”
My eyes flicked up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Claus stepped in. “You want to tie her to a deal while she’s still obviously hurt. That’s not strategy. That’s selfishness and obsession.”
“Obsession got us here.”
“No,” he countered. “Obsession got us nearly indicted in ’17. You remember that mess?”
“This isn’t ’17. This is clean. This is calculated.”
Claus finally sat, resting his forearms on the table. “She’s not like us. You know that, right? She’s not corporate steel and blood. She’s… human.”
I stared at the window. “That’s exactly why I need her.”
“You need her to agree to something she hasn’t even understood. What’s in the folder, anyway?”
“Everything she deserves to heal quickly. Control. Autonomy. Covering.”
He scoffed. “And your name on her lease.”
I smiled. “That too.
“Jesus, Andrew,” he muttered. “What do you think this is? Some twisted apology for what Nathan did?”
My jaw clenched. “He never deserved her.‘
“And you do?”
I stood abruptly, folder in hand. “We’re done.”
“Tell me something.” Claus said behind me, his voice steady but laced with challenge. “Would you still want her if she never looked at you the way she looked at him?”
I froze at the door.
The question sliced deeper than it should have.
I turned halfway, my voice cool. “When I get to that bridge, I’ll cross it. And for the record, this was never about love. It’s about making Nathan pay for everything he made me lose.”
I left Claus standing there and walked back into my office, the silence closing in like a fist. I set the folder down, but my hand lingered on it- tight, trembling slightly.
I exhaled and sank into the leather chair, elbows on my knees.
What would I do if she never looked at me that way?
The question hung in the air like smoke. And just like that, I was back there- years ago, when Nathan made it clear he’d never see me as an equal again.
Bies for ou des
Eight Years Ago – Private Office, Dole & Frank Capital
“You rebranded while I was in Dubai?” I snapped, the office door still. swinging behind me.
Nathan didn’t look up. “The paperwork was already in motion.”
“You changed our name. You cut me out of the firm’s identity.”
“I streamlined us.
“Bullshit. You wanted your name on the building alone.”
Nathan stood, suit pristine, smile surgical. “You’ve been dragging your heels for months. I made a call.”
“You made my call without me.
“You were getting soft, Andrew.”
“Soft?” I stepped forward. “You mean thoughtful. Strategic. You don’t win by burning bridges before they’re built.”
He laughed. “That’s why you lose.”
The door opened.
Julia. Hair in a loose twist, designer scarf still wrapped around her neck. She paused when she saw us.
“Did I walk in on something?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her tone.
Nathan’s expression flickered. Mine didn’t.
“Perfect timing,” I said, standing straighter.
She looked between us, reading the tension. “You two look like you’re
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about to throw punches.”
Julia’s voice cut through the tension, cool and amused.
Nathan leaned back against the desk like he hadn’t just stabbed me in the back. “Just a difference in vision.”
“Try betrayal,” I muttered under my breath, my eyes locked on him.
Julia took a few steps in, heels soundless on the carpet. Her ID badge still clipped to the lapel of her silk blouse: Julia Peterson Head of Client Relations. She’d only been in that role a year, but she’d risen fast–too fast. Some said it was her charm. Others whispered it was her proximity
to Nathan.
“Then maybe stop posturing and say what needs to be said,” she added, folding her arms like she was already done with both of us.
But she didn’t linger.
Julia walked over to Nathan’s desk, dropped a slim folder beside his elbow–no comment, no eye contact–and turned to leave.
“That’s the revised pitch for Roseville Group,” she said coolly. “They moved the call to Monday.”
And just like that, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, a perfect, practiced exit.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to.
I was too busy watching Nathan.
Eyes red–not from exhaustion, but from betrayal. How could he make certain cogent moves without involving me?
“Mr. Dole?”
J
Veronica’s voice buzzed through the intercom again, snapping me out of
the memory.
“Sir? The Hong Kong team’s still holding. Should I reschedule?”
I blinked, reality crashing back into focus. I was no longer in that old glass office with Nathan–I was here, in New York, in my own goddamn building.
“Cancel it.” I said, voice sharper than I intended. I stood abruptly and hit the intercom. “Push everything until tomorrow. I’m done for the night.”
“Understood, sir.
I grabbed the folder off my desk–cream linen, thick, embossed–and slipped it under my arm. The proposal was still in there, untouched. I hadn’t changed a word.
Claus had warned me.
“Maybe she’s ghosting you.
Η
“Maybe she’s bleeding, and you’re showing up with salt.”
He probably wasn’t wrong.
But I wasn’t going to retreat.
Veronica stepped out from the elevator just as I reached the lobby.
“Car’s ready, sir. Are we heading to the penthouse or…?”
I adjusted my cufflinks. “No. Uptown. The Musk Hotel.”
She hesitated. She always did when the matter was personal. “Very well. I’ll let Marcus know to stay on standby.”
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I stopped, turned to her. “No need. I’m going alone.”
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by professionalism. “Understood.”
I didn’t rush.
I took the stairs down to the garage, each footfall echoing softly against concrete and steel. The lights overhead buzzed low, casting long shadows across polished vehicles lined like soldiers.
The driver, Marcus, was already parked near the elevator bay. He stepped put when he saw me, jacket sharp, hands clasped in front of him like a man awaiting orders.
“Sir-”
“I won’t need you tonight,” I said, cutting him off gently. “Take the evening. I’ll drive.”
He hesitated, unsure whether to argue. He didn’t.
“Yes, sir.” A respectful nod, and he stepped away, vanishing into the quiet hum of the city above.
I slid into the driver’s seat of the black Bentley, shutting the door with a soft thud. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingered inside–familiar, sterile. Like power, vacuum–sealed.
The cream linen folder rested on the passenger seat beside me.
I stared at it for a long second.
Then I picked it up, flipped through the pages one last time–every clause, every safety net designed for Jane’s protection.
And then I did something unexpected.
I opened the glove compartment and slid the folder inside. Shut it.
If she was going to take this deal, it wouldn’t be tonight.
And it damn sure wouldn’t be because I handed her a contract while she was still bleeding.
The engine roared softly to life.
8:41 PM – Parked Outside The Musk Hotel, Upper West Side
The drive uptown was smooth, almost too quiet–like the city was holding its breath with me. No jazz. No news. Just the occasional honk, the drone of tires against wet asphalt, and the distant hum of lives being lived on floors above.
The Musk stood tall, elegant and discreet–silver accents, privacy tinted glass, and a concierge who asked few questions. A fortress wrapped in quiet money.
I didn’t pull up to the valet.
Instead, I turned onto the side street and parked halfway down the block. No show. No statement.
I stepped out into the cool night, pulling my coat tighter around me. The wind bit, but it grounded me. Reminded me I wasn’t here to fix her–I was here to see her.
The corridor leading to her suite was hushed, the kind of hush that made your breathing sound louder than it should. Soft lights lined the ceiling, casting a warm sheen across the marble floor and exquisitely painted walls.
I walked slowly. No rush. Every step a choice.
When I reached her door, I stopped.
Took in the moment.
Took in her.
Even if I couldn’t see her yet, I could feel the weight of her silence pressing against the other side.
I raised my hand–ready to knock–but lowered it again.
Pulled out my phone instead.
Her name on the screen felt like ice on my hands.
I tapped it. Let it ring.
Straight to voicemail.
I didn’t wait for the beep.
“Jane,” I said, my voice low, measured. “I’m not here to fix anything. I just needed to see for myself that alright. It’s been days… and silence isn’t like you.
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I paused for a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, then ended the call.
The screen dimmed. The phone slid back into my pocket like a secret.
I faced her door.
Raised my hand.
Knocked once–steady.
Then again, slower.
And then I waited.
Not like a man expecting an answer.
But like one who knew that behind that door was a storm trying to quiet itself… and all I could do was stand in the rain.
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