Cursed To Love You

The call came at 8:47 a.m. Zachary was already moving through the corridor of Cole Global's fortieth floor when he answered, phone pressed to his ear, free hand in his pocket.

"Mr. Cole." His doctor's voice was carefully measured.

"The final results are in. I'm afraid the progression is faster than we initially projected."

Zachary kept walking. "How long?"

"Eighteen months. Possibly less."

He didn't stop. Didn't slow. Employees parted for him the way they always did and he moved through them the way he always did and when he reached his private elevator he pressed the button and stepped in without missing a single step.

"Mr. Cole, I'd like to schedule a follow up—"

"I'll call you." He ended the call.

The doors began to close; but then a hand shot through the gap.

The doors reopened and she stumbled in — a portfolio case pressed against her chest, hair half falling out of its pins, slightly out of breath. She looked up and froze when she saw him.

"I'm so sorry — I didn't know this was private—"

"It's fine." He faced forward.

She shifted the portfolio awkwardly. The elevator climbed with a heavy Silence between them.

She sneaked a glance at him; but he pretended not to notice and stared ahead.

The doors opened on the fourteenth floor and she immediately moved out quickly, the portfolio knocking against the door frame.

"Sorry," she muttered to the door frame.

The doors began to close. She turned to adjust the portfolio against her hip and for exactly one second their eyes met through the narrowing gap.

Then she was gone.

Zachary stood alone. He looked at the closed doors for a moment longer than necessary. Then he reached for his phone and dialled.

Reid picked up on the first ring. "Zachary."

"Find out who she is. The girl who just came through the fourteenth floor. Dark hair. Portfolio case." He paused. "And extend whatever contract brought her into this building."

"Zachary—"

He ended the call.

Reid arrived twelve minutes later.

He walked into Zachary's office without knocking — he was the only person in the building with that right and closed the door behind him.

Zachary was at the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city below.

Reid set a thin folder on the desk.

"Isla Simmons. Twenty four. Irish national on a work visa. Graphic designer at Hartwell Creative — small firm, six employees. They landed the Cole Global gallery installation contract three weeks ago through an open tender." He paused. "She's been in the building four days."

Zachary didn't turn around. "And?"

"And nothing. She's nobody connected to anyone. Clean record. No ties to any competitor or person of interest." Reid's voice dropped slightly. "Zachary. What is this?"

Zachary turned from the window then. He looked at Reid for a moment — long enough that Reid's expression shifted from cautious to something closer to dread.

"Sit down, Reid."

"I'll stand."

"Sit down."

Reid sat.

Zachary moved to his desk. He didn't sit. He placed both hands flat on the surface and looked at his oldest friend and said it the same way he said everything — quietly, without decoration.

"Eighteen months. The doctor called this morning. The condition is more aggressive than the initial scans suggested. There is no treatment currently available." He straightened. "I need you to call Caden and Sloane. Tell them to be here in an hour."

Reid didn't speak for a long moment.

"Zachary—"

"An hour, Reid."

Reid stood slowly. His jaw was tight. His eyes were doing something he would never allow his voice to do. He picked up his phone and walked to the far side of the office and made the calls with his back turned.

Zachary sat down behind his desk and opened his laptop and began reading his morning briefing as though nothing had changed.

Caden arrived first, still in his gym clothes, hair damp. He walked in with his usual easy energy and then read the room and stopped.

Sloane came four minutes later. He took one look at Reid's face and closed the door behind him without being asked.

Nobody sat down.

Zachary closed his laptop.

"I'll keep this short." He looked at each of them in turn. "I've been diagnosed with a progressive condition. The prognosis is eighteen months. I'm telling the three of you because you'll notice eventually and I'd rather control that conversation than have it forced on me." He paused. "This doesn't leave this room. Not to family. Not to the board. Not to anyone."

Caden opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Zachary—"

"I'm not finished." His voice was level. "I have eighteen months and I intend to spend them running this company exactly as I always have. Nothing changes. Nothing stops. Are we clear?"

Silence.

Sloane spoke first. His voice was flat and low. "No."

"Sloane—"

"I said no." He stepped forward. "You don't get to drop something like this and then tell us nothing changes. That's not how this works."

"That's exactly how this works."

"It isn't." Sloane's eyes were hard. "You can run this company. You can keep it from the board. You can do whatever you need to do. But don't stand there and tell me nothing changes and expect me to nod and walk out of here."

The room went quiet.

Zachary looked at him for a long moment. Something moved across his expression — brief, barely there.

"Fine." He said it quietly. "Something changes."

Reid looked up. "What?"

Zachary glanced at the folder still sitting on his desk. The one with her name on it.

"I've made a decision." He said it simply, the way a man states a fact he has already fully accepted. "Before the clock runs out — I want to know what it feels like." He paused. "To love someone."

Caden stared at him. "What?"

"I've chosen someone." His eyes stayed on the folder. "I'm going to let her in. Give her something real. And when the time comes I'll end it cleanly — before she ever has to know why."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing any of them had ever heard in this office.

Reid was the first to find his voice. "Zachary. You can't be serious."

"I rarely say things I don't mean."

"She's a person. She's not a—" Reid stopped. Pressed his fingers to his mouth. Started again. "You can't use someone like that."

"I'm not using her." His voice didn't change. "I'm going to give her something real. She'll be better for having known me." A pause. "And I'll have had what I came for."

Caden dragged a hand through his damp hair. "This is insane."

Sloane said nothing. He just looked at Zachary with the particular expression he reserved for things he disagreed with completely but knew he could not stop.

Zachary picked up the folder and held it out to Reid.

"Extend her contract. I want her in this building for at least three more months."

Reid didn't take it immediately. He looked at Zachary for a long moment — at the man he had known for twenty years, standing behind his desk with eighteen months and a decision already made and a face that had not cracked once since they walked in.

He took the folder.

"For the record," Reid said quietly. "I think this is a mistake."

"Noted." Zachary opened his laptop again. "Close the door on your way out."

They filed out. Caden last, pausing at the door.

"Zachary."

Zachary looked up.

Caden's usual easy expression was completely gone. What was underneath it was something much older and much quieter.

"For what it's worth." His voice was low. "I hope she's worth it."

He closed the door.

Zachary sat alone in the silence.

He looked at the folder on his desk. At the name printed neatly on the tab.

Isla Simmons.

His jaw tightened slightly.

She had apologised to a door frame.

He smiled.

Down on the fourteenth floor, completely unaware that her contract had just been extended, that her name sat in a folder on the most powerful desk in the building, that a decision had already been made about her —

Isla Simmons hummed quietly to herself and pinned the last panel of artwork to the gallery wall and stood back to look at it.

"Perfect," she murmured.

She had absolutely no idea.