Chapter 18
Two weeks home and I still can’t shake her. No matter how many times I push her out of my head, the memory of her face pops back every time I close my eyes.
Irish.
Her infectious laugh.
Her plump, hot lips.
Her soft Dublin lilt.
She’s the only woman ever to crawl beneath my skin, and I have no idea how to tear her out from under it. She’s the only woman to make me feel seen as a person, instead of a prize to lock down. And she’s the only woman who ever ran out on me, vanishing before sunrise, leaving me wondering if she was actually real.
It doesn’t matter. I’m back to being Cole Hartmann—the man women throw themselves at morning, noon and night. So, I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
But unfortunately, I do—way more than I imagined possible.
And I hate it.
The casino floor roars beneath me. Chips clatter. Slot machines shriek. The sound of excited tourists drunk on neon and dopamine—but it’s just white noise. I’m restless. All I can think about is her. About commandeering the jet, flying to Dublin, and hunting her down until she’s in my bed again. In my arms again. But it’s madness. Reckless. And utterly out of character.
Yet, I haven’t entirely ruled it out.
That innate gut instinct that’s got me this far in life is screaming at me we aren’t done.
I move through the VIP level of my Vegas casino, flanked by security. Hundreds of eyes home in on us as we pass. Women want me. Men want to be me. That’s not arrogance. It’s simply a fact—and it has fuck all to do with anything other than my bank balance, power and status.
That was what I loved about Irish. Liked, I mean.
She had no idea about any of it, and she wanted me regardless.
Mind you, she wielded her own brand of wealth and power—along with that playful, seductive sassiness.
No wonder I can’t get her out of my damned mind.
Belle keeps pace at my side, tablet in hand, her expression sharp enough to cut glass. She doesn’t waste her breath on small talk or pleasantries—we’re way past that. In the years she’s been my PA, she’s mastered the art of saying only what matters.
‘The Dublin construction report,’ she says, handing me a sleek folder without breaking stride. ‘Ahead of schedule. The Becketts are still trying to block licensing on the casino wing p>
I don’t stop walking.
I don’t react, even though irritation flares in my chest. Those fucking Becketts.
‘Outmanoeuvre them,’ I say evenly. ‘Buy the committee. Change the zoning. Lean on the minister. I don’t care how—just keep the Dublin project moving p>
Belle nods once. She understands this hotel is personal to me.
‘And Luke?’ I ask, not because I want the answer—but because I need it. My little brother checked himself into rehab the day after our mother’s wedding. It’s the first time he’s gone willingly, which makes me think that finally, he actually wants help. If he’d clean his damned act up once and for all, I’d appoint him a role in the company—it’s his legacy as much as mine.
‘The clinic says he’s… cooperative p>
I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Let’s try to keep the media away from this p>
‘Yes, sir p>
We step into the private elevator. It’s comprised of black glass and mirrored ceilings. The casino shrinks beneath us as we shoot upwards to the boardroom. The doors eventually slide open, revealing glass walls—a skyline of fire and gold behind them. Vegas is gaudy and glittering beneath us.
But I’m not here to discuss Vegas.
I’m here to discuss a brand new casino in Cannes.
I’ve had my eye on a waterfront property for months. It’s on a stunning, iconic stretch of coastline, perfect for the next part of my European expansion. This casino will cement Hartmann Hotels as the dominant luxury empire on both sides of the Atlantic. The property is on a stretch of Riviera beachfront so coveted it’s practically myth. A rare plot on the Croisette—prime coastline, private marina access, steps from the Palais des Festivals—the kind of site that comes onto the market once in a lifetime.
I’ve been courting it for months. Wooing investors. Navigating French gaming regulations. Positioning Hartmann to do the unthinkable—build the first ultra-modern, high-limit casino hotel in Cannes. It’s the one destination that could eclipse Monaco. Outshine Dubai. Rewrite the global map of luxury gaming.
Today’s meeting is the final push with an elite syndicate of billionaire investors—old-money Europeans, sovereign funds, power brokers who could greenlight the acquisition and fast-track construction. Men who care about three things—exclusivity, profit, dominance.
I’ve planned every angle. Covered every possible clause. Spent months positioning myself as the only viable contender.
By the time I walk into that boardroom, the deal should be a formality.
It’s the kind of move that propels the Hartmann hotel chain into a league no one else can even compete in.
The kind that makes a man untouchable.
I straighten my cufflinks and step into the room.
Executives rise to their feet the second I enter.
‘Gentlemen.’ I nod at each of them in turn. ‘You’ve seen the projections. Now you’ll see the future. At Hartmann, we don’t chase trends. We set them p>
I tap the remote, and the lights dip. The first rendering floods the screen—glass, steel, and unapologetic luxury rising from the stunning stretch of coastline. A low ripple moves through the room. Awe. Greed. Recognition.
Good. Let them feel it.
‘The Riviera Crown,’ I say, voice smooth, controlled, despite my excitement over this project. ‘A flagship unlike anything Europe has seen. Waterfront access. A private marina. One hundred and fifty-eight opulent suites. A members-only penthouse club with a panoramic view.’ I pause for effect. ‘And the first fully sanctioned, high-limit luxury casino in Cannes under foreign ownership p>
They’re eating it up. Shovelling in, just as I planned. They shift in their chairs as low murmurs echo around the room and bright eyes sharpen. They’re all probably mentally calculating the potential.
‘Our empire was built on one principle—where Hartmann goes, gaming follows. Our hotels don’t just host guests. They host power. Money. Risk. The kind of clientele who don’t ask for limits and don’t accept losing. This isn’t hospitality. It’s supremacy p>
I click to the next slide—plans for a subterranean gaming floor wrapped in gold-veined marble, private vaults, VIP salons, and a no-camera, no-paperwork Black Room for the elite.
‘The casino will be the heartbeat of the Riviera Crown. A magnet for wealth. A drawcard no competitor in Europe can replicate—not even the Monte Carlo establishment. We’re not entering the market. We’re hijacking it p>
Silence.
No one breathes.
‘This isn’t just another hotel,’ I continue. ‘It’s a landmark. A brand statement. A declaration of dominance that positions Hartmann as the uncontested leader in global gaming and luxury hospitality p>
I let the slide shift to projected gaming revenue—numbers so obscene they look fictional.
‘Once we secure this site, the Hartmann chain won’t just compete.’ A faint, lethal smile ghosts my lips. ‘We’ll own the continent. Especially with Dublin bringing us across the Atlantic in tandem p>
I watch as they exchange glances.
‘Europe is the last frontier for our gaming portfolio. The Riviera Crown completes the chain. Vegas. New York. London. Paris. Milan. Macau. Monaco. Dubai. Dublin. Cannes. Ten pillars. One empire. A closed loop of influence and profit p>
I step closer to the screen, hands loose at my sides. ‘The acquisition is days away from closing. When it does, no rival—not the Monte Carlo Group, not the Emirati syndicates, and certainly not the Becketts—will have the leverage to challenge us p>
The Beckett name sets a ripple of disgust around the room. These men know what I’ve been up against. Know the Becketts played every card they had to prevent the Irish project. Given it was my father’s one wish, I had to utilise every single one of these men’s influence in my struggles with the Dublin project. If it wasn’t for them, The Hartmann Hotel in Ireland wouldn’t have gotten the go ahead.
‘Our architects are mobilised. Our gaming commission approvals secured. The investors stand to see returns that rewrite the industry standard.’ I flick to the final slide, the one that demonstrates predicted revenue; the curve shoots skyward. ‘The future is here, gentlemen. All that’s left is to sign p>
The excitement in the room is palpable. The investors turn to each other with hushed murmurs. The singular satisfaction of securing a new, iconic project sweeps through me. This is why I do what I do. The thrill is better than sex.
Well, it was, until Irish blew me away with her talented mouth and tight, needy pussy.
Oh for fuck’s sake, concentrate Cole.
I straighten my spine and gaze out at the cityscape on the horizon.
Belle moves at the edge of my vision. As she approaches, I note the panic bleeding into her posture. She scarpers towards me with none of her usual composure, tablet in hand. Her eyes are wide and overflowing with alarm.
‘Mr Hartmann, there’s been a development,’ she squeaks.
The murmurs fall to an expectant silence.
Every inch of me stills.
I accept the iPad she hands me.
The iPad screen flashes—not an email, but a breaking market alert.
BREAKING: BECKETT ENTERPRISES ACQUIRES PRIME CANNES WATERFRONT SITE.
FULL OWNERSHIP CONFIRMED.
DEVELOPMENT PLANS TO FOLLOW.
Below it, a second notification pings—this one from Bloomberg Europe, the headline bold and brutal:
BECKETTS SECURE CROISETTE LANDMARK IN SURPRISE CASH DEAL.
Belle’s voice trembles. ‘It just hit every major financial wire. Bloomberg, Reuters, Financial Times. And p>
Another window opens—an official PDF stamped by the French land registry.
DEED TRANSFER: COMPLETE.
REGISTERED BUYER: CAELON BECKETT, ON BEHALF OF BECKETT ENTERPRISES.
TIMESTAMP: 11:02 CET.
Forty-eight minutes ago.
Fucking Beckett bastards.
Silence detonates across the room.
I hold it up, too furious to utter a fucking word.
One of the investors leans forward, his jowls swinging in shock. ‘This is public? Already p>
Belle nods, swallowing. ‘They filed a press release with the AMF—the French financial authority. It’s everywhere p>
No loopholes.
No room to negotiate.
No fucking Hartmann Riviera Hotel in Cannes.
It’s official.
This is war.