Page 5 of When Hearts Ignite

It’s fucking pathetic.

Clenching my fist, I briefly close my eyes, only to be interrupted by a chime from my phone.

Ryland

Dipshit, are you still alive? I haven’t seen you in at least three weeks. Drinks at The Orchid this week? Or at least send me a proof of life text.

My foul mood lightens a smidge at the message from my good friend, Ryland Anderson, who seems to be battling with some issues himself these days. Aside from the one night with Liesel, work has been my mistress for the last few weeks, with the days blurring into nights. I should send him a text later before he sends out a search team.

Knock. Knock.

“Mr. Kingsley, your team is ready for you in the conference room,” Jane, my assistant, announces through the door.

“Coming.”

My idiotic team. Remembering the purpose of the meeting, I grab the binder containing the world’s most ridiculous analysis and stalk toward the conference room, all temporary relief from Ryland’s text forgotten.

The office, which occupies ten floors in a modern skyscraper within walking distance to the Charging Bull sculpture on Wall Street, is bustling with activity, with morning sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating most of the employees buried in their work within the confines of the glass cubicles separating the space.

Hushed voices and beeping of phones fill the air as bankers and traders make their first calls of the morning. Several flat screens hanging on the far walls showcase the market positions and the latest news of all the international markets, from the New York Stock Exchange to the Hong Kong Hang Seng Index.

The office thrums with energy and this normally gives me the greatest highs, except this morning, after my call with Father and the atrocity in the binder I’m clutching in my hand. A small group of unfamiliar faces linger by one cubicle—interns, maybe, since they start today. A few managers and vice presidents dip their heads in greeting as I pass by them.

As the youngest vice president of Pietra Capital, the reigning investment bank in revenues on Wall Street, I’m on the shortlist for a promotion to the newly vacated Chief Operating Officer position after Greg Marley keeled over last month from a heart attack on his seventy-foot yacht during his sojourn to the Mediterranean.

It was said he didn’t even want to go on this trip in the first place, but his wife begged him for a vacation to relive their honeymoon, and he relented after much pestering from her.

Perhaps he would still be alive if he didn’t have a wife, because he would’ve been in New York City, mere minutes away from the top hospitals in the world.

I see my colleagues’ gazes filled with both begrudging admiration, doubt, and a slice of contempt. The crinkling in their brows indicates the idea of letting someone so young, twenty-eight to be exact, join their lofty ranks, is probably causing some uncomfortable acid reflux in the middle of the night.

But the numbers don’t lie, and I couldn’t care less about their so-called useless feelings.

I’ve increased our investment returns by three times since I was promoted to lead the investments department two years ago, an achievement my predecessors failed to accomplish. Not having entanglements or clouded emotions like everyone else allows me to see things with piercing clarity. To analyze every investment, situation, or person with a rational mind. I’m sure they’ve enjoyed the extra padding in their wallets since my ascension up the ranks.

My emotional brokenness makes me great at my job and that’s the only thing still driving me to get out of bed each morning.

The never-ending need to succeed, to be better, to be more. After all, these are the things a Kingsley should want in life.

My fingers clutch the binder in a death grip. These fuckers are messing with my path to success. I grit my teeth and take in a ragged inhale to stop the anger from boiling over.

Smoothing my face into one of fabricated calmness when I want nothing more than to tear into my team for this piece of crap burning a hole in my hand, I stroll toward the conference room where my analysts and investment managers are waiting for me.

I push open the clear double doors and storm into the spacious room, finding my team of fifteen top performers sitting around the long central table, their excited chatter filling the air.

Heads swivel my way, and Bradley Chance, one of my investment managers, breaks into a big grin. “Mr. Kingsley, good morning! Did you see the analysis we put together for you?”

Letting out a controlled breath, I twist my lips into a serene smile. “This binder here?” I hold up the offending documents in my hand. “I did. Read it cover to cover. Did everyone review this and agree with the assessments?”

Bradley glances around the table, catching the eyes of most people in the room before swiveling back to me and nodding eagerly. “Of course. This is one of our biggest investments this calendar year. Everyone did their due diligence.”

I hum noncommittally. “Based on these documents, perhaps we should wait a few months before upping our stake in Cameron Corp.” The analysis actually suggested an immediate buy on the emerging home goods manufacturing company purported to rival some of the top brands in existence.

A questioning murmur breaks through the silence and Chuck Bright, who I nickname Chuck Dumbass in my mind, chimes in, “Exactly right, Mr. Kingsley. Brilliant assessment.”

Bradley turns his frown into a smile and nods again, making me want to smack the grin off his face. “That’s correct.”

The rest of the room joins the approvals, nodding ridiculously, a bunch of lemmings leaping off the cliff after the leader.

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