Chapter 4 - Enter the Enemy
*Word count target: ~3,000 words*
The fallout from the courthouse ambush was immediate and violent. By noon, my phone was ringing off the hook. My sister Hannah was screaming so loudly on voicemail I thought her phone might explode.
*“ETHAN COLE! DID YOU GET MARRIED? WHO IS CLAIRE WHITMAN? SHE’S WORTH FORTY MILLION DOLLARS! EXPLAIN YOURSELF RIGHT NOW!”*
I ignored the calls, sitting in my cramped site office on Market Street, staring at the notification from my bank. The entire balance of my commercial loan—six hundred and fifty thousand dollars—had been marked as *PAID IN FULL*.
The door to my office banged open without a knock.
A man in a custom Brioni suit stood in the doorway. He had dark slicked-back hair, a smug, predatory smile, and eyes that looked like chips of blue ice. Behind him stood two burly men who looked like they moonlighted as cage fighters.
"So," the man said, sauntering in and leaning against my drafting table, leaving a smudge of dust on his expensive sleeve. "You're the lucky lumberjack who managed to trap my dear cousin Claire."
I didn't stand up. I slowly capped my technical pen and looked him dead in the eye. "And you must be Julian Whitman. You have mud on your suit."
Julian’s smile faltered for a microsecond before returning with double the venom. "Spare me the blue-collar charm, Mr. Cole. I know exactly what you are. A desperate contractor drowning in debt, plucked off the street to play a very convenient role. But here’s the reality check: paper marriages don't hold up under real pressure. My grandfather's board of directors is conservative. They want stability. By Friday night, at the annual charity gala, I'm going to prove to everyone that your little romance is a farce."
"Is that a threat, Julian, or just a preview of your concession speech?" I asked, leaning back in my chair.
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned down, pressing his face close to mine. "If you walk away now, I’ll match whatever Claire is paying you. Double it, even. Because when I take over Whitman Enterprises, contractors like you won't even be hired to pave our parking lots."
"I don't like your terms, Julian," I said calmly. "And I especially don't like people tracking mud on my desk."
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Julian straightened his jacket, his face darkening with suppressed rage. "Enjoy your little game while it lasts, Mr. Cole. Friday night is coming. And the truth always comes out."
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