‘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.’
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.’
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.’
I step closer to the screen, hands loose at my sides. ‘Theacquisition 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.’
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.’
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 fromBloomberg 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…’
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.
