The polished marble floors echoed beneath Jerome Xanders' measured strides as he moved through the mansion like a king surveying his domain. Every inch of the place spoke wealth—crystal chandeliers dripping light, gold-trimmed pillars, walls adorned with priceless art flown in from different corners of the world. Yet Jerome barely noticed any of it. This was not luxury to him; it was routine.
Maids lined the hallway in perfect symmetry, heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them. Their white uniforms contrasted sharply with his tailored black suit, custom-made in Italy, hugging his broad shoulders and defined frame like it had been sewn onto his skin.
"Good morning, sir," they chorused softly.
Jerome didn't respond. He never did. Respect, in his world, wasn't earned through pleasantries—it was demanded by presence alone.
As he stepped outside, the cool New York air brushed against his face. His driver had already opened the door of the sleek black Rolls-Royce, standing rigid like a statue. Jerome slid inside without a word, his mind already shifting gears toward business.
Inside the car, Bree adjusted her tablet nervously. Being Jerome Xanders' personal assistant required more than efficiency—it required nerves of steel.
"Sir," she began carefully, "Mr. Evans is waiting for you, and it seems like he can't hold his patience again."
Jerome only grunted, his sharp jaw tightening slightly as the car pulled away from the mansion gates.
Patience. That word amused him.
The city blurred past the tinted windows—skyscrapers, honking cars, crowds that lived lives entirely separate from his own. To the world, Jerome Xanders was a myth wrapped in money. Headlines painted him as ruthless, untouchable, untamed. Rumors clung to his name like shadows: that he bought judges, crushed competitors, and disposed of enemies with a single phone call.
And the women?
That was another story altogether.
Jerome didn't do love. He didn't do attachments. Women came and went like seasons—brief, intense, forgettable. One night. No promises. No expectations. Clean and controlled.
Or so he thought.
The car came to a smooth stop in front of the towering Xanders Global building. The moment Jerome stepped out, the world seemed to shift. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Security straightened. Employees felt it—the invisible pressure that came with his presence.
Inside the boardroom, tension sat thick in the air.
Mr. Evans paced near the glass wall, his frustration obvious. A man in his late fifties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, he was one of the few people in New York bold enough to challenge Jerome Xanders. Or foolish enough.
"You're late," Evans snapped the moment Jerome walked in.
Jerome loosened his cufflinks slowly, deliberately, as though time itself bent to his will. He took his seat at the head of the table, crossing one long leg over the other.
"And yet," Jerome said coolly, his voice deep and calm, "you're still here."
Silence fell like a hammer.
Bree swallowed hard, taking her seat near the edge, fingers flying across her tablet to document every word.
Evans clenched his jaw. "This deal has been delayed for weeks. My investors are losing confidence."
Jerome leaned back, steepling his fingers. His dark eyes locked onto Evans with unsettling intensity.
"Your investors," Jerome replied, "need me more than I need them. If they're losing confidence, perhaps you should remind them who's funding this entire expansion."
Evans opened his mouth, then closed it again. He exhaled sharply, deflating.
"I want results," Evans said finally.
"You'll get them," Jerome said, rising to his feet. "When I decide it's time."
With that, the meeting was over.
Jerome walked out without looking back.
As Bree hurried after him, she hesitated before speaking again. "Sir… there's something else."
Jerome stopped abruptly, causing her to nearly crash into his back.
"What?" he asked, irritation seeping through his tone.
"There's a woman downstairs," Bree said carefully. "She claims she has information you might want. She refused to leave without seeing you."
Jerome scoffed. "Another desperate attempt?"
"That's the thing," Bree replied. "She isn't asking for money. Or attention."
That got his attention.
Jerome's eyes narrowed. "Name?"
"She didn't give one."
For reasons he didn't understand, curiosity flickered in his chest—brief, unwelcome.
"Five minutes," he said. "If she wastes my time, have security escort her out."
Downstairs, she stood near the reception desk.
She wasn't dressed like the others who usually tried to get to him. No designer gown. No flashy makeup. Just a simple fitted dress, hair pulled back neatly, posture calm.
When Jerome approached, she turned—and met his gaze without flinching.
Interesting.
"You wanted to see me," Jerome said flatly.
"Yes," she replied, her voice steady. "And now I have."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, not flirtatious—measured.
"I don't repeat myself," Jerome warned.
She studied him for a moment, as if committing his face to memory. "You won't need to. I came to tell you something, not ask."
Bree shifted uncomfortably behind him.
"What could you possibly have to tell me?" Jerome asked.
The woman took a slow breath. "That not everything in your life can be controlled."
For the first time in years, Jerome felt something unfamiliar ripple through him.
Amusement? Irritation? Interest?
He stepped closer, towering over her. "Careful," he said quietly. "People who say things like that usually regret it."
She looked up at him, eyes unwavering. "We'll see."
Security began to move forward, but Jerome lifted a hand, stopping them.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She smiled again, this time softer. "Someone you'll remember."
And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing through the glass doors before anyone could stop her.
Jerome stood there, unmoving.
For the first time in a long time, Jerome Xanders was late—not to a meeting, but to understanding why a stranger's words echoed louder than any rumor ever had.