Alexander Voss leaned back in his leather armchair, the kind that cost more than most people's cars, and stared out at the Manhattan skyline from his penthouse on Billionaires' Row. The city sprawled below like a glittering chessboard, towers stabbing the dawn sky, but his eyes barely registered it. Instead, they flicked to the tablet in his lap, where lines of code scrolled under his thumb his team's latest AI breakthrough, a neural network that could predict market crashes with eerie accuracy. It was genius. Revolutionary. The kind of thing that would add another zero to his net worth.
He should have been thrilled.
Instead, he felt... nothing. A hollow echo in his chest, the same one that had haunted him for two decades.
He set the tablet aside and reached for the decanter on the side table, pouring two fingers of Macallan 1926 rare enough to make collectors weep. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal tumbler as he took a sip, the burn grounding him for a moment. At forty, he had everything: a tech empire that spanned continents, private jets on standby, women who threw themselves at him with a single glance. They called him a Greek god in the tabloids, chiseled jaw, broad shoulders honed by daily sessions with a trainer who charged five figures a month, piercing blue eyes that could close deals or shatter egos.
But gods got lonely too.
His phone buzzed on the armrest. A text from his assistant: Board meeting at 9. Confirming your keynote at the Hamptons gala?
He typed back: Yes. And pull the attendee list.
Why? He wasn't sure. Or maybe he was, and that scared him more.
Alexander stood and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, tumbler in hand. The penthouse was a masterpiece of modern minimalism—white marble floors, abstract art worth millions, a view that screamed power. But it felt sterile. Empty. Like him.
He pulled his phone again and opened a hidden folder, the one buried under layers of encryption even his own AI couldn't crack without his biometrics. Photos. Old ones, scanned from faded prints.
Elena.
There she was, seventeen and radiant, laughing in a sundress on that dusty Pennsylvania field where they'd picnicked after school. Her hair wild in the wind, eyes sparkling like she held the world's secrets. Another: them tangled in the back of his old truck, her head on his chest, both of them flushed from stolen kisses that tasted like forever.
He scrolled. Stopped on the last one—the night before it all went to hell. Her in his arms under the stars, whispering promises they'd never keep.
"I love you, Alex. Always."
He'd believed her. Hell, he'd believed in them. Until his father crashed in like a wrecking ball.
Victor Voss, the old tyrant, had cornered him in the barn that next morning. "That girl's a distraction. Trash from the wrong family. You're going to MIT, boy. Build something real. Or I'll cut you off faster than you can beg."
Alexander had fought back, yelled, pleaded, even swung a punch that missed and split his knuckles on a post. But Victor was iron. Relentless. By sunset, Alexander was on a plane, Elena left behind with a voicemail he still regretted: "I'm sorry. I have to go. Wait for me."
She hadn't.
He drained the scotch and set the glass down hard enough to rattle the table. Twenty years. He'd built VossTech from a dorm-room hack into a billion-dollar beast, AI that powered everything from Wall Street algorithms to government surveillance. He'd dated models, actresses, even an heiress or two. Engaged once, to Isabella, who looked the part but felt like ice.
None of it filled the void.
Last night, after firing off that message to Elena, impulsive, stupid… he'd paced this same floor until dawn. What if she didn't reply? What if she did?
His phone buzzed again. Not his assistant.
Unknown number, but he knew.
Okay.
One word. From her.
His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal. He typed back before doubt could stop him: Hamptons gala. Saturday. I'll find you.
Send.
He pocketed the phone and headed to the gym down the hall, a private setup with weights, a boxing ring, and a view of Central Park. He stripped off his shirt, muscles rippling under tanned skin, and attacked the heavy bag like it owed him money.
Jab. Hook. Uppercut.
Each punch echoed the what-ifs. What if she'd waited? What if he'd fought harder? What if Victor hadn't meddled, shipping him off and burying the truth under threats and lies?
Sweat poured down his back. He pictured Elena now married, a kid, tied to some suit who probably didn't know how lucky he was. Marcus Thompson. Alexander had looked him up years ago, out of morbid curiosity. Mid-level finance drone. Stable. Boring.
Not enough for her.
He landed a final blow that sent the bag swinging wildly, then leaned against it, breathing hard.
Elena deserved fire. Passion. The kind they'd had as kids raw, consuming. He'd give her the world now: yachts in the Mediterranean, diamonds that rivaled stars, nights where she screamed his name until dawn.
But she was married. Forbidden.
That only made him want her more.
His assistant knocked softly on the glass door. "Sir? The board's assembling virtually in ten. And... Isabella called. Again."
Alexander wiped his face with a towel. "Tell her I'm busy. And prep the jet for the Hamptons Friday night."
"Yes, sir."
As the door clicked shut, he glanced back at the phone. No new message. Yet.
He showered quick hot water scalding away the sweat, but not the ache. Dressed in a tailored Tom Ford suit that hugged his frame like a second skin. In the mirror, he looked every inch the billionaire mogul: confident, untouchable.
But inside? A boy still pining for the girl who got away.
The virtual board meeting kicked off sharp at nine. Faces filled his wall screen suits from Tokyo, London, Silicon Valley. They droned about projections, acquisitions, the AI rollout.
"Impressive quarter, Alex," the chairman said. "Stock's up twelve percent."
Alexander nodded, half-listening. His mind was on the gala. On Elena's face when she saw him. Would she still look at him like she used to? Like he was her whole world?
"Any concerns?" someone asked.
He forced a smile. "None. We're unstoppable."
The call ended. He leaned back, alone again in the vast penthouse.
Unstoppable. Yeah, right.
Except when it came to her.
He pulled up the attendee list his assistant had sent. There she was: Elena Thompson, plus one. Marcus.
Jealousy twisted in his gut like a knife.
But he pushed it down. He'd waited twenty years. A husband? Just an obstacle.
Alexander Voss didn't lose. Not anymore.
He grabbed his keys, time for the office, where empires were built and distractions buried.
But as the elevator plunged toward the lobby, that single word echoed in his head.
Okay.
It was a start.
And gods help anyone who get in his way.