I spent twenty years building an empire, trading every person who ever loved me for another zero in my bank account. Then the doctor slid a folder across her mahogany desk and told me I had exactly six months left to live.

Part 1

I spent twenty years building an empire, trading every person who ever loved me for another zero in my bank account.

Then Dr. Jenkins slid a folder across her mahogany desk.

She didn’t offer a polite, practiced smile.

Quietly, she simply told me my heart was failing and I had exactly six months left to live.

The cold air hit my face as I walked out of the hospital doors.

For the first time in two decades, my phone stayed perfectly quiet in my pocket.

I didn’t care about the upcoming merger.

I didn’t care about the board meeting.

I only cared about the deafening silence waiting for me in my empty penthouse.

My assistant Tyler stood by the car, holding the door open with his usual stiff posture.

I told him to cancel my entire schedule for the rest of the year.

He blinked, opening his mouth to argue about the quarterly projections.

I held up a hand, silencing him instantly.

Slowly, I told him I needed an address for my sister, Megan.

The drive to the suburbs felt longer than any transatlantic flight I had ever taken.

Megan’s house was modest, with chipped paint on the porch railing and a tricycle resting in the front yard.

I knocked twice.

The door opened slowly.

Megan stared at me through the screen, her eyes hardening the second she recognized my face.

She didn’t unlatch the door.

I stood on her welcome mat, suddenly feeling incredibly small in my custom tailored suit.

Instead, I told her I didn’t have much time left.

Her grip tightened on the doorframe.

She told me I didn’t get to fix twelve years of absence in six months.

The door clicked shut in my face.

I deserved it.

My instincts took over and I returned to the city and tracked down Craig Davis, the man who used to be my best friend before I dismantled his company for spare parts.

We met at a dim corner booth in a coffee shop.

He didn’t touch the drink I bought him.

Quietly, he just stared at me with a mixture of pity and lingering disgust.

I told him I wanted to make things right.

He let out a hollow, bitter laugh.

Instead, he told me I couldn’t buy a clean conscience.

Then he leaned forward, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

He told me Brenda Walsh had moved back to town two years ago.

Brenda.

The name hit my chest harder than the failing heart inside it.

I had left her waiting outside a church twenty years ago to take a phone call about an acquisition.

I never went back inside.

The bell above the bookstore door chimed cheerfully as I stepped out of the rain.

The smell of old paper and dust filled the narrow aisles.

Brenda stood behind the counter, organizing a stack of hardcovers.

She looked up.

The stack of books slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Her face drained of all color.

I took a step toward her, my throat tight.

I told her I wasn’t there to make excuses.

She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning stark white.

She told me to leave before she called the police.

I stayed rooted to the worn wooden floorboards.

Instead, I told her I was dying.

The anger in her eyes didn’t vanish, but it cracked.

I spent the next two weeks showing up at her bookstore every single day.

I didn’t ask for forgiveness.

I just stocked shelves, swept the floors, and stayed out of her way.

One evening, a loud argument broke out in the alley behind the shop.

I found Brenda standing in the rain, facing off against a man holding a clipboard.

He was threatening to evict her over three months of back rent.

I stepped between them.

Quietly, I handed the man a blank business card and told him I was settling the debt.

Brenda grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my sleeve.

She hissed that she didn’t want my charity.

I looked down at her damp hair and furious eyes.

Quietly, I told her it was an investment, because I couldn’t bear to watch her lose everything again.

That night, my phone rang at three in the morning.

The caller ID showed the hospital.

Dr. Jenkins didn’t bother with a greeting.

She told me my vitals were plummeting and I needed to get to the emergency room immediately.

I barely made it out of my apartment before my legs gave out in the hallway.

Tyler found me and rushed me to the hospital.

When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights blinded me.

Dr. Jenkins stood at the foot of my bed, holding a clipboard against her chest.

She said a donor heart had just become available.

The catch was that my body was incredibly weak.

She warned me that if I went through with the transplant, I would be put into a medically induced coma.

Slowly, she looked me dead in the eye and said there was a massive chance I would never wake up.

I turned my head toward the doorway.

Brenda was standing there, her coat soaked from the rain, her chest heaving.

She had followed the ambulance.

Slowly, she walked over to my bed and took my trembling hand in hers.

I looked at her, realizing this might be the absolute last time I ever saw her face.

The nurses began wheeling my bed down the long, sterile corridor toward the operating theater.

The heavy metal doors swung open, revealing the bright, terrifying lights of the surgical room.

Brenda let go of my hand as the doors began to close between us.

The anesthesiologist placed the mask over my face, telling me to count backward from ten.

As my vision blurred and the darkness pulled me under, I realized I was finally terrified of dying.