Heartbeat 3

The room felt quieter after James left my office. It was a silence that spoke volumes—an unsettling quiet that always followed after a confrontation. But this wasn’t the first time I’d clashed with a patient who thought they could outrun their own body. It wasn’t the first time I had to put someone like James Hawke in their place, reminding them that they weren’t invincible.

The truth is, I’d seen it all before: successful people who thought their wealth or power could shield them from the one thing they couldn’t control—illness. They acted as though they were above the rules of nature, above the frailty that comes with being human. But it didn’t matter how much money or influence they had. When the body broke down, it broke down.

James didn’t realize it yet, but that’s exactly what was happening to him.

I stared at the reports on my desk, the results of his initial screenings and blood work. His heart was weaker than it should have been for a man his age—already showing signs of arrhythmia and moderate coronary artery disease. The stress tests had revealed that his heart was struggling to keep up with the demands he placed on it. It was only a matter of time before the strain became too much. If we didn’t act now, we could be facing a much more dangerous situation.

The treatment plan I had in mind wasn’t simple. It would require patience, lifestyle changes, and strict adherence to the prescribed regimen. But the most difficult part wasn’t the treatment itself—it was getting James to accept it. He was used to controlling everything, calling all the shots. This would be the first time in a long while that he would have to surrender control. That, more than anything, would be his hardest pill to swallow.

The door to my office opened again, and James stepped back inside, his posture stiff, as though he had something to prove. He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries this time.

“You wanted to talk to me about the test results,” he said, his voice cool, but I could hear the undercurrent of apprehension beneath it. It was subtle, but it was there.

I motioned for him to take a seat, and he sat down across from me, eyes locked on mine, trying to read me. He always looked like he was analyzing everything—trying to figure out the angle, the catch, the game. But I wasn’t playing games. I wasn’t here to appease him. I was here to save his life.

“Mr. Hawke,” I began, taking a deep breath as I slid the report across the desk toward him. “The results of your tests are concerning. You have signs of arrhythmia, and there’s significant plaque buildup in your arteries. Your heart isn’t functioning as well as it should, and the longer you continue to live as you have, the worse it’s going to get.”

His eyes narrowed, but his expression remained unreadable. I could see the walls going up—his defense mechanism kicking in. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to face the reality of what was happening to him. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, to believe that money could fix anything, to live in a bubble of invincibility.

“I told you,” he said, his tone almost defensive, “I don’t have time to play the waiting game. So what’s the plan?”

I leaned forward, resting my hands on the desk. I didn’t flinch at his words, at his dismissive attitude. I had faced men like him a thousand times before. It was always the same—denial, arrogance, and fear. Fear of losing control, fear of being weak, fear of the vulnerability that came with admitting you couldn’t fix yourself.

“Your heart needs time to heal,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “We’re going to have to start with some medication to control the arrhythmia and reduce the risk of clot formation. You’ll also need to adopt a more heart-healthy diet and engage in regular, low-impact exercise to help improve circulation. That means cutting down on stress, reducing your workload, and getting enough sleep.”

His lips curled into a half-smile, but it wasn’t one of amusement. It was condescending. “Low-impact exercise? I don’t have time for yoga and walking in the park, Dr. Matthews.”

“I didn’t say yoga and walking in the park,” I replied evenly. “But you need to understand that your body can’t keep up with your lifestyle anymore. It’s breaking down. I know you’ve built your empire by pushing yourself, by refusing to accept limitations. But right now, your body is telling you that you’ve reached a limit. If you don’t take this seriously, your condition will worsen, and we’ll be dealing with heart failure—or worse.”

He leaned back in his chair, the arrogance still present, but I could see something flicker in his eyes. Something like fear. Real fear. The kind of fear that only comes when you realize that there’s no amount of money, no amount of power, that can save you from the inevitable.

“I don’t have time for weakness,” he muttered under his breath, but I caught the strain in his voice. “I’m not the kind of guy who sits around waiting for his heart to ‘heal.’ I’m the one who makes things happen.”

“And you’ve made a lot of things happen, Mr. Hawke,” I said, my voice softening just slightly. “But you can’t make your heart stronger by sheer willpower. You can’t buy your way out of this.”

The words hung in the air between us, and I could see the walls inside him start to crack. For all his bravado, he was terrified. Terrified of losing control, terrified of admitting that he wasn’t invincible, terrified of letting someone else take the reins.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he finally admitted, his voice low, almost hesitant. It was the first time I’d heard him speak with any vulnerability, and I could almost feel the weight of it. “I’ve spent my whole life making decisions, controlling everything. I don’t know how to sit back and trust someone else.”

“I understand,” I said quietly. “But sometimes, the hardest thing is letting go. I’m not asking you to surrender all control, Mr. Hawke. I’m asking you to trust me with your health. I’m asking you to let me help you. But that requires cooperation. It requires vulnerability. And you can’t be afraid of that.”

His jaw tightened, but I could tell he was processing my words, wrestling with them. It wasn’t easy for him to admit that he couldn’t control everything—least of all his own body. It wasn’t easy to be told that the game he had spent his life playing was one he couldn’t win with money or influence.

“I didn’t get to where I am by being weak,” he said, his voice a little more forceful now, like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince me.

“Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak,” I said, meeting his gaze firmly. “In fact, it takes a lot of strength to admit that you need help. But you can’t keep going down this path and pretend nothing’s wrong. I can help you, James. But only if you let me.”

There was a long silence between us. The tension in the room was palpable, like the air had thickened with the weight of unspoken truths. I could see the conflict in his eyes—fear, frustration, and the deep, underlying panic that came with realizing you were no longer in control of your own destiny.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So what now? What’s the next step?”

I couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of hope. He hadn’t surrendered, not entirely. But there was a crack, a small opening that I could work with. That was all I needed.

“We’ll start with the medication,” I said, sliding the prescription pad across the desk. “I’ll also refer you to a dietician and a physical therapist who can help you adjust to the lifestyle changes. And I want you to take things slow—no more pushing yourself to the limit. You’ll have to make some sacrifices, but they’re sacrifices that could save your life.”

He took the prescription, but the skepticism in his eyes hadn’t fully disappeared. “And what if I don’t follow your plan, Dr. Matthews?”

“Then we’ll be dealing with consequences that could be irreversible,” I replied evenly. “But I don’t think you want to go down that road.”

He stood up, the conversation clearly not over, but I could sense the shift. James wasn’t ready to fully trust me yet, but for the first time since I’d met him, I saw a glimmer of willingness. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

As he walked out of the office, I leaned back in my chair, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. There was a long road ahead of us, one full of resistance and struggle. But I wasn’t going to let him die—especially not because of his own stubbornness.

I would fight for him, even if he wasn’t ready to fight for himself. That was my job.

And I wasn’t about to give up on him. Not yet.