Heartbeat 6

It was late in the evening when the nurse paged me about James Hawke. A slight complication, she had said—a dip in his blood pressure, mild discomfort in his chest. It wasn’t critical, but they thought I should check in on him. I didn’t argue.

By the time I reached his room, the lights had been dimmed. The soft hum of the heart monitor filled the space, its steady beeping oddly comforting in the silence. James was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, a stark contrast to the sharp suits he usually wore.

His head was bowed, hands clasped together as if in prayer, though I doubted James Hawke was the praying type. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“Mr. Hawke,” I said gently, stepping into the room.

He flinched slightly, as though he hadn’t heard me come in. Slowly, he raised his head, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw something in his eyes that wasn’t defiance or arrogance. It was fear.

I pulled a chair closer to him, setting down my clipboard. “The nurse said you experienced some discomfort. Tell me what’s going on.”

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t that bad,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just a tightness. Like my chest was being squeezed. It passed after a few minutes.”

I nodded, keeping my tone neutral. “And your blood pressure dropped. That could be a result of stress, or—”

“Or my heart giving up on me,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. Then, as if realizing how harsh he sounded, he shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“It’s fine,” I said, leaning back slightly in the chair. “But you’re not wrong. Your heart is under strain, and this is exactly why I’ve been insisting on the surgery. This isn’t something you can ignore, James.”

He gave a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?” He looked at me then, his eyes dark and stormy. “I know exactly what’s happening to me, Dr. Matthews. I’ve read every report, every prognosis. I know the risks, the statistics. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to accept.”

I studied him for a moment, trying to reconcile the man before me with the one who had been so determined to maintain control over everything, including his own failing body. This James was different—unguarded, exposed.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” I asked softly.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Everything,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Losing control. Being weak. Depending on someone else to keep me alive.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve built my entire life on being the one in charge. The one who makes things happen. And now... now I can’t even trust my own heart to keep beating.”

There was a rawness in his words that caught me off guard. I’d dealt with patients who were afraid before—it was part of the job. But this felt different. James wasn’t just afraid of dying; he was afraid of what it meant to live without the invulnerability he had always relied on.

“James,” I said after a moment, “you don’t have to face this alone. That’s why I’m here. Why the entire medical team is here. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

He looked up at me then, his eyes searching mine. “You make it sound so easy,” he said. “Like it’s just a matter of letting go, of trusting someone else to take the wheel. But you don’t get it. I can’t do that. I don’t know how.”

I felt a pang of sympathy, though I quickly pushed it aside. Sympathy wasn’t what he needed right now. He needed clarity, reassurance. But something about the way he said those words, the vulnerability in his tone, struck a chord in me.

“I do get it,” I said quietly. “More than you think. But you have to understand—this isn’t about control. It’s about survival. About giving yourself the chance to keep living the life you’ve built.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And what if the life I’ve built isn’t worth saving?”

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and unexpected. For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. This was a side of James Hawke I hadn’t seen before—a man questioning his own worth, his own purpose.

“Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice softer now.

He hesitated, as if debating whether to answer. Then, finally, he said, “Because it’s all just... noise. Meetings, deals, profits, losses. None of it really matters, does it? Not when you’re lying in a hospital bed, wondering if you’re going to wake up tomorrow.”

I leaned forward slightly, resting my hands on my knees. “It matters if it matters to you,” I said. “But if you’re questioning it, maybe that’s a sign that something needs to change. Maybe this is your chance to figure out what really does matter.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. “You’re awfully philosophical for a cardiologist,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his words.

I allowed myself a small smile. “Comes with the territory,” I said. “When you spend your days fixing people’s hearts, you start to think about what keeps them beating in the first place.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting to the heart monitor. “What keeps your heart beating, Dr. Matthews?” he asked suddenly, catching me off guard.

I blinked, not expecting the question. “My work,” I said after a moment. “My patients. Knowing that I’m making a difference.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “And that’s enough for you?”

I hesitated, the question striking a nerve I hadn’t anticipated. Was it enough? I had convinced myself it was, for years. But sitting here, facing James’s raw vulnerability, I found myself wondering if I was just as afraid as he was—afraid to admit that I wanted more.

“It has to be,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

He didn’t press further, and for that, I was grateful. Instead, he leaned back slightly, letting out a long sigh. “You’re good at this, you know,” he said. “Making people feel like they