CHAPTER 1
Andrew Cross hated hospitals. It wasn't just the sterile smell that lingered in the air, a harsh mix of antiseptic and artificial calm that seemed designed to highlight every frailty. No, it was the lighting, too bright, too clinical, forcing vulnerability into the open.
He loathed the waiting, the stifled tension in rooms filled with patients who had their futures yet to be written while he had nothing but a clock on the wall ticking away his.
Tick. Tick. Tick
A muscle in his jaw tightened as he sat back in his chair, acutely aware of every second that marked his unwelcome presence in this place.
This was supposed to be a moment of control, a quick consultation to ensure he remained at the top of his game.
Instead, he was trapped in an overly white office, waiting for a diagnosis that he was certain wouldn't concern him. People waited for Andrew Cross, not the other way around.
"Do you always look this irritated," a voice broke through the silence, laced with the familiar, annoyingly calm timbre of Dr. Ethan Cole, "or did we catch you on a special day?"
Andrew didn't bother to turn immediately; he already knew who it was. Late thirties, disarmingly unruffled, Ethan had the knack for infusing dubious humor into grim news. It was a tactic that had never sat well with Andrew.
"If you brought me here for a personality assessment, I'm leaving," he replied without looking.
Ethan smiled faintly as he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing softly in the too-white space. "Relax. Your personality isn't my department."
"Good. Then we can keep this brief."
Andrew adjusted his cuff, smoothing achingly precise lines that mirrored his life. He looked exactly as he always did, polished, controlled, untouchable, except for the fact he was in a hospital. And that alone was a problem.
Ethan didn't take a seat immediately but moved to the desk, flipping open a file Andrew hadn't noticed before. That was new.
Andrew's eyes darted to it, then back to Ethan. "If you're trying to build suspense, it's not working."
"I'm not," Ethan replied, his tone shifting subtly, drawing Andrew's attention.
Andrew leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Then stop stalling."
Ethan exhaled once, collecting his thoughts, then met Andrew's gaze. That was when he knew. Not what had changed, but that something had.
"You came in because of the persistent cough," Ethan began, his voice now quiet, almost grave. "Fatigue. Shortness of breath."
"I came in," Andrew corrected, "because my assistant insisted I was becoming 'less efficient.'"
Ethan managed almost a smile. "Right. That."
Another pause filled the room before he tapped the file lightly, sensing the gravity of what he was about to say.
"We ran some tests," he continued.
Andrew remained silent, an unsettling stillness settling over them.
"I won't drag this out," Ethan added, quieter now, his expression markedly serious. "The scans showed a mass in your lungs."
Andrew's expression didn't change.
"Okay," he said simply, cutting through the tension. "Remove it."
Ethan held his gaze, the flicker of concern palpable.
"It's not that simple."
Andrew's fingers stilled against the armrest. Just for a second, he felt a crack in his armor. "Explain."
Ethan hesitated, not long, but long enough for Andrew to take notice.
"It's stage four, Andrew."
Silence.
Real silence this time. Heavy.
Andrew let out a breath, almost a laugh, but humor had fled. "That's not possible."
"I wish it wasn't."
"Run the tests again," Andrew ordered, his voice sharper now.
"We already did."
"Then run them somewhere better."
"Andrew…."
"I don't have time for mistakes," he cut in, the chill of urgency creeping into his tone. "Fix it."
Ethan didn't respond immediately, and that was enough to send ice spiraling down Andrew's spine.
"There's nothing to fix," Ethan said finally. "At this stage, treatment is about management. Slowing progression. Keeping you comfortable."
Andrew stared at him.
"Comfortable," he echoed flatly.
"Yes."
A beat passed, heavy as the air around them thickened.
"And how long," Andrew asked, voice dangerously controlled, "is this 'management' supposed to last?"
Ethan didn't look away, his sincerity cutting deeper than Andrew cared to admit.
"Three months," he said, the words hanging in the space like a death sentence.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Andrew stood, not abruptly, but with the kind of composure that masked the tumult within. The conversation felt complete, a closure he had not expected.
"Schedule whatever you need to schedule," he instructed curtly, reaching for his jacket. "Send the details to my office."
"Andrew..,."
"I have meetings this afternoon," he announced, slipping on his jacket, smoothing it down as if that could reinforce the semblance of control.
Ethan's brows drew together slightly. "You're not hearing me."
Andrew leaned against the doorframe. "I hear you just fine."
"Andrew, you're dying."
Andrew paused, just a fraction of a second longer. Then he picked up his phone from the desk, unwilling to acknowledge the weight of those words.
"We're all dying, Doctor. Some of us just have better things to do in the meantime."
With that, he walked out.
The city looked the same.
That was the first thing Andrew noticed as his car glided into traffic, the familiar skyline rising around him in its resolute splendor. Glass towers. Endless movement. Power. His world. Untouched.
He leaned back against the leather seat, one hand resting lightly against his mouth as he gazed out the window. Three months. A number that felt surreal, absurd, like a long-term business cycle that had somehow lodged itself into his life. Not a lifespan.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced down: Lydia (Assistant): Board meeting moved to 3 PM. Investors confirmed.
Without hesitation, Andrew typed back, Andrew: Good.
Another buzz.
Lydia: Also, Dr. Cole called. He asked that you,
Andrew locked the phone before the message was finished. He wasn't interested.
"Sir?"
The driver's cautious voice broke in, drawing Andrew's attention.
"Yes?"
"Home or the office?"
Andrew didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the city. Then, finally, he said, "Office."
Where else was there to go except to reclaim the territory that had always belonged to him?
The Cross Holdings building stood as a bold statement against the sky, sharp, imposing, impossible to ignore.
As Andrew walked through the front doors, the world shifted back into its rhythm. People moved faster. Voices quieted. Eyes followed him, a familiar acknowledgment of authority.
"Mr. Cross, good afternoon, "
"Reschedule the eight o'clock."
"Yes, sir."
"Push the Shanghai call to tomorrow."
"Of course."
He didn't slow down. Didn't pause. Didn't think about hospitals or diagnoses or timelines that suddenly felt far too short.
This was who he was. Not a patient. Not a man with an expiration date.
By the time he stepped into the boardroom, his expression mirrored what it had always been, sharp, composed, unreadable.
"Let's begin," he declared.
The meeting unfolded as it always did, numbers and strategies bouncing around the room. Hours passed, yet no one noticed an inkling of difference; no one knew. Andrew intended to keep it that way.
But it wasn't until he returned to the silence of his penthouse later that night that the cracks began to surface.
City lights spilled through glass walls, casting long shadows over the room, and his jacket lay discarded over a chair, his tie loosened, and the top button of his shirt undone.
The file sat ominously on the table in front of him, his mind curiously detached from how it had arrived home with him.
Slowly, he reached for it. Opened it. Black and white images stared back at him, clinical, impersonal, undeniable.
His lungs. Or what remained of them.
Andrew exhaled, rubbing a hand over his weary face.
"Three months," he muttered, the words morphing into reality here, quieter, more grave.
A cough suddenly rose, sharp and dry, forcing him forward slightly as he pressed a hand to his chest and waited for it to pass. It took longer than it should have.
When the silence fell over him once more, it felt heavier than before. For the first time that day, Andrew found himself without a response. Without a plan. Without control.
Leaning back in his chair, his gaze lingered on the city that had always seemed his for the taking. For the first time, it appeared… distant. Unreachable.
His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.
More buzzing followed, irritating interruptions.
He grabbed it, ready to silence whatever it was, then paused. Unknown Number.
Andrew frowned. He could ignore it, but with a sigh, he answered.
"Yes?"
A woman's voice flowed through the line, clear and steady.
"Good evening. Am I speaking with Mr. Andrew Cross?"
"You are."
"Hi," she said, a faint smile threading through her tone. "My name is Nancy Taylor."
Andrew's frown deepened. "I don't recall scheduling anything."
"You didn't," she replied easily. "But your doctor did."
Of course he did.
Andrew closed his eyes briefly, irritation brewing just beneath the surface. "I'm not interested."
"I figured you might say that."
"Then this conversation is unnecessary."
"Probably," she agreed, unflappable. "But I'll still be there tomorrow morning."
Andrew remained still.
"I'm sorry?" he asked.
"Your caretaker," Nancy replied, as if it were obvious. "Temporary arrangement. I'll explain when I arrive."
"There seems to be a misunderstanding…,.."
"There isn't," she cut in, her politeness holding firm. "You can try to send me away if you want."
Andrew let out a quiet, humorless breath. "I will."
"Alright," she said lightly, an undertone of confidence in her voice. "We'll see how that goes."
A pause lingered before she added, "Get some rest, Mr. Cross. Tomorrow might be a long day."
The line went dead.
Andrew stared at his phone, slowly lowering it.
Caretaker. The word felt wrong.
Unacceptable. Unnecessary.
He didn't need help. He didn't need supervision. And he certainly didn't need a stranger striding into his home as if she belonged there.
Setting the phone down deliberately, Andrew muttered under his breath, "Tomorrow."
Irritation bubbled within him, dismissing it all.
She wouldn't last a day.
People never did.