Every instinct screams to deflect, to turn the observation into another cutting remark. But the words stick in my throat as my chest seizes up like someone’s wrapping steel cables around my ribs and pulling tight.
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter in my throat and feels about as convincing as it sounds. “Just deciding whether you’re bluffing or?—”
The room tilts sideways.
One second I’m sitting upright, the next I’m gripping the edge of the mahogany table as The Retreat’s exclusive poker room spins like a carnival ride. My chips scatter, the sound of rolling plastic on marble tile sharp in the sudden silence.
“Shit.” Finn’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Alec?”
I try to straighten up, to salvage whatever’s left of my dignity, but my body has apparently decided to stage a hostile takeover of its own. My carefully maintained control, the thing that’sdefined every aspect of my life for the past decade, cracks like a badly written contract.
“I’m...” The words won’t come. My chest feels like it’s being crushed in a hydraulic press, each breath a negotiation my lungs are losing.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in front of them.
Wyatt’s already moving, his chair scraping as he signals to someone behind me with the kind of subtle gesture that means ‘handle this crisis without making headlines.’
“Sir?” One of the club’s attendants appears at my shoulder, his voice discreet but edged with urgency. “Dr. Vaughn is available immediately.”
Dr. Vaughn. The Retreat’s on-site physician, whose patient list must read like a Fortune 500 directory. The fact that he’s been summoned means this has moved beyond ‘are you okay?’ into ‘we may be planning your funeral’ territory. Fuck.
“That’s...” I try to wave off the concern, but my hand feels disconnected from my brain. The tremor in my fingers has nothing to do with whiskey or fatigue, and I don’t want to think about what it does have to do with. “Not necessary.”
“Actually,” Wyatt says, “it fucking is necessary.”
I want to argue, to assert the control that’s slipping through my fingers like water, but my legs aren’t cooperating and suddenly standing feels like climbing Everest in a business suit.
But as the attendant helps me to my feet and the room spins again, I realize that my body doesn’t give a damn about my reputation, my empire, or my carefully constructed emotional walls.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m completely, terrifyingly, not in control.
“You’ll be fine, Alec,” Finn calls after me, but as I glance blearily at him I notice his usual cocky grin is replaced bysomething that looks suspiciously like worry. “We’ll keep your seat warm, brother.”
Brother. The word hits harder than it should, considering these men are the closest thing to family I have outside my parents. The only people who knew me before the empire, back when I was just a driven kid with a full-ride scholarship to Harvard Business School and the confidence that I was going to live forever. Right now, I’m not so sure about that last part.
The hallway outside the poker room is all polished mahogany and oil paintings of long-dead industrialists as Wyatt and the club attendant guide me toward the consultation room off the nearby corridor.
Dr. Vaughn is already standing in the doorway of the consultation room, a space that manages to feel both medical and luxurious. More dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and equipment that looks like it belongs in a five-star hospital rather than a gentlemen’s club. He’s a distinguished man in his sixties, silver-haired and wearing the kind of understated elegance that screams old money and older secrets.
“Mr. Beckett.” He gestures to the examination table with the casual authority of someone who’s told countless titans of industry to remove their shirts and shut up. As soon as I’m seated, Wyatt and the attendant leave me to face the physician in privacy.
“I understand you’re experiencing some difficulty, Alec.”
Difficulty. Like my chest isn’t trying to cave in on itself. Like my body isn’t staging a rebellion against everything I’ve built.
“Minor chest tightness.” I perch on the edge of the table, refusing to fully commit to the patient role even as my hands shake. “Probably stress. Nothing that requires?—”
“Please remove your jacket and shirt. Let’s determine what we’re dealing with.”
I comply, but my fingers fumble with the buttons, another small betrayal that makes my jaw clench.
Dr. Vaughn’s examination is thorough and silent. Blood pressure, heart rate, listening to my chest through his cold stethoscope. Each measurement feels like evidence against me.
“How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?” he asks, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm and pumping it up.
“Tonight. Just started during the poker game.” The lie comes automatically, even though we both know better. I’ve been ignoring chest discomfort for weeks, writing it off as the natural cost of success. Admitting that out loud feels too much like defeat.
“Family history of heart disease?”
