22

22

Later in the evening, Imani and Emily had a work meeting outside the company and it was a brief one.

The meeting with the investors from Boston ended quick than they expected.

It was at a little bistro in SoHo, right off Spring Street. Imani handled it perfectly — numbers, projections, her new partnership with Luke Anderson keeping the stock stable. Emily sat beside her, taking notes, watching her boss be the CEO she was born to be.

When it ended and when the investors shook their hands and left, Imani finally exhaled and sipped her water.

Emily was packing the material they used when she looked out the window at the brownstones lining the street and noticed something on the street. She suddenly clapped her hands like she remembered something and said casually, “Oh, this is Killian’s street!.”

Imani froze mid-sip, looking at where Emily focused?.

She slowly turned, “What?”

“Mr. Morgan,” Emily said. “His penthouse. It’s just two blocks down. That building with the black awning. He lives there.”

Imani looked where Emily was pointing. Her heart did something stupid — a little thump she hated.

Like she has been waiting for someone to mention Killan’s name again.

She stared at the street for a long moment. The quiet office this morning. The “he called in sick” that wouldn’t leave her head.

“Let’s go,” she said suddenly.

Emily turned. “Go where?”

“To visit him,” Imani said, grabbing her bag, already standing. “To see how he’s doing. He sounded rough, you said. It won’t take long. Ten minutes. Just to make sure he’s alive. Because if he dies, who will defend his ideas at work?”

Emily smiled, maybe this wasn’t only about his ideas but she knew exactly what this was, but she didn’t say it. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

They started walking. New York in late afternoon — cabs honking, people rushing, the smell of coffee and fall in the air. Imani’s heels clicked fast.

Imani was nervous and curious to get there more than anyone else that she didn’t know when Emily’s phone rang, halfway down the block.

She looked at the screen. Her face dropped instantly, all color draining.

“Oh my God,” Emily whispered, hands shaking. “It’s my aunt. It’s Grandma—” This made Imani halt on her steps.

Emily answered the call, and Imani heard a woman shouting on the other side.

Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “What? What do you mean an attack? Is she breathing? Okay, okay, I’m coming! I’m coming right now! Don’t move her!”

She hung up, looking at Imani, completely panicked.

“Ms. Shawn, I have to go. My grandma — she had an attack. A heart attack, I think. She lives alone in Queens, my aunt just found her on the floor — I have to leave, I’m so sorry!”

Imani widened her eyes, “Go, go! Go now! What hospital?”

“Jamaica Hospital — I have to get there—”

Imani stopped a cab for her, “Go, Emily. Take my card and handle it well. Please do call me when you get there, alright?”

Emily hugged her quickly, tears running, and ran towards the passenger seat to the enter the cab, leaving Imani alone on the sidewalk.

Imani slipped her hands into her hair, paced on the same spot, her bag tight in her hands, wondering if she should still go.

This was stupid. She had told him not to pry into her business but now, guess who is prying? He was probably not even home. Or worse, he was home and won’t want to see her. Or worse, he had someone else in there.

She turned around to leave, fighting back her thoughts. ‘If I go, I means I’m showing a concern about my staff…yeah, I should go!” She concluded then turned back.

Then all of a sudden, she turned back again not knowing what to do.

Minutes later, she found herself standing in front of Killian Morgan’s door. The big black door with the matte handle. The penthouse that took up the whole floor.

She pressed his bell and there came a ring, Ding dong but with no answer.

She pressed again, Longer. Ding dong. Ding dong, Still nothing.

She exhaled, a mix of relief and disappointment. “Okay. No one’s home. Good. You tried, Imani. Let’s go.”

She turned around to leave — until she saw it.

The door was slightly open. Just a crack. An inch. Enough for cold air to seep out.

“Killian?” she called softly, pushing it a little. “Hello?” She called coming fully into the house.

No answer. What could be going on? Where is he?

Her stomach dropped. Rich men in this city don’t leave their penthouse doors open.

She walked in to the living room, her heels silent on the marble.

She cleared her throat, “Killian? It’s Imani. Your door was open so I—”

She stopped, her heart began to beat fast as she saw the figure on the floor. Her legs moved faster than her mouth, “Killan??” She called.

Killan was on the floor, his lips pale and almost peeling. .

“Hey, hey? Wake up?” She knelt beside him, her hands shaking as she touched his shoulder, his cheek.

He was burning up.

Her fingers touching his neck to check his pulse and she flinched. His skin was on fire.

He’s running a fever and it’s getting worse. His forehead was drenched, his breathing shallow and fast.

“Killian, can you hear me? Hey! Wake up!”

He groaned, his eyes fluttering but not opening. He mumbled something she couldn’t hear.

Imani panicked, looking around the empty penthouse — no one else, no help, just her and him on the cold floor.

She wanted to stand up so she can grab her phone when Killan suddenly held her wrist. “Killan-”

“Stay with me. Don’t you ever leave,”