Heartbeat 5

The sterile scent of the hospital room never bothered me. It was just a reminder of what we did here, what we had to do. Saving lives, fixing hearts—literal and metaphorical. But today, it felt different. Today, the room seemed colder, more suffocating than usual.

James Hawke was sitting on the bed, his eyes fixed on the clipboard I held in my hand. The tension between us had grown over the last few days, as if every word I spoke seemed to push him further into his stubborn shell. He didn’t like me. That much was clear. He didn’t like being told what to do, especially not by someone who, in his eyes, was just another doctor. Just another person telling him what to do with his life.

And the thing that irritated me the most was how much that bothered me.

I set the clipboard down on the counter and crossed my arms. "Mr. Hawke, I’ve reviewed your test results. Your condition is more serious than you’re willing to admit. You’re going to need surgery."

His eyes flicked to me, and I could see the familiar arrogance returning. "Surgery?" He scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "I didn’t come here to have some surgeon slice me open. I’m not some charity case, Dr. Matthews."

"Mr. Hawke," I said, my voice firm but controlled, "This isn't about charity. This is about saving your life. Your heart condition requires immediate intervention, and if you don’t get the surgery, you risk worsening the situation. This is not negotiable."

He leaned back in the bed, as if dismissing me. "I don’t need anyone ‘fixing’ me," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I’ve been managing my life for years without people sticking their noses in."

I felt a surge of frustration, though I kept it in check. "This isn’t something you can manage on your own," I said, my voice edged with a calm authority that I hoped would make him understand. "You’re not invincible, Mr. Hawke. You can’t outrun this."

His lips pressed together into a thin line. I could see his jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might argue further, but instead, he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place. "You’re really telling me that you’re the only one who knows what’s best for me?" His voice was colder now, almost mocking.

I swallowed the frustration that rose in my throat. "No," I said, each word carefully measured. "But I do know what’s best for your health. And I’m telling you, if you want to live, you need to trust me. I’m not here to make decisions for you—I’m here to help you make the right ones for yourself."

James stood up suddenly, his tall frame towering over me. His eyes burned with a mix of defiance and something deeper—something I couldn’t quite understand. "I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came here because I have a serious problem, and I need a solution. You’re not giving me one."

I took a step back, the air between us thick with tension. "I am giving you a solution," I said, trying to keep my composure. "But you’re not listening. You can’t keep running from this, Mr. Hawke. Your condition isn’t going to get better by pretending it doesn’t exist. Denying it won’t make it go away."

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. "I know what’s happening to me," he snapped. "But I don’t need you to remind me. I don’t need anyone telling me how to fix my life." His eyes were dark, filled with a frustration I wasn’t sure I could calm.

"Then what do you need?" I asked, before I could stop myself. My voice was quieter now, more weary. "What do you think is going to happen if you don’t take this seriously? You’re gambling with your life, and I can’t just sit back and watch that happen."

James clenched his fists, his breathing coming in shallow bursts. For a brief moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes—a flash of vulnerability before he masked it with anger. "I don’t need a doctor to tell me how to live my life," he said, his voice gruff. "I’m not some helpless patient you can control. I’ve built an empire, Dr. Matthews. I don’t have time for this."

I felt a familiar ache in my chest. It wasn’t just the way he was treating me. It was the way he was refusing to acknowledge his own fragility, the way he was clinging to control like it was the only thing that mattered. I knew that feeling. The need to keep everything in your life perfectly managed, perfectly structured, so nothing could hurt you.

"I’m not trying to control you," I said, my voice softer now, though the words were still laced with frustration. "I’m trying to help you. But you have to let me. You have to let go of this idea that you’re untouchable."

He stepped closer, his face inches from mine now. The heat of his presence sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn’t flinch. "Let go?" he asked, his voice low. "Do you think I’ve built everything I have just to hand it over to someone else? To let someone else take control of my life?"

I met his gaze, and for a moment, I almost saw a different man behind the cold mask he wore. A man who was afraid, who was hiding behind his arrogance because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing control. I understood that fear—better than I wanted to admit.

"That’s not what I’m asking you to do," I replied, my voice steady, though I felt a strange tightness in my chest. "I’m asking you to trust me to help you through this. I can’t do it for you, but I can guide you. If you want to survive, James, you have to make some tough decisions. And the first one is to listen."

James pulled back slightly, his expression unreadable. There was a long silence between us, thick with unspoken words. For a brief moment, I thought he might relent, that he might finally listen to reason. But instead, he turned away and walked to the window, his back rigid. "I’ll think about it," he said, his tone distant.

I didn’t know what to say. The frustration I felt seemed to weigh me down, but I knew I couldn’t let it show. I had patients who needed me. I had a career that I couldn’t jeopardize. But somehow, this man, this billionaire who thought he could control everything, was starting to get under my skin.

As I watched him stand by the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him, I couldn’t help but feel a strange pang of sympathy. It was clear that beneath the arrogance and the walls he had built around himself, there was a man struggling to stay afloat. A man who, just like me, was terrified of what it meant to be vulnerable.

But that wasn’t my problem, was it?

I was his doctor. And all I could do was offer him the chance to trust me. The rest was up to him.

With a deep breath, I turned to leave the room, not looking back at him. This wasn’t my fight, and it wasn’t my responsibility to make him see the truth.

Still, as I stepped out into the hallway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something between us had shifted. Maybe it wasn’t just about his treatment anymore. Maybe it was about the walls we both had built, and whether either of us would ever be willing to tear them down.