Page 93 of How to Train Your Billionaire

We haven’t spoken in three hours.

“The doctor should have results soon,” he says suddenly.

I nod without looking at him. My eyes are fixed on Charles’s face, searching for any sign that he’s still in there. Still fighting.

“Frankie.”

Hayes’s voice is softer now. Careful.

I finally meet his eyes. They’re bloodshot and worried, and for a second I forget that I’m supposed to hate him.

“He’s going to be okay.” The words taste like ash. “He has to be.”

Hayes doesn’t answer. We both know better than to make promises we can’t keep.

Dr. Patel appears in the doorway, her expression grave. I’ve learned to read people’s faces over the years. This isn’t the look they wear when delivering good news.

“Mr. Winthrop’s condition has deteriorated,” she says without preamble. “The tests show significant cardiac damage. We’re doing everything we can to keep him comfortable.”

Comfortable. That’s doctor-speak for dying.

“How long?” Hayes asks.

“It’s difficult to say. Hours, maybe days.”

Hours.

The word hits me like a physical blow. I grip the arms of my chair to keep from falling over.

“I can have someone from hospice come in and speak to you about next steps.”

“Can we ... can we stay with him?”

Dr. Patel nods. “Of course.”

She leaves us alone with the beeping and the awful fluorescent lights and the man who changed both our lives.

Charles stirs, his eyes fluttering open.

“Hey, Charlie.” My voice cracks on his name.

He turns his head toward me, smiling that same gentle smile he’s been giving me since the day we met.

“There’s my girl.”

I reach for his hand. His fingers are cold and fragile, like bird bones.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” He chuckles, then winces. “But I’ve been worse.”

Liar. He’s never been worse than this.

Hayes moves closer to the bed. “The doctor says—”

“I know what the doctor says.” Charles’s voice is weak but firm. “I’m not an idiot.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The weight of unspoken words fills the room like smoke.