The hospital smelled like antiseptic and cold air. Julian and Kya walked through the ICU wing with steady, controlled steps, but Kya could feel the tension radiating off him — tight shoulders, clenched jaw, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but full.
Reginald Whitmore had always been a force. Sharp. Commanding. Unshakeable. Seeing him in a hospital bed felt wrong.
His personal assistant, Mr. Alden, met them outside the ICU doors.
“Mr. Gray,” Alden said quietly, “he’s stable for now.”
Julian nodded once. “What happened? He was fine the last time we saw him.”
Alden exhaled. “His heart. The doctors said age is a factor… and his diet hasn’t helped.”
Kya knew exactly what that meant. Reginald Whitmore loved red meat the way other men loved oxygen. He had joked about it the last time s
