The First Night
2831 Words
Soren did not go home.
He didn't know why.
Perhaps because the word home suddenly felt too ordinary for what had happened.
Or perhaps because he wasn't ready to sit in the quiet of his penthouse and pretend that the last few hours had been nothing more than another bad meeting.
The car continued through the city.
Streetlights slipped across the tinted windows, one after another, briefly illuminating the interior before disappearing behind them.
Soren watched them without really seeing them.
His driver didn't ask where they were going again.
He knew better.
For nearly twenty minutes, neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It was simply unfamiliar.
Soren had spent most of his life surrounded by noise.
Phones ringing.
Executives talking.
Reporters asking questions.
Board members arguing over numbers.
Assistants reminding him about appointments.
His father giving instructions.
There was always something demanding his attention.
Silence had never had much room in his life.
Tonight, it was everywhere.
His phone continued vibrating inside his pocket.
He ignored it.
Another vibration.
Then another.
Finally, he pulled it out.
Twenty-eight missed calls.
Three from his father.
Five from his assistant.
Two from the board.
The rest from numbers he didn't recognize.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Normally, seeing that many missed calls would have irritated him.
Tonight, it didn't.
He simply stared at them.
A strange thought crossed his mind.
What if I stopped answering?
Not for an hour.
Not for a day.
Forever.
Who would take his calls?
Who would sit in the meetings?
Who would sign the contracts?
Who would run De Luca Holdings?
The questions should have frightened him.
Instead, they felt strangely distant.
As if they belonged to someone else's life.
Someone who had a future.
Someone who could schedule meetings six months from now without wondering whether he would still be alive to attend them.
Soren locked his phone.
He leaned his head against the seat.
The leather was cool against the back of his neck.
He closed his eyes.
For a few seconds, he tried not to think.
It didn't work.
The doctor's voice returned.
Approximately twelve months.
Then the correction.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Soren opened his eyes.
He stared through the window again.
The city kept moving.
It was almost offensive how normal everything looked.
A woman stood at a crosswalk, checking her phone.
A man hurried out of a convenience store carrying a paper bag.
Two teenagers laughed beside a bus stop.
A taxi stopped.
A motorcycle passed between lanes.
Life continued without hesitation.
Soren watched them all.
Did any of them know how lucky they were?
Probably not.
He hadn't known either.
"Sir?"
His driver's voice pulled him back.
"Should I take you home?"
Soren looked through the window.
The familiar buildings were beginning to disappear behind them.
"Yes."
It was the first decision he'd made all afternoon that had nothing to do with work.
The penthouse was exactly as he had left it.
Perfect.
Silent.
Untouched.
Soren stepped inside and loosened his tie.
The lights came on automatically.
The enormous living room opened before him, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Everything was expensive.
Everything was carefully chosen.
Everything was exactly where it belonged.
He had designed the place himself.
Minimal furniture.
Dark wood.
Glass.
Clean lines.
No unnecessary decoration.
He had never liked clutter.
He liked things simple.
Controlled.
Predictable.
Tonight, the apartment felt enormous.
And unbearably empty.
Soren closed the door behind him.
The sound echoed through the room.
He stood there for a moment.
He wasn't sure what he expected.
Something to feel different, perhaps.
Something to tell him that this was still his life.
Instead, there was only silence.
He walked toward the living room.
His eyes moved across the familiar space.
The black leather sofa.
The marble table.
The books arranged neatly along the shelves.
The painting his mother had once told him was too cold for a home.
He had kept it anyway.
He had never understood what she meant.
Tonight, he did.
He looked away.
Soren walked to the bar.
He poured himself a glass of water.
Then stopped.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark window.
For a moment, he barely recognized the man looking back.
He still looked the same.
Same suit.
Same expression.
Same perfectly controlled face.
Nothing about him had changed.
And yet everything had.
He placed the glass on the counter.
His hand trembled.
Only slightly.
Soren looked down at it.
He waited for the trembling to stop.
It didn't.
His jaw tightened.
"Get yourself together."
The words sounded ridiculous in the empty room.
He poured another glass.
This time, he drank it quickly.
The water did nothing to ease the dryness in his throat.
He placed the empty glass beside the first.
Then he walked toward the bedroom.
Halfway there, he stopped.
His eyes fell on the calendar hanging near his desk.
He had never been sentimental about calendars.
To him, it had always been another tool.
Meetings.
Deadlines.
Flights.
Contracts.
Important dates.
A life broken into manageable pieces.
He walked closer.
Tomorrow was already filled.
A breakfast meeting.
A conference call.
A board review.
Lunch with an investor.
Another meeting in the afternoon.
Dinner with his father.
Soren stared at the list.
Tomorrow.
He had spent years filling his days without ever wondering whether he actually wanted them filled.
Every empty space had made him uncomfortable.
So he filled it.
Work.
Business.
Responsibility.
Another deal.
Another target.
Another problem that needed solving.
He had convinced himself that staying busy meant moving forward.
Now he wondered if he had simply been running.
From what, he didn't know.
He reached for the pen beside the calendar.
One by one, he crossed out the appointments.
The breakfast meeting.
The conference call.
The board review.
Lunch.
The afternoon meeting.
The pen stopped over the last one.
Dinner with Father.
He didn't cross it out.
Instead, he stared at it.
His father had already called three times.
Soren knew what the conversation would be about.
The company.
Expansion.
The European acquisition.
Numbers.
Shares.
The future.
Soren almost smiled.
The future.
That word had become absurd.
He put the pen down.
Then his phone rang.
Father.
Soren stared at the screen.
He almost declined the call.
Almost.
But something inside him changed.
He answered.
"Yes."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"You missed the meeting."
"I know."
"Your assistant said you weren't feeling well."
Soren said nothing.
His father sighed.
"You should have told me."
"I'm fine."
It was automatic.
The lie came easily.
His father was quiet for a moment.
"You don't sound fine."
Soren looked toward the windows.
The city stretched endlessly beneath him.
"I said I'm fine."
Another silence.
"Are you coming tonight?"
Soren closed his eyes.
"No."
"Why?"
"I have something to deal with."
"Something more important than the company?"
Soren almost laughed.
But there was no humor in it.
"Yes."
His father's voice hardened.
"What is it?"
Soren opened his eyes.
For one brief second, he considered telling him.
He imagined saying the words.
The doctor says I have a year.
He imagined the silence that would follow.
His father's voice breaking.
Questions.
Fear.
Doctors.
Family.
People looking at him differently.
He couldn't do it.
Not yet.
"I'll tell you later."
"You always say that."
Soren swallowed.
"I know."
There was a pause.
Then his father's voice softened.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Soren's fingers tightened around the phone.
That question was different.
For a moment, he wasn't the heir to De Luca Holdings.
He wasn't the man whose name appeared in financial magazines.
He was simply his father's son.
And somehow, that made it harder.
"I'm tired."
His father was silent for a moment.
"You should rest."
"I will."
"Tomorrow, then."
Soren looked at the calendar.
Tomorrow.
Another word he had never been afraid of.
"Okay."
The call ended.
Soren lowered the phone.
He stared at the dark screen.
His father's voice lingered in his head.
Are you sure you're okay?
He wasn't.
For the first time, he wasn't.
But he didn't know how to say that.
He had never been good at asking for help.
Perhaps because he had never allowed himself to need it.
Soren walked to the sofa and sat down.
He didn't turn on the television.
Didn't open his laptop.
Didn't check the market.
He simply sat.
The silence pressed against him.
He looked at his phone.
Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the phone.
He picked it up.
Opened his messages.
Closed them.
Opened his email.
Closed it.
Opened the financial market app.
The numbers were moving.
Stocks were rising.
Others were falling.
He stared at them for several seconds.
Then locked the phone.
He couldn't make himself care.
That frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
De Luca Holdings was worth billions.
Thousands of people depended on it.
Every decision he made affected lives far beyond his own.
Normally, the thought gave him purpose.
Tonight, it felt like a weight.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
His hands clasped together.
For thirty-three years, numbers had been something he could trust.
Revenue.
Profit.
Loss.
Growth.
Everything could be measured.
Everything could be calculated.
But there was nothing reassuring about this particular number.
Three hundred and sixty-five.
It wasn't money.
It wasn't profit.
It wasn't a percentage.
It was his life.
And for the first time, Soren wished numbers could lie.
At 9:30 p.m., he finally stood.
He went into the kitchen.
Opened the refrigerator.
Looked inside.
Nothing appealed to him.
He closed it.
He wasn't hungry.
Or perhaps he was simply too distracted to notice.
He poured himself another glass of water.
Then walked back toward the windows.
The city had become darker.
More lights had appeared below.
Thousands of them.
Each one represented a home.
A family.
A person awake somewhere.
People were eating dinner.
Watching television.
Fighting.
Laughing.
Kissing.
Making plans.
Soren wondered what they would do if they knew they had only one year left.
Would they keep going to work?
Would they call their parents?
Would they tell someone they loved them?
Would they finally do the things they had always postponed?
He had no answers.
Because he had never asked himself those questions before.
He stood there until the glass in his hand grew warm.
He hadn't realized how long he'd been staring outside.
He set it down.
For a moment, he thought about calling someone.
The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
Who?
He had assistants.
Executives.
Business partners.
People who wanted something from him.
People who respected him.
People who feared him.
But there were very few people he could simply call and say, I'm not okay.
Soren looked at his phone.
His father's name was still near the top of his recent calls.
His thumb hovered over it.
He didn't press.
Not tonight.
At 11:47 p.m., Soren was still awake.
He had changed into a black shirt and lounge pants, but he hadn't gone to bed.
Instead, he sat beside the window.
The city glittered below him.
From this height, everything looked small.
Cars became moving dots.
People became shadows.
Buildings looked like pieces on a board.
He used to love the view.
Tonight, he hated it.
Because the city looked like it would still be there after he was gone.
His eyes burned.
He rubbed them.
He hadn't cried.
He wasn't sure he could.
Soren had learned at a very young age that crying didn't solve anything.
When he was a child, his father had taught him that weakness was something people used against you.
So Soren learned to swallow his tears.
To control his voice.
To hide fear.
To stand straight when everything inside him wanted to collapse.
It had worked.
For thirty-three years.
Until today.
He remembered being eight years old, standing in his father's office after breaking something expensive.
He hadn't cried then.
His father had looked at him and said, "If you're going to inherit everything I built, you need to learn how to keep your head when things go wrong."
Soren had nodded.
He had believed those words were strength.
Perhaps they were.
But tonight, sitting alone in his penthouse, he wondered what they had cost him.
He thought of all the years he had spent turning himself into someone who never needed anything from anyone.
Someone who never asked twice.
Someone who never showed fear.
Someone who always had an answer.
It had made him successful.
It had also made him very good at being alone.
That realization hurt.
He leaned his head against the glass.
It was cold against his skin.
For the first time since leaving the hospital, he allowed himself to stop fighting the question he had been avoiding.
What happens when the time runs out?
He didn't know.
And that uncertainty frightened him more than the diagnosis itself.
He looked toward the calendar again.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
The number no longer felt like something written on a medical report.
It felt personal now.
He wondered which morning would be his last.
His chest tightened.
Soren looked away.
"No."
His voice was barely a whisper.
He didn't know what he was saying no to.
The diagnosis?
The fear?
The possibility?
Maybe all of it.
He stood abruptly.
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the light.
His reflection appeared in the mirror.
He looked exhausted.
Older.
For the first time, he noticed the faint darkness beneath his eyes.
He touched his face.
Then he laughed quietly.
"You're thirty-three."
The reflection didn't answer.
"You have money."
Nothing.
"You have the best doctors."
Still nothing.
"You can fix this."
The last sentence came out weaker.
Soren stared at himself.
He wanted to believe it.
He desperately wanted to believe it.
But for the first time in his life, money didn't make him feel powerful.
It made him feel helpless.
He could buy another company.
Another house.
Another car.
He could pay for the best treatment available.
He could fly anywhere in the world.
He could put the finest specialists on his case.
But he couldn't buy certainty.
He couldn't buy another year.
He couldn't negotiate with time.
His eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Soren froze.
He stared at himself.
One tear slipped down his cheek.
He wiped it away immediately.
Another followed.
This time, he didn't wipe it.
His breathing became uneven.
He gripped the edge of the sink.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
Then his grip loosened.
He closed his eyes.
And very quietly, he whispered the words he had refused to say since leaving the hospital.
"I'm scared."
The words barely left his mouth.
But saying them changed something.
There was no dramatic collapse.
No shouting.
No shattered glass.
Just one man standing alone in a bathroom at midnight, finally allowing himself to admit that he was afraid.
Soren lowered his head.
His shoulders trembled.
He covered his face with one hand.
For several minutes, he stayed like that.
The tears came quietly.
He didn't try to stop them anymore.
There was no one there to see him.
No one to judge him.
No one to use his weakness against him.
For once, he didn't have to be Soren De Luca.
He could simply be a man who was afraid of dying.
The thought was strangely freeing.
He let himself breathe.
Slowly.
Unevenly at first.
Then more steadily.
He thought about all the things he had postponed.
Places he hadn't visited.
People he hadn't called.
Conversations he had avoided.
Moments he had considered unimportant because there would always be another opportunity.
Another year.
Another decade.
Another tomorrow.
His throat tightened.
What if there wasn't another chance?
He didn't know.
And for once, he didn't force himself to find an answer.
He simply stood there and let the question remain unanswered.
Eventually, he straightened.
He looked at himself again.
His eyes were red.
His face was tired.
But he was still standing.
For tonight, that was enough.
He turned off the bathroom light.
Walked back into the bedroom.
He stopped beside the bed.
His phone lay on the nightstand.
The screen lit up.
Another message from his assistant.
Another email.
Another reminder.
Soren turned the phone face down.
For once, the world could wait.
He pulled back the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed.
He looked around the room.
Everything was exactly where it should be.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Predictable.
But Soren knew better now.
Life had never been any of those things.
He lay down.
And for the first time in his life, Soren De Luca went to bed without making a plan for tomorrow.
He simply closed his eyes.
Hoping, somehow, that morning would still come.
And when it did, he would still be here.
Because tonight, that was enough.
Day 1 had ended.
364 days remained.
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