Richard visited again the following evening.
Now they spoke to each other.
That changed everything.
Simone learned Richard drank coffee without sugar.
Richard learned Simone hated television news panels.
Simone learned Olivia wanted a dog.
Richard learned Simone had been avoiding calling Sophia because she did not know what to say.
"Try hello," he suggested.
"You make that sound easy."
"It's usually a good opening."
"You don't know my daughter."
"No."
Richard leaned back.
"But I know kids."
"She's nineteen."
"Still your kid."
Simone looked away.
"What if she's angry?"
"Then she's angry."
"What if she doesn't forgive me?"
"Then she doesn't forgive you yet."
Simone frowned.
"Yet?"
Richard nodded.
"You don't get to control when people heal."
He paused.
"You just get to decide whether you're there while they're doing it."
Simone thought about that for the rest of the night.
By late January, she was sitting upright.
The ventilator was gone.
Most tubes were gone.
Physical therapists had her standing with assistance.
Her executive assistant Preston returned carrying a laptop and seventeen urgent matters.
Simone lasted forty-five minutes.
Then she handed him the laptop.
"Out."
Preston blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Go sit in the hallway."
"Simone, the board needs..."
"The board survived seven weeks without me."
She nodded toward the door.
"It can survive lunch."
Preston left.
Richard arrived an hour later.
Simone's tablet was face down before he finished entering.
That became their ritual.
No business while Richard was there.
No titles.
No financial reports.
No discussion of hospital politics unless Simone genuinely wanted to talk about it.
For forty minutes every night, Simone Sinclair stopped being CEO of anything.
She became a woman recovering from an accident, sitting with a man who knew which vending machine made the least terrible hot chocolate.
One Tuesday, Richard entered and noticed Simone holding an envelope.
"You look suspicious."
"I need you to sit."
"That's never good."
"Richard."
He sat.
Simone handed him the envelope.
Inside was a check.
Richard read the number.
$500,000.
He looked at Simone.
Then at the check.
Then at Simone again.
"No."
She blinked.
"What?"
"I'm not taking this."
"Richard."
"No."
"You haven't even..."
"I saw the amount."
Simone sat straighter.
"It isn't charity."
"I know."
"It's gratitude."
"I know."
"You saved me."
"I sat in a chair."
"You came every night."
Richard put the check on the blanket.
"I came because I didn't want you sitting alone."
"Which is exactly why..."
"No."
His voice remained gentle.
But firm.
"I didn't sit here waiting for you to wake up rich."