Page 90 of The Billionaire's Paradise

Just two at a time. No crowding. No fuss.

Angus and I went first.

The nurse led us down a quiet corridor, her sneakers whispering over the tiles. She paused outside the door.

“He’s awake, but he tires quickly,” she said gently. “Just a few minutes, okay?”

We nodded.

Then she opened the door, let us in, and closed it behind us.

Mr. Banks lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and tubes and soft, steady beeping. His eyes were half-lidded, skin pale and sunken, but he was alive. And awake. And when he saw us, a slow, familiar smile formed across his face.

“Well look who it is,” he rasped. “The overthinker and the overreactor.”

Angus made a sound like a laugh and a sob got tangled in his throat. He stepped forward, then stopped. “Hi.”

Mr. Banks raised a trembling hand. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost. Come here, you beautiful fool.”

Angus rushed to the bedside and grabbed his hand, cradling it like something breakable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tears spilling instantly. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean anything I said. I was just—I was angry and stupid and scared. And then you were just… gone.”

Mr. Banks brushed his thumb across Angus’s knuckles.

“I didn’t go far,” he whispered. “Just a quick detour through the veil. Very dramatic. There were angels. And two men named Adam and Steve which was joyfully enlightening.”

Angus let out a wet laugh, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. “Please don’t joke.”

“Who’s joking? You know I’m always deadly serious.”

“Just so long as you’re not dead, I’m happy,” Angus said. “No more stupid fights. Ever. I love you too much.”

“And I love you,” Mr. Banks whispered. “More than my slippers. More than butterscotch. Possibly even more than a perfectly aged single malt.”

Angus looked down, voice barely audible. “Even now that you’ve found your princess?”

Mr. Banks smiled. “Makani has my heart. But you, Angus… you’re my soul. You always have been.”

Angus collapsed again, resting his forehead against Mr. Banks’s hand.

They stayed like that for a long moment, silent and still, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. And everything they finally were.

Eventually Angus sat up, cheeks soaked, and tried to regain some composure.

“Just to be clear,” he said, sniffling. “You’re never allowed to nearly die again. I thought I’d lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Mr. Banks said softly. Before adding, “Unlike that marble statue of Neptune I stole from a Roman bathhouse in 1956. Slipped straight off the back of the boat. Right into the Adriatic. Never saw it again. Damn shame.”

Angus groaned. “Oh my God.”

“Beautiful craftsmanship too,” Mr. Banks sighed, settling back into the pillow. “Tragic loss. But you? No. You’re stuck with me.”

Mr. Banks had to stay in the hospital longer than expected—some post-op hiccups, a touch of fluid in the lungs, and one dramatic allergic reaction to the pudding, which may or may not have been faked in protest over the hospital food.

Eventually, he turned a corner. His strength came back, hissass returned, and he started flirting with the night nurse, which we all took as a very good sign.

When we got the call that he had been cleared to come home, the mood in the house shifted instantly. The crisis was behind us, and everyone felt buoyant and bright and grateful for the smallest things—a breeze through the open windows, the sound of Tilly laughing in the kitchen, and the thought of more outrageous tales of adventure from Mr. Banks.