Chapter 3 - The Breath of Life
Julian Sterling’s vision was narrowing into a dark, suffocating tunnel. The boardroom, the billions, the empire—none of it mattered. His lungs had clamped shut, a brutal asthma attack triggered by the stress of a hostile takeover and the freezing air of the city. He could hear his own heartbeat slowing, a frantic, hollow thud against his ribs.
He stretched his trembling fingers upward, his nails scraping uselessly against the smooth wood of his desk. The rescue inhaler was agonizingly close, yet miles away.
This is it, Julian thought, the bitter irony washing over him. I bought the world, and I’m going to die on the floor of my own tower.
Suddenly, a small, blurred shape moved into his peripheral vision.
He heard the squeak of rubber soles. Then, the heavy scrape of a leather footstool being dragged across the plush carpet. Julian forced his eyes open, struggling against the darkness.
A tiny girl with a cascade of dark curls and light-up boots was climbing onto the stool. She moved with surprising calm, her small face set in absolute determination. She reached across the desk, her little fingers wrapping around the red plastic inhaler.
She hopped down and knelt beside him on the carpet.
“Here,” she whispered, her voice like a tiny bell in the deafening silence of his dying brain. She pressed the red plastic into his cold, shaking palm.
Julian didn't hesitate. He brought the inhaler to his lips and pressed the canister. The life-saving mist shot into his throat. He took a second pump. Then a third.
Slowly, agonizingly, his airways began to unlock. Oxygen flooded his starving brain. He collapsed onto his side, coughing violently, his chest heaving as he pulled in massive, greedy lungfuls of air.
He lay there for a full minute, the sweat cooling on his forehead, realizing he was going to live.
When he finally opened his eyes, the little girl was still there. She was sitting cross-legged on his expensive rug, holding a battered stuffed bear.
Julian propped himself up on his elbows, staring at her in absolute disbelief. “Who… who are you?” he rasped, his throat raw.
Maya reached out, her tiny hand patting his expensive wool sleeve. “I’m Maya. You were crying.”
“I couldn't breathe,” Julian whispered, still in shock.
Maya looked past him, her hazel eyes locking onto a silver picture frame sitting on the edge of his desk. It was a photograph of a young man with a bright, reckless smile.
May you like
Maya leaned in close, her breath warm against Julian’s ear, and whispered a sentence that made his blood turn to ice.
“You have my daddy’s eyes,” she said softly. “Barnaby says you shouldn't be sad anymore. The man in the picture left a message for you on the blue phone.”
