Chapter 12 #2
“Dr. Welling,” Max says, looking relieved. “And… Preston. You’re shadowing?”
“I’m observing the master,” I say, leaning against the nurses' station. “What’s the crisis?”
“He’s refusing the valve,” Max says, gesturing vaguely at the glass door. “Arthur Hymn. CEO of HymnTech. Controlling interest in half the silicon chips on the planet.”
Welling raises an eyebrow. “I know him. He donated the new wing at Columbia. What’s the issue?”
“Severe aortic stenosis,” Max explains. “He needs a valve replacement immediately. If he sneezes too hard, he drops dead. But he’s refusing to sign the consent forms.”
“Why? Fear of mortality? Unresolved childhood trauma regarding helplessness?”
“Fear of the market,” Max sighs. “He says he’s in the middle of a merger and can’t be under anesthesia for four hours because the ‘sharks will circle.’”
“So you called me?”
“I need you to declare him incompetent,” Max snaps. “He’s choosing stock options over oxygen. That is irrational. I need to save his life against his will.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Welling says, adjusting his bow tie. “Stay here, Preston. Watch and learn. The key is validation.”
Welling enters the room. I watch through the glass.
Arthur Hymn is sitting up in bed, wearing a silk pyjama top he must have brought from home. He is red-faced, screaming into an iPhone.
Welling approaches. He uses his best therapeutic voice. I see him gesture calmly. I see him nod. I see him offer an empathetic hand.
Then I see Hymn throw a heavy glass water pitcher at him.
Welling retreats. He walks back out, looking ruffled, water dripping from his tweed elbow patch.
“He is not incompetent,” Welling declares, brushing droplets off his sleeve. “He is just an asshole. A narcissistic, Type-A corporate warlord. I can’t 5150 him for having a terrible personality, Maxwell. He has decision-making capacity. He’s just making a stupid decision.”
Max groans, dropping his head into his hands. “So I just let him die? The board will kill me.”
I look through the glass. Hymn is back on the phone, screaming about “dumping the shares.”
“He’s not listening to you because you’re speaking ‘Doctor,’” I say. “And he didn't listen to Dr. Welling because he was speaking ‘Feelings.’”
Welling and Max both turn to me.
“Excuse me?” Welling asks.
“He’s a CEO,” I explain. “He doesn't care about health. He cares about leverage. You’re trying to sell him survival. You need to sell him a pivot.”
I straighten my white coat. I check my cuffs.
“Let me talk to him.”
“Preston, no,” Max warns. “He just threw a pitcher at the Chief of Psychiatry.”
“Dr. Welling used empathy,” I say. “I’m going to use capitalism. Give me two minutes. If I fail, you can sedate him.”
Welling looks at Max. Max looks at Welling.
“Two minutes,” Welling says, wringing out his tie. “But if he throws anything, I’m billing you for dry cleaning.”
I walk into the room.
“—I don't care what the SEC says, dump the shares!” Hymn is screaming. “Do it now! I want them bled dry by the closing bell!”
I close the door. I don't introduce myself. I don't use my “caring doctor” voice. I walk over to the sink, check my watch, and sigh loudly.
Hymn stops yelling. He lowers the phone. “Who the hell are you? I told the Tweed Jacket to get lost.”
“I’m Dr. York,” I say, bored. “Administration sent me to facilitate your exit strategy.”
“Exit strategy?” Hymn blinks. “I didn't say I was leaving.”
“Well, you aren't having the surgery,” I say, picking up his chart. “Which means you’re going to stroke out. Probably in the next twelve hours. We need to clear the bed. We have a waitlist. It’s an inventory issue.”
I look at him with the specific, pitying disdain of the 1%.
“It’s a shame, really. The optics of a mid-merger death are terrible. Very messy.”
Hymn bristles. “Optics?”
“Dying in a hospital bed while screaming at a nurse?” I shake my head. “It looks weak, Arthur. Can I call you Arthur?”
“No,” Hymn snaps. “You certainly can not.”
“Here is the reality, Arthur,” I continue, stepping closer, ignoring his refusal. “It looks uncontrolled. The shareholders will panic. The stock will tank forty percent the moment the obituary hits. It’s a hostile takeover of your own legacy. By a blood clot.”
Hymn grips his phone tighter. “Stop calling me Arthur.”
“But if you have the surgery, Arthur?” I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You spin it. You don't call it open heart surgery. You call it a ‘structural renovation of the executive engine.’”
Hymn listens. His nostrils flare.
“You issue a press release right now,” I say. “‘Mr. Hymn is undergoing a strategic, preventative procedure to ensure his longevity at the helm of HymnTech for the next twenty years.’”
I pause for effect.
“It shows foresight. It shows stability. It shows you plan to be around long enough to crush your enemies and dance on their graves. Doesn't that sound better, Arthur?”
Hymn blinks. The gears are turning. He hates that I’m using his name. He hates that I’m right.
“And the anesthesia?” he asks through gritted teeth. “I can't be offline.”
“Four hours of radio silence,” I shrug. “It’s a power move. It makes them wait. It makes them sweat. You go under, you come out, and you look like a god who cheated death. The stock will jump five points just on the rumour of your recovery.”
I hold out the consent form and a pen.
“Or,” I say, checking my watch again, “you can die right now. And your rival—what’s his name? The guy from Palo Alto?—he’ll probably buy your company for pennies on the dollar by Monday morning. I hear he’s already looking at your office furniture.”
Hymn stares at me. He stares at the pen.
He snatches the clipboard.
“I want the press release drafted by noon,” Hymn snaps, signing his name with a flourish. “And tell the surgeon I want the premium stitches. The IPO stitches.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promise.
I take the clipboard. “Good doing business with you, Arthur.”
“Get out,” Hymn growls.
I walk out.
Max and Welling are waiting in the hall. Welling’s mouth is slightly open.
“He signed?” Max asks, looking at the clipboard.
“He signed.” I hand Max the pen. “He thinks the surgery is a strategic pivot. Also, he wants the ‘IPO stitches.’ I don't know what those are, but just… use the blue thread. I have a feeling he likes blue.”
Welling stares at me. He adjusts his glasses, looking at me with a mixture of horror and delight.
“What did you say to him?” Welling asks. “I quoted Jung. I tried to establish a therapeutic alliance.”
“I quoted the Wall Street Journal,” I say. “And I called him Arthur. About six times. He hated it. It established dominance.”
Max shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re scary, Preston. You know that?”
“I’m effective,” I correct. “Enjoy the valve replacement, Max.”
I turn to Welling to say goodbye.
Welling is beaming. It is unsettling.
“Dr. York,” Welling says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “That was… an abomination. It was unethical, manipulative, and completely devoid of human warmth.”
He pauses, his smile widening.
“It was beautiful. ‘Corporate Psychiatry.’ We could bill that at a premium. Do you have any idea how many narcissists in this city need to be tricked into staying alive?”
“I was just speaking his language,” I say, a strange warmth blooming in my chest.
“No, no,” Welling insists, gripping my shoulder tighter. “You’re a natural. You’re a Sociopath Whisperer. I haven't seen talent like that since I did a consult at the UN.”
He leans in.
“Forget Surgery, Preston. Forget Trauma. You belong with us. In the murky, grey waters of the human psyche.”
I look at my hands. They are clean. No blood. No betadine. No cracking bones. Just ink and influence.
I look back at the chaos of the ICU—the alarms, the fluids, the mess. Then I look at Welling, calm in his tweed jacket.
“You know,” I say slowly, a grin spreading across my face. “I think you might be right. I didn't have to touch a single fluid. It was… hygienic.”
Welling winks.
“Welcome to the dark side, Dr. York. We have cookies. And we charge by the hour.”
He walks away, whistling a cheerful tune, already typing notes into his phone about ‘Structural Renovation.’
I watch him go. I feel lighter. I feel seen.
“I think I found my people, Max,” I whisper.
Max looks at me, then at the closed door of the psychopath I just manipulated.
“God help us all,” Max says.
I find Luke in the cafeteria an hour later. He’s eating a salad that looks sad, surrounded by charts.
I slide into the seat across from him.
“I just saved a billionaire’s life by convincing him that dying was bad for his brand,” I announce.
Luke looks up. He smiles, and it’s the real one—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Good day in the Psych ward?”
“Excellent day. Max actually complimented me. I think he might have been hallucinating, but I’ll take it.”
I reach across the table and steal a crouton from his salad.
“Also,” I say, lowering my voice. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Luke murmurs.
“About the fruit basket. And the empanadas. And the fact that my brother and your mother have seemingly formed a non-aggression pact.”
“Mmm?”
“I have a gala coming up,” I say casually. “The St. Jude’s Foundation Spring Gala. Next Saturday. It’s black tie. It’s boring. It’s mandatory for the Yorks.”
Luke stops chewing. He puts his fork down.
“Are you asking me to a gala, Preston?”
“I am asking you to be my plus-one. In a tuxedo. To stand next to me while Alistair tries to pretend he isn't terrified of you.” I lean forward. “And then we can leave early and go back to Queens and use the espresso machine.”
Luke studies me. He looks at the cafeteria noise, at the exhausted residents, and then at me.
“A tuxedo?” he asks.
“I’ll buy you one. Or we can rent. I don't care. Just… come with me. Publicly.”
It’s a big step. The Gala is the shark tank. It’s not just family; it’s the Board, the donors, the press.
Luke reaches across the table. He takes my hand, right there next to the salad dressing.
“I have a tux,” he says. “From prom. It might be a little tight in the shoulders.”
“Tight is good,” I say, my mouth going dry. “Tight is very good.”
“Then I’m in,” Luke says. “But if there’s green foam, I’m ordering pizza.”
“Deal.”
I squeeze his hand.
The fruit basket was just the beginning. The Gala? That’s going to be the main event. And for the first time, I’m not dreading it.
I’m actually looking forward to the show.