CHAPTER 7: THE RETURN OF THE KING
Ten days.
Ten days since I'd studied Gerri's folder until my eyes burned. Ten days of watching Logan's recovery from a careful distance—updates filtered through Marcia, through the doctors, through careful hospital visits that never quite reached his room.
Until today.
The text came at seven AM. Marcia. Blunt as ever: He's asking for you. Come now.
I stood outside the private room door at eight fifteen. Manhattan Presbyterian's top floor, the suite they reserved for people who could afford to recover in something resembling luxury. Two security guards flanked the entrance. They knew me. Nodded me through.
My hand hesitated on the door handle.
Behind this door was Logan Roy. Conscious. Alert. And I'd have to look the man in the eye and pretend I didn't know every move he'd make for the next four years.
I pushed the door open.
The room smelled like antiseptic and expensive flowers. Logan sat propped against pillows, monitors beeping softly beside him. He looked smaller than I remembered. The stroke had carved something out of him—not intelligence, not will, but some essential physicality. His left hand trembled slightly against the sheet.
But his eyes. Sharp. Aware. Tracking me as I crossed the room.
"Roman." His voice came out rougher than before, Scottish burr more pronounced. "Sit."
I sat in the chair beside the bed. Didn't speak. Let him lead.
He studied me for a long moment. I felt the Empathy Engine pulse in the back of my skull—instinctive, unwanted. I didn't touch him, but proximity alone brought whispers. Medicated thoughts. Muddy. But one note rang clear as a bell: This one. Different. Why?
"You caught me." Not a question. A statement.
"Yeah."
"The doctors said..." He paused, something flickering across his face. Confusion? Gratitude? Impossible to tell. "They said you kept me stable. Knew what to do."
I shrugged. "Seemed like the thing to do. You know. Not letting Dad die on his birthday."
A grunt. Almost a laugh. His good hand moved, gestured vaguely at the monitors. "Two weeks. Lying here like a fucking invalid. Watching the vultures circle."
"You're not an invalid."
"No." His eyes sharpened. "No, I'm not. But they don't know that yet." He leaned forward slightly, ignoring the strain it caused. "What's been happening? Don't give me the sanitized version. What's actually happening?"
This was the test.
I could play dumb. Deflect with humor. Be the old Roman—useless, crude, dismissed.
Or I could be useful.
"Kendall's holding it together," I said. "Barely. The board's stable but watching him. Frank's keeping things running behind the scenes. Karl's calculating which way to jump if things go sideways. The stock's recovered most of the drop from the stroke news."
Logan's eyes never left my face. "And?"
"And Sandy and Stewy are quiet. Too quiet. They're waiting to see if you come back strong or if there's an opening."
"Smart boy." He settled back against the pillows. "What about your siblings?"
"Kendall's terrified he'll fuck it up. Shiv's circling, watching for opportunities. Connor's..." I gestured. "Connor."
Another grunt. This one might've been approval.
Then his hand shot out—faster than I expected—and gripped my wrist. Strong. Too strong for a man two weeks post-stroke. The Empathy Engine flared, sudden and overwhelming.
Watch them. All of them. Can't trust—any—this one, maybe. This one sees. Why? Doesn't matter. Use it. Watch them for me.
I kept my face neutral despite the flood of muddy emotion and fragmented thought. Fear underneath everything. Fear of weakness. Fear of mortality. Fear of losing control.
"They're circling," Logan said aloud. "All of them. Even the ones who smile." His grip tightened. "I need you to watch them for me."
"Which them?"
"All of them. Your siblings. The executives. The board. Anyone who might think I'm weak." His eyes bored into mine. "Watch them. Tell me what you see. What they're really doing. Not what they want me to think."
A spy. He wanted me to be his spy.
And fuck, it was perfect. Gave me cover to be everywhere, ask questions, gather information. Gave me direct access to Logan. Gave me value in his eyes.
"Okay," I said simply.
He searched my face for something. Hesitation? Ambition? I gave him nothing but calm attention.
Finally, he released my wrist. "Good. Good." He shifted against the pillows, exhaustion starting to show. "I'm coming back, Roman. Sooner than they think. And when I do, I want to know exactly where everyone stands."
"You'll know."
"Out." He waved his good hand dismissively. But as I stood, he spoke again. "Roman."
I turned back.
"You did good. At the birthday." He paused. Something almost human crossed his face. "Thank you."
I nodded once. Didn't trust myself to speak.
I left the room and walked past the security, past the nurses' station with its obscene display of flower arrangements. Massive, expensive things from every major media company, every board member, every sycophant who wanted Logan to remember they'd sent something nice while he was dying.
The nurses looked exhausted. Dealing with the Roy family circus on top of actual medical work.
I pulled out my wallet. Counted out five hundred dollars. Handed it to the head nurse.
"For dealing with us," I said.
She blinked. Looked at the cash. "Mr. Roy, you don't have to—"
"I know. Consider it hazard pay."
The smile she gave me was genuine. Tired, but genuine.
I took the elevator down, stepped out into the bright morning. My phone buzzed before I'd walked five steps.
Gerri: He talked to you alone?
Me: He's planning something.
Gerri: He's always planning something. Dinner tomorrow?
I looked at the message. At the Manhattan street. At the hospital behind me.
Two lives now. Logan's spy. Gerri's ally. Playing both sides while building my own position.
Me: Where and when?
The reply came fast: That place with the good bread. 7 PM.
I smiled despite myself. She remembered.
Me: See you there.
I pocketed the phone and started walking. The game continued. But now I had Logan's explicit trust to be everywhere, see everything, report back.
Perfect cover for doing exactly what I needed to do.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0