It was the most painful, beautiful thing I have ever seen. A grown man, a billionaire, a feared name in a thousand boardrooms, covering his face with both hands and sobbing like a child.
I wrapped my arms around him. He clung to me as though I were the last solid thing in the world.
“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” I said, stroking his hair. “I know. I’m here.”
Recovery was not instant.
It took weeks of difficult conversations. I made him tell me every detail of the plan, every moment he had doubted me, every time he had wanted to stop. I made him promise there would be no more tests, no more games, no more secrets between us. He agreed to everything.
And slowly, the trust began to heal.
I learned the real Don. He wasn’t a monster, and he wasn’t a hero, either. He was a man who had been hurt very badly and had spent years building armor, and who was, to his own astonishment, learning to take it off.
