George Matthews was the seventh richest man in the world, and therefore, was effectively one of the most powerful men as well. However, he looked decidedly powerless, as he lay in bed with tubes and wires connected to his limbs and head. Thank God no one knew, though. Thank God no one had seen the real George Matthews, only the double who had stood in for him since 2000. Right after the car accident that had landed him in the hospital bed, he kept in his 70,000-square-foot mansion. Only his house staff and his maid, Cynthia, knew about his strange sickness. And it was strange; draining his energy as it made him more restless. He stayed in his room all day, without the energy to walk or even to get out of bed and dress himself.

Cynthia also knew, though, about the doctors who had come to see him about his sickness. The doctors who had told him that vitamins and exercise, as well as two or three operations, would most likely cure him. She knew about the accusations George had made: the doctors were frauds, they didn’t know a virus from a plague. He believed he had an incurable ailment, but she knew it was just a disease he made up in his head after the accident that he just couldn’t let go of. She thought about telling him this, but she knew she was being paid, in part, for her belief, or at least feigned belief, in his imaginary illness. George’s family had deserted him when they realized that he wouldn’t die quick enough for them to make good use of the money they would inherit, so she also felt pity for the deserted old man. This deadly mixture of pity and money convinced her not to quit.  

Months later, Cynthia was awoken in the middle of the night by a servant. “The master needs you. Come immediately.” Cynthia dressed herself and rushed upstairs to George’s bedroom, her one-size-too-big slippers brushing against the carpeted floor of the stairs. She imagined what could have happened: Did George die?

To be continued…