Saturday dawned over London in quiet hues of blush and blue, the city holding its breath between the pulse of its own ambitions. Even the Godfrey Holdings Tower stood still, as though aware its sovereign heir had, for once, taken the day off. It was the sort of summer morning that might have once found Adrian Montague Godfrey IV buried under silk sheets and a tray of foie gras croissants, his phone lost beneath an avalanche of velvet pillows, some unnamed model snoring at the foot of his bed like a broken ornament from the night before.
But that Adrian no longer existed.
The penthouse was still his—two floors of glass and shadow perched on the peak of a financial Olympus, wrapped in panoramic views of the Thames and the City's gleaming teeth. But everything within had changed. The velvet drapes were gone. The Persian rugs, the oil paintings, the wine coolers and black lacquer cabinets stocked with ruinous pleasure—all of them stripped away. The man who once lived like a sovereign of decadence had shed that skin like a serpent surviving fire.
What remained was discipline. Simplicity. Precision.
And a man who now rose with the sun not because he had to, but because he wanted to live.
Adrian stood in his open-plan kitchen wearing only navy gym shorts, barefoot on the polished hardwood, his body cast in golden morning light. Every inch of him was forged, sculpted with ruthless intent—wide shoulders, tapered waist, the marble lines of his abdomen shifting with every breath. His muscles were not the bloated vanity of gym-culture showboating. They were sleek, symmetrical, functional—like the tension cables of a high-performance machine.
He moved with silent efficiency, the ease of a man at war with chaos and winning.
Egg whites sizzled in a steel skillet. Kale leaves steamed beside slices of avocado and lemon water on the counter. Chia seeds soaked in almond milk. No dairy. No red meat. No sugars. No alcohol. Not anymore. Not ever again.
A flatline or a fibrillation could be hiding behind any indulgence. So, indulgence was simply gone.
As the eggs finished, Adrian set the pan aside and picked up the slender tablet beside his breakfast. The glow of its screen flickered against the sharpness of his face as he scrolled through encrypted files—the ones only he could access. His latest health records had arrived.
He'd read them four times already.
But he read them again.
Patient: Adrian Montague Godfrey IVAge: 23Transplant Date: 5.5 months priorRecovery Status: Exceeding expectationsCardiac Output: 7.1 L/minEjection Fraction: 68% (normal-high)Resting Heart Rate: 44 bpm (elite athletic range)VO2 Max: 63 ml/kg/minBlood Pressure: 112/68Total Cholesterol: 147 mg/dLPsych Eval: Focused. High-functioning. Signs of residual anxiety mitigated by disciplined structure. No depressive episodes.Doctor's Note: Patient's physiological transformation is among the most extraordinary seen in post-transplant cardiac history. Psychological resilience likely core driver of success. Recommend continued monitored exercise and psychological reinforcement. Suggest easing into limited socialization for emotional stability.
Adrian finished reading and set the tablet down beside the lemon water. He stood there for a moment, exhaling slowly, watching the steam rise from the kale like incense from a temple offering.
He wasn't supposed to be alive.
Not statistically. Not medically. Not spiritually.
There were weeks during the blackest winter where he'd woken in a hospital bed gasping, his chest tight like a vault trying to crush its last jewel. His skin grey. His blood thin. Every time he blinked, the inside of his eyelids looked like burial shrouds.
And now—now his body was a cathedral. A temple. A weapon.
He moved to the living room, plate in hand, and sat at the edge of the leather bench that overlooked the skyline. The plate made no noise when he set it down. Even his movements had become silent, economical. The slightest shift was made with care, as though every flex of muscle was a note in a sacred hymn.
He ate slowly. No rush. Each bite counted. Each nutrient measured.
Adrian no longer ate for pleasure. He ate for survival.
And yet… there was something pleasurable in the austerity itself. A pleasure his old self would have mocked. The pleasure of control. Of knowing that each moment—each calorie, each movement, each breath—was a line drawn in the sand against mortality.
After breakfast, he opened the tall glass doors leading to the penthouse balcony.
The city sprawled below him—unaware that one of its wealthiest sons had once faced death naked and afraid, only to rise from its jaws like a creature reborn. He stepped onto the slate, inhaling the high-altitude air that still carried a hint of river salt and airplane trails.
His morning training would begin soon.Not cardio. He'd done that before dawn.Not weights. He lifted every other day.
No—today was breathwork. Core control. Heart alignment.
Something new he'd been exploring.
A fusion of neuro-cardiac biofeedback and breath-anchored precision routines. He'd discovered the method in an obscure white paper published by a defunded German sports institute—a way to balance transplant stress with high-performance cognition. It made him feel his heart. Not fear it. Feel it.
He spread a mat on the slate, positioned his tablet at his side, and began.
Fifteen seconds in: he was no longer Adrian the heir.
He was Adrian the organism.
Breathing in quadrants. Slowing his pulse consciously. Counting the heartbeats. Letting his mind orbit only what mattered.
And in that hollow, sacred silence, the only thing he feared was not dying.But dying unfinished.
By noon, he returned inside, sweat just beginning to bead on his back, though his face was calm, breath perfectly measured.
He poured more lemon water. He refilled his chia bowl with blueberries and walnuts. He stood before the mirror briefly—not to admire—but to assess.
His V-taper was pristine. His posture martial. The scar on his chest—once red and grotesque—was now pale and elegant, a white sigil of survival between his pectorals.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then—wordlessly—he pulled on a black compression shirt, and a pair of sleek joggers.
Even on a Saturday, he dressed for action.
His fingers tapped his tablet. Messages flooded in. None from family. He hadn't heard from Cassandra or Julian since the last meeting. He assumed they were watching. He welcomed it.
In the memo feed, a few staff were reporting anomalies in the South Korea pharmaceuticals portfolio.
He considered it for a second.
Then sat down at his minimalist desk by the window and began to draft strategy.
Because what else was he going to do?
Live for himself? Lounge again?
No.
Adrian Montague Godfrey IV had not been given a second life. He had taken it.
With blood.With steel.With will.
And every Saturday he had left—every Sunday, every minute—was going to be another page in a ledger that would never read "wasted" again.
He wasn't alive for the luxury.
He was alive for the legacy.