Warren Richmond believed wealth was immunity. Then a single envelope reminded him that everyone has an expiration date.
Writer’s Prompt
Warren Richmond had never waited for anything in his life—not toys, not women, not forgiveness. Born into a fortune built on headlines and influence, he learned early that patience was for people without leverage. At forty-five, seated behind a desk worth more than most homes, he was mentally editing his life again—third wife fading, fourth wife forming—when the knock came.
His secretary stood frozen, an envelope pinched between two fingers. No return address. No logo. Just his name, handwritten.
“You better read this,” she said.
Warren smirked. Threats were currency in his world. He slit the envelope open and read the single line inside.
Enjoy your final day on the planet.
He laughed—too loudly. Too quickly.
Then his phone rang.
Not his cell. Not the office line.
The private phone.
The one only three people knew existed.
The smile slipped. For the first time in his life, Warren Richmond felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
Time.
✍️ Writer’s Question
Writer’s question:
When someone who has always controlled the world loses control—what does fear make them do first?
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