Virgin Nurse Fulfils A 90-Year-Old Billionaire Final Wish Before He…

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Virgin Nurse Fulfils a 90‑Year‑Old Billionaire’s Final Wish

Once upon a time, in a quiet town far from the noise of the city, there lived a young woman named Naomi Chisum.

She was twenty‑four, but most people thought she was younger. Maybe it was her soft voice, or the way she moved—quiet, gentle, never rushed. Naomi didn’t like loud places. She didn’t wear makeup. She didn’t go to parties. She lived a simple life in a small one‑room apartment she kept spotless.

Every morning, Naomi woke up at five. She boiled water, took her bath, and dressed in her clean white nurse’s uniform. Her shoes were always polished. Her name tag always straight.

Then she walked to St. Catherine’s Hospital, where she had worked for the past four years.

Naomi loved her job. Not because it paid well—it didn’t—but because it gave her a reason to care. She liked helping old people. They reminded her of her grandmother, who had raised her from when she was eight until she passed away when Naomi was sixteen.

“Naomi, you have the hands of a healer,” her grandmother used to say, holding her hands between her own rough ones. Naomi never forgot those words.

At the hospital, everyone knew Naomi, but no one really knew her. She was the nurse who always showed up on time, who never complained about night shifts, who stayed when families didn’t. She didn’t have close friends. She never dated. People whispered.

“Is she okay?” they’d murmur at the nurses’ station. “Why doesn’t she go out? Is she… strange?”

Naomi didn’t mind. She didn’t like the way people rushed into things, especially love.

“I’m just waiting for something real,” she once told a fellow nurse.

“What does real even mean?” the nurse asked, laughing.

Naomi had smiled and walked away.

The Assignment

That Thursday morning started like every other.

Naomi arrived at the hospital at 6:30 a.m., signed in, and walked down the long hallway to the geriatric unit. As she adjusted her cap, her supervisor, Matron Angela, called out.

“Naomi!”

The matron’s voice was brisk, but there was something odd in it. Naomi turned.

“Yes, Ma?”

“Office. Now.”

Naomi followed her inside. The matron shut the door and let out a sigh. She wasn’t the type to look flustered. She was tall, broad‑shouldered, and her sharp eyes missed nothing. But this morning, she looked… nervous.

“I have a special assignment for you,” she began.

Naomi sat down quietly.

“You’re one of the best nurses we have,” Matron Angela said. “Clean record. No drama. You keep your head down. That’s why I’m choosing you.”

Naomi nodded. “I’m listening, Ma.”

“There’s a patient,” the matron continued. “Not in the hospital. Private home care. Terminal condition. Rich family. Billionaire, actually.”

Naomi’s eyes widened slightly.

“What’s the condition?”

“Stage four heart failure,” the matron said. “He has about two months left. Maybe less.”

Naomi felt something tighten in her chest.

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Roland Whitaker.”

The name made her pause.

Everyone in town knew that name. Ten, fifteen years ago, you saw it everywhere—in newspapers, on billboards, on the signs of tall, glass buildings. Roland Whitaker, the man behind oil companies, real estate empires, and banks.

Then, ten years ago, he disappeared.

People said he lived in a huge mansion behind tall gates at the edge of town. Alone. Sick. Forgotten. His companies kept running, but the man himself became a ghost.

“He requested a private nurse,” the matron said. “He gave specific instructions. He wants someone young, quiet. Someone who won’t ask too many questions.”

Naomi’s eyes dropped. “Why me?”

“You match the profile,” the matron said frankly. “And he’s paying well. Very well. Ten times your monthly salary for just two months.”

Naomi’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair. She didn’t care much for money. She lived simply. Her wants were small. But something about this assignment felt… different. Heavy, somehow.

“When do I start?” she asked.

The matron looked surprised. “Tomorrow morning. A car will pick you up.”

Naomi stood up. “I’ll be ready.”

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She sat by her small window, watching the stars shimmer above the dark rooftops. The town was quiet, but her heart wasn’t. She’d taken care of many patients—kind ones, bitter ones, lonely ones. She had held hands as people slipped away. She had seen families come and go, some grieving, some relieved.

But this felt different.

Maybe it was the name.

Maybe it was the mystery.

Maybe it was the way Matron Angela had said, “Someone who won’t ask too many questions.”

“Just two months,” Naomi whispered to herself. “That’s all.”

But something deep inside told her that when you stepped into the house of a man like Roland Whitaker, your life didn’t stay the same.

The Mansion

At 7:00 a.m. the next day, a black car with tinted windows pulled up outside Naomi’s building.

The driver didn’t say much. He just nodded when she climbed in. The drive took forty‑five minutes. The town streets gave way to long stretches of road, fewer houses, more trees. They drove past the last fuel station and the last corner store and turned down a private lane lined with tall trees.

At the end stood a gate.

Massive iron bars. Stone walls topped with spikes. Two guards approached, checked the car, then waved them through.

The driveway curved around a large stone fountain. Water fell in slow streams from the hands of a carved angel into a wide basin slick with moss. Beyond that rose the mansion.

Gray walls. Tall windows. No flowers. No color.

Naomi stepped out of the car, her shoes crunching on gravel.

A man in a black suit waited at the front door. His hair was flecked with gray. His posture was straight.

“I’m Henry,” he said. “Mr. Whitaker’s personal butler.”

Naomi nodded politely. “Good morning.”

“You’ll be staying here, in the east wing,” Henry said. “Your room is ready. The patient is in the master suite. He’s awake.”

“May I meet him?” Naomi asked.

Henry studied her for a moment.

“He can be… difficult,” he said.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” His voice was soft but pointed. “Many before you didn’t.”

Naomi held his gaze. She didn’t answer.

Henry turned and led her inside.

The mansion’s interior was cold and still. The floors gleamed. The walls were lined with heavy paintings of men in suits and women in stiff dresses. The air smelled faintly of furniture polish and nothing else.

They climbed a wide staircase and walked down a long hallway. At a large white door near the end, Henry stopped.

“Whatever he says,” Henry said, “do not take it personally. He is… unused to kindness.”

Naomi nodded.

She knocked gently, then opened the door.

The master bedroom was large but dim. Curtains were half drawn. A heart monitor beeped softly beside a high bed. Machines glowed with soft green numbers. The air hummed with quiet electricity.

On the bed, under crisp white sheets, lay a man who looked as if his bones had shrunk but stubbornness had kept his gaze sharp.

Silver hair. Thin lips. Deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes. Skin the color of parchment.

Roland Whitaker.

He turned his head slowly when he heard the door.

“So,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. “They sent me a child.”

Naomi stepped in.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, setting her bag down near the wall. “My name is Naomi Chisum. I’m your new nurse.”

He watched her, eyes sweeping from her simple bun to her plain uniform, to her unpainted face.

“You look like you’ve never touched a man,” he said.

Naomi blinked once.

She didn’t answer.

He let out a small, dry chuckle that ended in a cough. “That’s a good thing,” he said at last.

Naomi moved toward the machines, checking the IV line, adjusting the drip rate, noting the blood pressure reading, the heart rate.

“You don’t talk much,” he observed.

“I speak when needed,” Naomi replied.

“Good. The last one talked too much. I fired her.”

“I’m not here to talk, sir,” Naomi said. “I’m here to help.”

He watched her hands. They were small, steady, sure.

“Tell me the truth,” he said suddenly. “Are you pure?”

Naomi’s fingers stilled for a moment on the IV tube.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She turned her head.

“Why does it matter?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t smile, but something shifted in his expression.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” he said. “Maybe it does.”

She finished checking the equipment.

“Do you want breakfast?” she asked, retreating to duty.

“I want silence.”

“I’ll be back to check your vitals in an hour,” Naomi said.

As she reached the door, he spoke again.

“Naomi.”

She stopped, hand on the handle.

“You don’t know it yet,” he said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “But you’re going to be the last person I trust before I die.”

Naomi’s pulse thudded in her ears.

She stepped out quietly and closed the door, then stood in the hallway, her hand still on the knob, her breath shallow.

She didn’t know why, but something in those words made her feel heavier than any IV bag she had ever hung.

The List

Over the next few days, a strange rhythm formed.

Naomi woke early, bathed, put on her uniform, and walked the long hall to Mr. Whitaker’s room. She brought his tea and toast. Some mornings he ignored the tray. Some mornings he picked at it. Every morning he complained.

“You’re not smiling,” he would say. “You don’t laugh. Are you a nurse or a ghost?”

“I’m both, maybe,” she’d reply dryly.

Henry watched all this with a kind of cautious hope. The previous nurses had lasted a week at most—some only three days.

Naomi was still there on day five.

On that fifth morning, Henry handed her an envelope in the kitchen.

“He asked me to give you this,” Henry said. “Said to give it only if you came back today.”

Naomi dried her hands on a towel and took it. The paper was thick. A red wax seal held it closed, stamped with a simple “R.W.”

In her small room, she sat at the little desk and opened the envelope carefully.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in half.

She unfolded it.

Naomi,

If you’re reading this, it means you didn’t run away after day one. That’s impressive.

I don’t trust easily. You already know that. But I want to believe you’re different. That’s why I’m giving you this.

Enclosed is my list. Not just the short version. The full one. You don’t need to finish it. You don’t need to understand it. You only need to decide: Will you try?

If the answer is no, put this paper down and leave this house. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t want pity.

If the answer is yes, then keep reading—but follow one rule: Do not fall in love with me. Do not see me as anything more than a man who wasted his life and now wants to die with clean hands.

You are pure. Stay that way.

—R.W.

Naomi stared at the page.

You are pure. Stay that way.

It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t romantic. It read like a warning from a man who knew exactly how poisonous his world had been.

She turned the paper over.

On the other side was a list written in shaky handwriting.

Walk outside.
Eat roasted corn.
Watch children play.
Sit on the front porch and feel the rain.
Hear a lullaby.
Say sorry to my son.
Laugh without faking it.
See the moon again.
Die without fear.
Be remembered for something kind.

Naomi read it twice.

This wasn’t the bucket list of a billionaire. It wasn’t full of yachts and islands and luxury.

It was full of ordinary things.

Things most people had without asking.

She folded the letter gently and slipped it into her pocket.

She already knew her answer.

Little Things

“Did you read it?” he asked when she came in later with his tea.

“Yes,” Naomi said.

“And?”

“I’m staying.”

He looked at her for a long moment. The monitor beeped steadily beside him, like a second heartbeat.

“You’re stubborn,” he said finally.

“So are you,” she replied.

He huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh.

“What do you want to start with?” she asked.

“Start?”

“On the list.”

He turned his head, looking at the patch of sky visible through the gap in the curtains.

“Walking outside,” he said. “It’s been ten years since my feet touched my own grass.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Naomi said. “If you’re strong enough.”

He snorted. “You think I’ll die from taking ten steps?”

“No,” she said calmly. “But I think you’ll need someone beside you.”

He didn’t argue.

The next morning, he was sitting upright when she entered.

“You’re dressed,” she said, surprised.

“Took me half an hour,” he muttered. “But I’m not going to meet the sun in a hospital gown.”

She moved to his side, slid her arm under his, and helped him up. His legs shook. His grip on the cane was tight.

“Slowly,” she said.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m ninety,” he grumbled.

“You are ninety,” she replied.

He almost smiled.

Henry opened the front door. Sunlight flooded the entryway. Mr. Whitaker squinted, blinking rapidly.

“It’s too bright,” he said.

“Do you want to go back?” Naomi asked.

He swallowed.

“No,” he said. “I want to feel it.”

They stepped out.

The air smelled of wet earth and cut grass. Birds chattered in the trees. The fountain murmured from the courtyard.

Mr. Whitaker’s cane clicked against the stone. His grip tightened on Naomi’s arm, but he straightened his back.

“Same house,” he said quietly. “Different world.”

Naomi guided him to a bench beside a small, neglected garden. Weeds had crept between the paving stones. The flowerbeds were mostly bare, save for a few stubborn green shoots.

He sank onto the bench, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I used to laugh at men who sat on porches,” he said after a while. “Thought it meant they had nothing better to do. I was wrong.”

Naomi watched a stray cat slink along the fence.

“Sometimes sitting still is the hardest thing,” she said.

His eyes glistened. He blinked quickly, but a tear escaped anyway, carving a shiny path down his wrinkled cheek.

“I forgot what the sun feels like,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. She just sat beside him until his breathing evened out and his hands stopped shaking.

“Number two,” he said at last.

“Eat roasted corn?” she asked.

He nodded. “There was a woman at the train station years ago. I bought roasted corn from her every Friday. Then I became too important to take trains.”

“I know a woman who sells roasted corn near the hospital,” Naomi said. “I’ll bring you some.”

“You?” he said. “A billionaire’s nurse bringing him street food?”

“I’m not his nurse,” she said. “I’m yours. And you’re a man with a list.”

He laughed, a real, rough laugh that startled them both.

That evening, Naomi came back from the hospital with a brown paper bag. She entered his room and held it up.

“I brought something,” she said.

He sniffed.

“That smell…”

She pulled out a cob of roasted corn, golden with charred edges, butter glistening faintly on the kernels.

His eyes lit up.

“It’s illegal for someone my age to be this excited about corn,” he said.

“Good thing no one’s filming,” Naomi replied.

He took it with trembling hands, fingers careful, almost reverent. He bit into it. The crunch echoed in the room.

His eyes closed.

“For a second,” he whispered, “I feel twenty again.”

Naomi smiled.

“Then number two is done.”

He chewed slowly, savoring each bite.

“What’s next?” he asked.

“Watch children play,” she said.

He leaned his head back against the pillow.

“There’s a school near the hospital,” she said. “We could sit in the car and watch them during break time.”

“They’ll think we’re strange,” he said.

“They’d be right,” Naomi replied.

Jacob

It was on the third week that she saw his son’s name.

Henry had given her access to a locked filing cabinet in the study.

“He said you could,” Henry told her, handing over a small key. “He won’t say it aloud, but he’s starting to trust you.”

Inside the cabinet were old documents—wills, share certificates, trust papers, letters. At the back lay a dog‑eared folder labeled FAMILY.

Naomi opened it.

A photograph slid out.

A younger Roland stood with his arm around a woman whose smile was soft and tired. In her arms she held a baby boy, maybe six months old, all soft curls and wide eyes.

On the back of the photo, in faded ink, were three words: Elena, Jacob, me.

Below the photo, on a yellowed sheet of paper, was a name and a phone number:

Jacob Whitaker

No address. No email. Just a number.

Naomi held the paper between her fingers for a long time.

She thought of the item on the list: Say sorry to my son.

She thought of the way his voice cracked whenever he mentioned Jacob. The way regret pooled in his eyes and stayed there.

That evening, when Mr. Whitaker had finally fallen asleep after a long day of fatigue and short breaths, Naomi sat at the small desk in her room and stared at the number.

She could do nothing. She could stay within the safe boundaries of her job: blood pressure, medication charts, scheduled feeds.

But when she looked back over the past few weeks—sun on his face, roasted corn in his hands, children’s laughter outside the car window, a lullaby hummed into the darkness—she knew that the list was more than medical care.

It was mercy.

She picked up her phone and dialed.

It rang four times.

“Hello?” a man’s voice answered.

“Is this Jacob Whitaker?” Naomi asked.

A pause.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Naomi,” she said. “I’m calling from St. Catherine’s… or rather, from your father’s house.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“I don’t have a father,” Jacob said.

Naomi waited a beat.

“Roland is dying,” she said quietly.

Silence.

She heard the faint clang of metal, the muffled sound of footsteps. He was at work, she realized.

“He has stage four heart failure,” she said. “He may not have long. I’m not calling on his behalf. He doesn’t know I’m calling. I’m calling because he made a list. ‘Say sorry to my son’ is on it. And I think he deserves the chance to say the words out loud. What you do with them is your choice.”

On the other end, Jacob laughed—but there was no humor in it.

“He had twenty‑seven years to say sorry,” Jacob snapped. “Now he remembers?”

“He remembers every day,” Naomi said. “It doesn’t excuse anything. It doesn’t erase what he did. But you are still the only person he thinks about when he talks about regret.”

She expected him to hang up.

He didn’t.

“You must think he’s a good man,” Jacob said.

“I think he’s a man who wasted most of his life,” Naomi replied. “And is trying not to waste the last of it.”

There was another pause.

“My mother died waiting for him,” Jacob said, his voice rough.

“I know,” Naomi said gently. “He knows too.”

She didn’t say more. Silence did more than arguments sometimes.

“I’ll think about it,” Jacob finally said.

“That’s all I can ask,” Naomi replied.

She hung up and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She didn’t tell Mr. Whitaker she had called.

She didn’t want to hand him hope like a promise.

Hope, she knew, had to walk into the house on its own feet.

The Collapse

Three nights later, she woke to a loud crash.

Naomi sat up in bed, heart pounding, the echo of the noise still ringing in her ears. She listened.

Silence.

Then a muffled cough.

She threw on her sweater and ran down the hall, bare feet slapping against the polished floors.

Mr. Whitaker’s door was open. The lamp by the bed had been knocked over. The water glass lay shattered on the floor. And Mr. Whitaker was collapsed beside the dresser, one hand outstretched toward the window.

“Mr. Whitaker!” Naomi knelt beside him.

His skin was clammy. His breath was shallow and fast. His eyes flickered, unfocused.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

His lips moved. She leaned closer.

“Thought I… could reach… the moon,” he whispered.

Naomi swallowed hard.

“You don’t go chasing the moon without your nurse,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

She moved quickly, trained instincts taking over. She slid a pillow under his head, checked his airway, grabbed the emergency kit from the wall. Oxygen mask. Portable monitor. The numbers on the screen jumped and stuttered.

“Henry!” she shouted.

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Henry appeared in the doorway, eyes widening when he saw the scene.

“Call the doctor,” Naomi said. “And the hospital. Tell them we’re stabilizing him here.”

For the next hour, the world narrowed to that room.

She repositioned him. Adjusted the mask. Took blood pressure readings. Hung a saline bag. Monitored his heart rhythm, ready to start compressions if the line flattened.

Slowly, his breathing steadied. The jerky rhythm on the screen smoothed.

By one in the morning, he was back in bed, exhausted, but alive.

Naomi sat on the chair beside him, her hand resting lightly over his.

She didn’t sleep.

At some point, his eyes opened.

“You’re still here,” he rasped.

“You gave me a job,” she said. “I don’t leave halfway.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he muttered.

“How?” she asked. “Weak? On the floor?”

He nodded.

“You looked human,” Naomi said. “That’s all.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I was trying to get to the window,” he admitted. “I wanted to see the moon again.”

Naomi stood, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open just enough for the silver light to spill across his bed.

“You don’t have to walk,” she said. “The moon can come to you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“How?”

“You make me wish I’d lived differently,” he said. “At a time when I can’t undo anything.”

She sat back down.

“Maybe you can’t undo,” she said. “But you can still do.”

The Son Returns

On a gray morning, ten days later, Naomi heard footsteps in the hall that weren’t Henry’s.

She stood from the chair beside Mr. Whitaker’s bed and turned toward the open door.

A man in his forties stood there.

His jeans were worn. His jacket damp from the drizzle outside. His hair was flecked with gray at the temples. His eyes held something brittle and wary.

Jacob.

Henry hovered behind him, uncertain.

Mr. Whitaker stirred, eyelids fluttering.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

Naomi moved aside, giving Jacob space.

“Someone you owe a lot of time to,” Jacob said.

Mr. Whitaker’s eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, he looked young—shock erasing years.

“Jacob,” he breathed.

Jacob didn’t move closer.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” Mr. Whitaker replied, voice raw.

“You walked out,” Jacob said flatly. “You picked your companies over us. Over her. Over everything.”

“I know,” Mr. Whitaker said. “I did.”

“You missed everything,” Jacob continued, his voice trembling now. “Her sickness. Her death. My graduation. My wedding. The births of your grandsons. All of it.”

“I know,” Mr. Whitaker whispered again. His eyes shone with tears. “I thought I had more time.”

Jacob’s hands curled into fists.

“Do you know how stupid that sounds?” he demanded. “A man who controlled time zones for a living—flights, meetings, markets—saying he thought he had more time?”

Mr. Whitaker’s gaze dropped.

“I have no excuse,” he said. “I wanted power. I wanted the world. I thought family would wait.”

Jacob inhaled sharply.

“This isn’t enough,” he said. “These minutes. This… deathbed confession.”

“I know,” Mr. Whitaker said.

“So why did you want me here?” Jacob asked hoarsely. “What can you possibly say that changes anything?”

Mr. Whitaker swallowed.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said. “It won’t fix what I broke. It won’t bring your mother back. It won’t make up for missed birthdays and empty chairs. But if I die without looking you in the eyes and telling you I was wrong… I’ll carry that weight into the grave.”

He blinked hard.

“And I’m tired of carrying it.”

Jacob looked at him for a long moment.

Then he sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed.

He didn’t reach for his father’s hand yet. He didn’t soften. His jaw still clenched.

But he stayed.

Naomi slipped quietly out of the room and stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Through the half‑open door, she heard low voices—anger, grief, painful memories spilling out like old files from a drawer finally opened.

“…you chose money over us…”

“…I thought I was doing it for you…”

“…you never asked what we wanted…”

“…I was a coward…”

The words blurred, but the tone changed gradually. The harsh edges dulled. The syllables slowed.

After some time, Henry walked past with a tray and gave Naomi a small nod.

He’s talking, the nod meant. He’s listening.

Hours later, when Naomi entered again with fresh tea, Mr. Whitaker’s hand was in Jacob’s.

Jacob’s eyes were red. Mr. Whitaker’s cheeks were wet.

“We were talking about cars,” Jacob said, clearing his throat. “He says he once drove from Lagos to Accra in one day.”

“In my youth,” Mr. Whitaker muttered.

“In your foolishness,” Jacob corrected.

Mr. Whitaker smiled weakly.

“You inherited your mother’s tongue,” he said. “Sharp as a blade.”

Jacob huffed. “She inherited her patience from God. Not you.”

“Agreed,” Mr. Whitaker said.

Naomi set the tea down and stepped back.

“I’ll give you more time,” she said quietly.

She started toward the door.

“Naomi,” Mr. Whitaker called softly.

She turned.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For dialing a number I was too much of a coward to dial,” he said.

Her throat tightened.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The Last Wish

The days that followed were quieter.

The list by Naomi’s bedside had more dates beside the items now.

Walk outside — ✔
Eat roasted corn — ✔
Watch children play — ✔
See the moon again — ✔
Hear a lullaby — ✔
Say sorry to my son — ✔

It was the last two that remained.

Laugh without faking it.

Die without fear.

On a late afternoon, when the light slanted into the room in golden bars, Mr. Whitaker asked for something Naomi didn’t expect.

“Sing to me,” he said.

She blinked.

.