Page 21 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)
WILLOW
W e head down to his waiting Mercedes. He drives across the city to a mansion-lined street on the Upper East Side.
He pulls around to the rear entrance of a massive residence, where a wrought-iron gate slides open to reveal a narrow ramp leading to the underground garage hidden beneath the original carriage house.
He pulls into a designated space as the wrought-iron gate slides shut behind us with a soft, final sound.
The underground garage is clean, organized, and dimly lit.
Damien gets out and rounds the car to open my door.
He doesn’t say anything, just gestures for me to follow.
We walk to a discreet door made of heavy oak with an old brass handle that gleams like it’s been polished every week for a hundred years.
God, even the garage is elegant and stately.
Damien opens the door for me, and I step ahead of him inside.
Immediately, the air changes. It’s warmer, quieter, all the noise of the city left behind.
Damien motions me to follow him and we climb a short flight of steps into a vestibule with black-and-white tile underfoot and crown molding overhead.
It’s beautiful in that way old things are—sophisticated without trying.
A man in a household staff suit steps out to greet us. “Mr. Langley,” he says. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Damien replies. “This is a… friend of mine, Ms. Willow Harper.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Harper,” Nick says formally, before turning his attention back to Damien. “Mrs. Langley is waiting for you in the blue room.”
“The blue room?” Damien raises a dark eyebrow. “What, is she serving tea?”
“Ah, as a matter of fact, yes, sir,” Nick says, somewhat awkwardly.
Damien scowls. “She called me a few minutes ago in tears, but wouldn’t say what was wrong. I thought something had happened to her.”
Nick clears his throat. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, sir, I think Mrs. Langley is simply lonely today.”
“I don’t believe this.” Damien blows out a sigh. I know that sigh. It’s the one he gives when he’s just about at his wits’ end and ready to go full grump. “I had things on my schedule today. Important things.”
“It’s okay,” I interject, forcing him to meet my eyes and focus on me. “This is important too, Damien. Your mom wants to have tea with you. So, let’s have tea.”
Nick gives me a knowing smile, but addresses Damien. “I’ll have Margaret add another place setting to the table for Ms. Harper, then?”
“Yes, fine,” Damien grumbles. He looks at me. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now. ”
He lets out a grunt, then nods and extends his arm to me. “This way.”
With my hand resting in the crook of his elbow, he leads me into the house, through a marble foyer with a grand staircase, and off to the left. We end up in a room with lovely sky-blue silk fabric wallpaper accented with delicate gold-leaf.
Sitting on a dainty blue-and-mahogany settee is a very distinguished woman with pristine raven black hair streaked with gray. She has it up in a neat French twist, something I had never been able to accomplish with my wild hair.
“Damien!” Mrs. Langley smiles. Her eyes fall on me and the arm I have threaded through his. Her smile brightens a thousand percent. “Oh, you must be the Executive Director of Silver Hearts!”
“Yes,” I reply with a smile of my own, though I’m a bit surprised to hear that she knows who I am. “My name is Willow, Mrs. Langley.”
Damien’s mother holds out a hand in greeting. “Please, call me Marianne. I’ve been so hoping to meet you.”
She has? I’m not sure how I manage to hide my shock. I walk over and shake her hand, never more grateful to be wearing manageable flats than I am right now. “I’m very pleased to meet you as well, Marianne.”
“I’m sure Damien has told you nothing about me. Rude little cuss.” She gives a trill of a laugh.
“Mom!” he protests, sounding less like the intimidating billionaire business titan he truly is and more like an ordinary son being mortified by his mother’s irreverent sense of humor.
She gestures for us to sit on the matching settee opposite hers. The table laden with a silver tea service that sits between us is so delicate, I am surprised it doesn’t collapse under the weight of the bone china kettle and tower of petit fours on a matching silver tiered serving tray.
“Please, have some tea. Stella will bring another set of—ah, here she is. Thank you, Stella.” Marianne takes the cup and saucer, and small plate for the petit fours. She pours Damien and me both tea. “It’s so lovely to see you together.”
“Pardon?” he asks, flushing.
Mrs. Langley is still looking at me. “It’s been ages since my son’s brought a girlfriend around to meet me,” she continues, not paying attention to his objection. “And his sister is right. You do make a perfect couple.”
I’m trying hard to keep up with everything that’s being said—and not said—between Damien and his mom, but I have to admit I’m a bit lost. Does Mrs. Langley think I’m his girlfriend? How does his sister know who I am? And how would she know enough to say Damien and I make a perfect couple?
I have all of these questions and more on the tip of my tongue as I glance at Damien in confusion.
“Why did you call me here, Mother? Willow and I had plans?—”
“Which we were happy to put aside to come see you,” I say, noting the sudden falter in his mom’s expression.
I frown at Damien, recalling how Nick told us that Mrs. Langley was feeling lonely.
“We were just going to some stuffy ballroom at The Plaza to make sure it’s right for the Silver Hearts’ charity event. I have no doubt it’ll be perfect.”
Marianne still looks crestfallen. “Oh. I’m sorry I interrupted your day.”
“I’m not.” I wink conspiratorially at her.
She recovers her smile. “I suppose it is rather stuffy at The Plaza. Tea here at the St. Regis is so much better.”
She indicates the room we’re seated in, and for a moment I wonder if she’s making a joke. But then I recognize that she’s serious. She believes we’re at the St. Regis Hotel right now, not a room in her own home. I feel my pulse quicken as I realize the truth of his mother’s situation.
I glance at Damien and the only way I can describe the expression in his eyes is pure horror.
“You should try the pastry chef’s petit fours,” his mother says without missing a beat. She takes my plate and gracefully places three of them on there for me.
“Thank you.” I return her enthusiastic smile, then I take a bite of the delicious little cake. “My goodness, these are incredible.”
Mrs. Langley beams. “I’m so pleased you like them. Damien, you’re not having any?”
He reaches for one of the little pastel squares and bites it in half. “Delicious,” he mutters. I notice his usually steady hand seems a bit shaky as he grabs his delicate teacup and takes a large gulp. He seems reluctant to look at me now. “Unfortunately, we can’t stay long, Mother.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” She pouts as she glances my way again. Leaning toward me, she whispers loudly, “I saw a photo of my son kissing you in the paper.”
Ah yes, the kiss at the Alzheimer’s event. I’ve seen the photo too. For me, it was more than just a snapshot moment. I’ve caught myself staring at the image more times than I’d like to admit. Reliving every magical second of that evening with Damien.
“You shouldn’t be reading gossip columns,” he grumbles.
His mother waves him off with a giggle. “What else does an old woman have to do all day? Anyway, it was nice to see you smiling, Damien. You and your father both work too much all the time. Too serious, you Langley men, I say. ”
I stifle my urge to agree with her, but only because I sense from Damien’s stiffening posture that his father is a sensitive subject. I take a sip of my tea, trying not to rattle the china as I set the delicate cup back on its saucer.
“Where is Carter?” Marianne asks, glancing around the room as if she expects to see him there.
Damien clears his throat. “Dad’s… not here, Mom. Not for a few years now.”
Oh. Now I understand. The truth is there, in Damien’s gentle reply. It’s in the way he reaches over to his mother and tenderly covers her frail hand with his stronger one. Mr. Langley is deceased.
A look of utter heartbreak flashes in Marianne’s eyes, but it fades away, much like the bulk of her memories from what I can tell. She gives a wobbly nod and glances down at her lap.
“Ah, yes. That’s right. I don’t know how I can forget that sometimes.” She looks back up at us with a watery smile. “I suppose I don’t want to remember some things.”
Her look is one I’ve seen far too often in my line of work. I feel helpless in the face of her renewed pain. All I can do is I return her smile, and nod sympathetically. Damien downs the rest of his tea in one swallow, as if he can’t wait to get out of here.
So much about him has become clearer in this moment. I appreciate his willingness to help me and Silver Hearts even more now that I know he has personal experience with brain diseases like dementia and Alzheimer’s, even if his mother’s condition appears to be in the early stages.
It hurts to see someone struggle, and I know this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Fortunately, there is no rigid timeline.
Marianne might have a decade of clarity ahead of her.
Carter might be the only ghost who continues to live on in her mind for now, but there will be more.
Either way, I want Damien to know I understand and I’m here for him—and for his mom too, if he wants me to be.
Mrs. Langley stirs her tea, her spoon clinking musically against the china. "When I saw that photo of you two, I said to myself, 'Now there's a woman who brings out the best in my son.'"
Damien shifts uncomfortably beside me. "Mother?—"