Page 22 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

"No, let me finish," she says, holding up one elegant hand.

"I've seen you with other women, Damien.

Society girls, models, that dreadful banking heiress.

" She wrinkles her nose. "But in that photo with Willow, you looked.

.. happy. Genuinely happy." She turns to me with a conspiratorial smile.

"He never looks that way in photographs.

Usually, he scowls like someone's trying to steal his wallet. "

Despite the heaviness of the moment, I can't help but laugh. "He does have a rather impressive scowl."

"It's his father's scowl," Marianne says fondly. "Carter could stop a board meeting cold with that look."

Damien's jaw tightens at the mention of his father again, but there's something tender in his expression too.

"Yes, well," he says, clearing his throat. "The important thing is, the event was a success. We raised over two million dollars for Alzheimer’s research."

"Research is so important," his mother agrees, nodding solemnly. "You never know who might need those breakthroughs someday."

The irony of her statement hangs in the air between us. I wonder if she has moments of clarity where she understands what's happening to her.

Before I can stop myself, I reach over to Damien and squeeze the hand that rests so tensely on his thigh beneath the table.

Instead of pulling away, he turns his hand over and laces his fingers between mine.

We sit like that, hands joined, as Marianne talks about holiday traditions that haven't happened in years, about a husband who no longer exists except in her fading memories.

She tells us about Valentine's parties and Easter egg hunts for charity, about summer galas in the Hamptons. I listen, nodding and smiling, asking gentle questions when appropriate. Beside me, Damien gradually relaxes, though he never lets go of my hand.

Finally, after what must be twenty minutes of these stories, Marianne pauses to sip her tea, her gaze going a bit vacant. She’s all talked out, and the tea must be cold by now.

"I'm afraid Willow and I really should be going, Mother," Damien says gently.

"Oh yes, of course." She looks momentarily confused, then brightens. "You don’t want to be late for the Alzheimer's benefit tonight. Will you come visit again soon, Willow?"

"I hope so," I reply, and I mean it with all my heart. Damien’s mother is a delight, and I hope he’ll take the time to be with her as much as possible before her condition worsens.

She rises gracefully to see us out, and I'm struck by how regal she remains despite everything. At the doorway to the blue room, she steps forward and draws me into a warm embrace.

"He's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you," she whispers into my ear. "Not even that dreadful banking heiress."

I blush, not daring to glance at Damien. "It was wonderful to meet you, Marianne."

"You as well, dear." She turns to her son. "Your father will be so disappointed to have missed you today. Please, come home again soon."

He nods. "I'll call you tomorrow," he promises, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

We make our way back through the elegant house, down to the underground garage. Neither of us speaks until we're in the car, the engine humming quietly around us.

Damien stares straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel though we haven't moved.

"I should have warned you," he says finally, his voice tight. "About my mother. About her... condition. I should have explained before bringing you here. It wasn't fair to put you in that awkward position."

I turn to face him. "Damien, look at me."

He does, reluctantly, his blue eyes guarded.

"There was nothing awkward about meeting your mother. She's lovely."

"She's losing her mind," he says bluntly. "She doesn't remember that my father died five years ago. She gets confused about where she is, who people are. Some days are better than others, but..." He exhales sharply. "I hate seeing her like this."

"I understand," I say softly. "And I'm glad you brought me today. I'm glad I got to meet her."

He searches my face, as if looking for pity or discomfort. "Most people don't know how to act around her when she gets confused. They get uncomfortable, try to correct her. It just upsets her more."

"I work with seniors every day, Damien. I've seen dementia before." I reach over and take his hand again. "What I haven't seen is someone care for their parent the way you obviously care for your mom. That speaks volumes about the kind of man you are."

Something shifts in his expression—a vulnerability I've never seen before.

"Most of the time I feel like I'm failing her," he admits. "I should visit more, but it's..." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Hard," I finish for him. "It's hard to watch someone you love slip away. It’s hard to be forgotten by someone who's known you your whole life."

He nods, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Yes."

"You're not failing her," I tell him firmly. "And you're not alone in this, Damien. Not if you don't want to be."

For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I feel something profound pass between us—an understanding deeper than words, more significant than our night together, when the only thing between us was naked skin. In this moment, we see each other clearly, without pretense or defense.

Then he clears his throat and turns the key in the ignition. "We should get to The Plaza."

"Yes," I agree, settling back in my seat. "We should."

But as we pull out of the garage and back onto the street, his hand finds mine again across the console. And neither of us lets go for a long time.