Page 41 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

I trace idle patterns on her back, enjoying the way she occasionally shivers when I hit a sensitive spot. Her skin is impossibly soft, a stark contrast to the diamonds and pearls still at her throat—the only thing she's wearing.

"You're extraordinary," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She makes a small sound, half laugh, half dismissal. "You’re not so bad yourself. I don’t know how I’ll ever keep up with your stamina."

"I'm not talking about the sex," I clarify. "Though that was extraordinary too. I'm talking about you, Willow. Who you are."

She props herself up on one elbow, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and confusion. "Right. Perpetually disorganized, too many rescue animals, can't match my socks most days. Extraordinary is definitely the word."

I frown at her tone. It's not the first time I've noticed this—the way she deflects compliments, turns them into self-deprecating jokes. For someone who radiates such confidence when helping others, she's surprisingly quick to dismiss her own worth.

"Why do you do that?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Dismiss yourself." I tuck a strand of wild red hair behind her ear. "You can acknowledge every senior's value, see worth in the most difficult people, but the moment someone points out how remarkable you are, you make a joke."

She blinks, clearly caught off guard. "I don't?—"

"You do." I keep my voice gentle. "Just now. At the fundraiser when people were praising your work. Even when you talk about Silver Hearts, you always credit everyone else."

Willow shifts slightly, her gaze dropping to where her hand rests on my chest. "I guess I'm just not used to it. The attention."

"Why not?"

A long silence follows, and I wonder if I've pushed too far. Then she sighs, settling back against me. "It's… complicated."

"I've got time," I tell her, wrapping my arm more securely around her.

Another pause, then she slowly exhales. "I grew up poor. Not 'we-can't-afford-name-brands' poor, but 'sometimes-the-electricity-gets-cut-off' poor. "

I remain silent, giving her space to continue.

"My parents tried their best, but there were six of us kids and never enough money.

" She traces abstract shapes on my chest, not looking at me.

"When I was eight, there was a really bad patch.

Dad lost his job, Mom got sick, and they couldn't manage all of us.

So my sister Harper and I were sent to live with our grandparents. "

Something in her voice changes when she mentions her grandparents—a tightness that wasn't there before.

"Were they good to you?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"They had a roof that didn’t leak and plenty of food to feed two extra mouths, which was more than my parents could offer at the time.

" She shrugs, but it's forced. "But they were.

.. strict. Very strict. Everything had to be perfect.

Beds made with hospital corners, floor swept three times a day, dishes washed immediately after use.

One speck of dust was a personal failure. "

I think of Willow's apartment—colorful chaos, pets everywhere, dishes sometimes piled in the sink. The opposite of what she's describing.

"I was the oldest, so I was supposed to set an example," she continues. "Harper was only six, and she cried all the time. She missed our parents, and our grandparents had no patience for that. They'd tell her to stop being so childish." The irony in her voice is bitter. "She was six."

My jaw tightens. "What did you do?"

"I became the distraction. The clown. I'd do something silly when I saw Harper starting to get upset.

Make faces behind our grandmother's back during her lectures.

Create little games to keep Harper busy.

" A hint of a smile touches her lips. "I learned pretty quickly that if I could make my little sister laugh, even when things were awful, it made everything more bearable. "

"That's where it started," I realize, speaking my thoughts aloud. "Your perpetual cheerfulness."

She nods. "It was survival at first. Then it just became... me."

"What about your parents? Did they know how bad it was?"

"God, no. They were already devastated about sending us away. The last thing they needed was to feel worse. Besides, it's not like we were abused. Just... never quite good enough."

I think of my own privileged childhood—the massive family estate, a staff of servants, every opportunity imaginable. The worst emotional trauma I experienced was when my father missed my rowing competition in prep school.

"How long were you there?"

"Three years." She says it simply, but I mentally calculate what that meant—from eight to eleven, formative years spent feeling inadequate, bearing responsibility not just for herself but for her younger sister.

"What happened when you went back?"

"Things got better. Dad found steady work, Mom recovered.

But they had four other kids to worry about, and Harper and I had learned to take care of ourselves.

" She shifts against me, her fingers still drawing patterns on my skin.

"Honestly, by then I was used to making everyone else happy. It was what I was good at."

"And no one ever noticed that you were taking care of everyone but yourself?" I can't keep the edge from my voice.

Willow looks up, surprised. "It wasn't like that. I liked helping. I still do. It makes me happy."

"But who takes care of you, Willow? "

The question hangs between us. She seems genuinely perplexed by it.

"I take care of myself just fine," she finally says. "Though I guess Abby helps sometimes. And now you, with the dress and the fundraiser and?—"

"I'm not talking about logistics," I interrupt. "I'm talking about who makes sure Willow Harper feels valued. Appreciated. Not for what she does for others, but for who she is."

She stares at me, her expression vulnerable in a way I've never seen before. It hits me then—perhaps no one ever has.

"Your grandparents were wrong," I tell her, cupping her face. "Making yourself small doesn't make others bigger. And taking care of everyone else doesn't mean you deserve any less care yourself."

Her eyes shine suddenly with tears. "You don't need to?—"

"I'm not being noble," I cut in, predicting what she was about to say. "I'm being selfish. I want you to understand how extraordinary you are because it's the truth, and because I get to be with you, and that makes me the luckiest bastard in Manhattan."

A tear spills over, and I catch it with my thumb. "The woman I met who stops traffic for stray kittens, who argues with jerks like me without blinking, who puts together fundraisers that raise nearly a million dollars while solving a dozen crises—she's not just 'fine.' She's incredible."

Willow tries to look away, but I hold her gaze.

"When I first met you, I thought you were disorganized.

Scattered. Maybe a little naive. I was so wrong.

You're not disorganized—you're adaptable.

You're not scattered—you're present wherever you're needed.

And you're anything but naive. You're hopeful despite knowing exactly how difficult the world can be. "

She's fully crying now, silent tears that break my heart and somehow make me fall for her even harder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "I don't usually?—"

"Don't apologize." I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Not for this."

We lie in silence for a while, her head on my chest, my fingers combing through her hair. I can feel the moment when the tension leaves her body, when she allows herself to be held without feeling the need to make me feel better about her tears.

"You know what I thought when I first saw you?" she finally asks, her voice steadier.

"That I was a heartless corporate monster with a schedule stuck up my ass?"

She laughs softly. "That you looked exhausted. And sad. And that you probably needed someone to make you laugh."

"Astute observation."

"I wasn't wrong."

"No, you weren't." I tip her chin up to kiss her properly. "Though I didn't realize how much I needed it until you."

"I thought you were going to let poor Pixie die in the middle of the street that day," she teases.

"I was considering it," I admit. "But then I saw this gorgeous redhead with more compassion than sense standing in traffic, and suddenly I was pulling over."

"More compassion than sense? I saved that kitten's life!"

"By risking your own in the middle of a busy intersection."

She swats my chest. "I had it under control."

"You had nothing under control. Your skirt was about to get caught in your bike chain, your hair was a tornado, and you were trying to balance a kitten while lecturing me about helping."

"Admit it, you were transfixed," she says with suspicious confidence.

"Completely," I agree. "Though I didn't realize it at the time. I thought I was just suffering a minor aneurysm."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. "Here I thought you were just annoyed with me."

"I was definitely annoyed. And hooked.” I shrug, grinning at her. “Mostly annoyed that I was hooked."

This makes her laugh harder, and I marvel at how quickly she can shift from tears to joy. Not because she's hiding her pain, but because she genuinely finds happiness even in difficult moments.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, propping herself up to look at me. "For asking. For listening. For not thinking I'm broken because my grandparents were jerks."

"You're the least broken person I know," I tell her honestly. "Though I may need to track down these grandparents and have a word?—"

"They're both dead," she says. "And that's probably for the best. They weren't evil, Damien. Just products of their own upbringings."

"Still."

"Still," she agrees.

I pull her down for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, filled with promises I'm not ready to voice but feel all the same. When we part, her eyes are heavy-lidded, a combination of our day's exhaustion and the emotional conversation.

"Sleep," I tell her. "We can talk more tomorrow."

"Mmm." She nestles against me, her body fitting perfectly alongside mine. "Good night, Damien. "

"Good night, Willow."

I hold her as her breathing slows, her body growing heavier against mine as sleep claims her. But I remain awake, staring at the ceiling, absorbing everything she's shared.

It explains so much—her ability to find joy in chaos, her endless patience with others, her default to taking care of everyone but herself.

The Willow I met the first day wasn't a random cheerful annoyance; she was a woman who'd learned early that happiness was something you created, not something you waited for.

Looking down at her sleeping form, I'm struck by a certainty so profound it steals my breath: I want to be the man who ensures she never feels scared or lonely or unworthy ever again.

I want to show her that she deserves as much care as she gives.

I want to build a life where she's as cherished as she is cherishing.

I'm in love with her. Completely, irrevocably in love with Willow Harper.

The realization isn't shocking—in some ways, I think I've known since I first saw her with that damn kitten in the middle of the street.

What's terrifying is figuring out how to merge our worlds.

How to make room in my ordered, predictable life for her beautiful chaos.

How to make sure she never feels like she has to be less to fit into my world.

But as I finally drift toward sleep, her warm body curled trustingly against mine, I know one thing for certain: I'll figure it out. Because a life without Willow Harper isn't a life I want anymore.