Page 45 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

I check my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Nothing from Willow. No text saying she'd arrived safely at her parents' place in the Catskills. No missed call. Nothing.

I shouldn't be surprised. Our last conversation ended hours ago with me canceling our weekend plans at the last minute. But I can't help the concern that gnaws at me, wondering if she's made the drive safely.

"Mr. Langley? Are you with us?"

I snap my attention back to the conference room, where Steven Walt, his sister Darlene, and their uncle, Ben, are watching me expectantly. The expansive windows behind them frame Florida's palm trees and blue skies, a jarring contrast to the tense atmosphere inside.

"Of course." I force myself to focus on the schematics spread across the table. "Of course. You were discussing the construction timeline options?"

Alfred Rothchild, seated to my right, shoots me a venomous look.

He's been doing this since we boarded the Langley private jet this morning—sighing dramatically, making snide comments just below his breath, attempting to position himself as the real decision-maker.

The man is insufferable under normal circumstances. Today, he's truly outdoing himself.

"We weren't discussing timeline options," Ben Walt says, his expression cooling. "We were talking about the competing cost analysis for the studio foundation work."

Right. The competitor. The entire reason I'm sitting in Guardian Productions' Florida headquarters instead of driving to the Catskills with Willow. Supposedly, some rival development firm has undercut our bid by fifteen percent, promising faster completion times with the same quality standards.

"I'm aware of their proposal," I say smoothly, as if I hadn't just been mentally elsewhere. "And it's not feasible. No reputable firm can deliver those specifications at that price point without cutting corners."

"Yet they've provided compelling documentation suggesting otherwise," Steven counters, studying me carefully. "Documentation that you've barely glanced at since arriving, despite flying all the way down here on a Saturday."

Alfred leans forward, a shark scenting blood. "What Mr. Langley means is that Langley Enterprises stands by our original assessment. We've factored in all possible efficiencies without compromising quality."

As if I need Alfred fucking Rothchild to translate for me. I level a cold stare at him. "I believe I can speak for myself."

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

Darlene Walt, Guardian's CFO and Steven's sister, clears her throat. "Perhaps we should take a short break. It's been a long morning. "

Perfect. I can check my messages again. Maybe call Willow. Just to make sure she arrived safely, of course.

As everyone rises from their seats, Steven catches my eye. "Damien, would you mind joining me for a moment? I'd like to show you something in my office."

I follow him down a corridor lined with framed posters of Guardian Productions' most successful children's films. His office is surprisingly modest for a CEO of his stature—comfortable but not opulent, with photos of his family prominently displayed.

Steven closes the door behind us. "All right, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.

"You've been checking your phone every five minutes. Your attention is clearly elsewhere." He leans against his desk, arms folded. "Last week, you were laser-focused on this deal. Today, it's as though you'd rather be anywhere but here."

I consider how to respond. The old Damien would deflect, pivot to business, maintain the professional facade at all costs. But something about Steven's direct approach disarms me.

"I had plans this weekend," I find myself saying. "Important plans."

"And we pulled you away from them." Steven nods, understanding. "I'm sorry about that. But this deal represents hundreds of millions of dollars for both our companies. I assumed it would take precedence over any other matters."

"It should," I agree. "That's what I've always believed. Work first. Everything else second."

"And now?"

I hesitate, uncertain how much to reveal. Steven Walt is, first and foremost, a business associate. A client. Yet he's also one of the few people who's seen Willow's effect on me firsthand, when she unexpectedly joined that crucial meeting and completely transformed the dynamic.

"Now I'm not so sure," I admit.

Steven studies me for a long moment. "This is about Ms. Harper, isn't it? The lovely young lady from Silver Hearts."

I nod, surprised by his perceptiveness.

"I figured as much," he says with a small smile. "I saw how you looked at her that day in your office. It was rather obvious you’re smitten with her."

Was it? Had I been that transparent?

"I was supposed to meet her family this weekend," I say, the words feeling strange in my mouth. "In the Catskills. She was expecting me at her apartment this morning when I had to call and cancel."

Steven raises his eyebrows. "Meeting the family? That's significant."

"It would have been the first time I've ever done that," I acknowledge. "With anyone."

"And instead, you're here with us. And Alfred." He grimaces at the mention of Rothchild's name.

"I'm where I should be," I say automatically, the response ingrained from years of prioritizing business above all else. But even to my own ears, the words sound hollow.

Steven's expression softens. "Can I offer some unsolicited advice?"

"At this point, why not?"

"Guardian Productions is, at its core, a family business," he says. "Yes, we've grown beyond that in many ways, but the fundamental values remain. My sister and I make time for what matters. Business is important, but at the end of the day, it's just business. "

I consider his words. "That's not how I was raised. My father taught me that the company always comes first."

"And how did that work out for him?" Steven asks gently. "Was he happy?"

The question catches me off guard. Was my father happy? I'm not sure I ever stopped to consider it. He was successful, respected, feared in some circles. But happy? The word seems foreign when applied to Carter Langley.

"I don't know," I admit.

"What about you, Damien? Are you happy?"

I'm saved from answering by a sharp knock at the door. Alfred enters without waiting for a response, his combover particularly unfortunate in Florida's humidity.

"The rest of us are waiting to resume the meeting ," he announces, glancing suspiciously between Steven and me. "What are you two discussing in here?"

"The future," Steven says cryptically. "Come on, let's get back to it."

As we return to the conference room, I find myself pondering Steven's question.

Am I happy? I've been successful by any objective measure—wealth, power, professional respect.

But happiness? That's something I've only glimpsed recently, in moments with Willow—her laughter, her warmth, the way she sees past my carefully constructed exterior.

And right now, she's gone to the Catskills, probably hurt and disappointed, while I'm in Florida discussing construction timelines and competitor budget projections.

Back in the conference room, the discussion resumes, but I find myself increasingly distracted. When my phone vibrates with a text, I check it immediately, not caring that everyone notices .

It's from Willow: I’m at my folks’ place. Currently being swarmed by nieces and nephews. Hope your meeting goes well.

No x's or o's. No heart emoji. Just a polite, distant message.

"Something urgent, Mr. Langley?" Alfred asks, his tone dripping with disdain.

I look up to find all eyes on me. "Actually, yes."

Alfred smirks. "Well, perhaps you could share with the group if it pertains to our current discussion."

"It doesn't." I set my phone down. "But it's helped me reach a decision."

Steven leans forward, a knowing look in his eyes. "And what decision is that?"

"I'm in love with Willow Harper."

The words hang in the air, surprising me as much as everyone else in the room. I hadn't planned to say them—hadn't even fully acknowledged the truth of them to myself until this moment. But now that they're out, I recognize their absolute certainty.

Alfred chokes on his water. "Excuse me?"

"I'm in love with her," I repeat, more firmly this time. "And I'm supposed to be meeting her family right now instead of sitting here."

"You can't be serious," Alfred splutters. "We're in the middle of a critical negotiation!"

"I'm perfectly serious," I reply, feeling lighter than I have in days. "I love Willow, and I belong with her right now."

Darlene Walt's mouth twitches into a smile. "Well, this is unexpected. Good for you, Damien."

"I beg your pardon?" Alfred looks around the room, clearly expecting the Walts to be as outraged as he is.

Ben claps his hands together once. "What are you still sitting around here for? You should be on your way to the Catskills."

I stare at the Walts, bewildered by their response. "But what about the competitor's offer? The contract?"

Steven waves dismissively. "Personally, I was never seriously considering it. We just needed to confirm you were the right partner for us. And you have."

"What?" Alfred is practically apoplectic.

"Guardian Productions values people who understand what truly matters," Darlene explains. "We've been watching how you handled the Silver Hearts charity work. It impressed us."

I gape at them. "But this meeting?—"

"Was mostly a formality," Ben finishes for me. "And an opportunity to see how you prioritize. I think I can speak for all of us when I say you’ve aptly demonstrated that."

Alfred's face has turned an alarming shade of red. "This is completely unprofessional! I had important things to do today too!"

"Mr. Rothchild," Steven says, his tone suddenly cooler, "while we appreciate your attendance today, I think we'd prefer to continue this discussion with Mr. Langley alone."

"But I'm a member of the Langley Enterprises board!" Alfred protests.

"And I'm sure that's very impressive elsewhere," Darlene says, standing. "Uncle Ben, would you please show Mr. Rothchild to the waiting area?"

Ben rises, gesturing to the door. "This way, Al."

“It’s Alfred.” He looks to me for support, but finds none. "This is outrageous!"

"No, Alfred," I say calmly. "What's outrageous is that I let you manipulate me for too long into believing I had to choose between my personal life and business success. I’ve put up with your childish interference with the board—my board. That ends today."

As Ben Walt leads a fuming Alfred from the room, Steven turns to me with a smile. "Now, I believe you have a family gathering to attend?"

"I do," I say, already reaching for my phone. "But what about?—"

"The contract is yours, Damien," Darlene assures me. "We'll finalize the details next week."

"But for now," Steven adds, "go get your girl."

I don't need to be told twice. Within minutes, I'm on the phone with my pilot, instructing him to prepare the company jet for immediate departure. Not to New York, but to a regional airport in the Catskills.

As I gather my things, I spot Alfred lingering in the reception area, tapping furiously on his phone. Probably complaining to anyone who will listen about my unprofessional behavior.

"Alfred," I call, unable to resist a parting shot, "you'll need to find your own way back to New York. Call Rhonda. Tell her I said she should book you a commercial flight. In coach."

His head snaps up, horror dawning on his face. "Commercial? Coach! But surely?—"

"Enjoy your weekend." I smile pleasantly while he continues to splutter incoherently. The last thing I see as the elevator doors close is Alfred's fish-like gaping and the Walts' standing behind him, all three of them struggling with barely contained laughter.

For the first time in my life, I've chosen something— someone —over business. And strangely, it feels like the most responsible decision I've ever made.