His reaction to my synesthesia was not what I expected…or anticipated, not with the memory of my father still so clear in my head. Of him walking away. I hadn’t realized until then how much I’d been holding onto my fear of people not understanding me, of them judging me for something I can’t change or control. Something that just makes me…me. But Damian didn’t react the way I feared. He just accepted me without condition or hesitation…the way I wish my father had.
And I think it was in that moment that I truly grasped that not all men are like my father. That Damian isn’t like myfather. Because instead of the frustration and confusion my dad often exhibited when I was a child—not just that he couldn’t understand me, but that he couldn’t even be bothered to try—I saw an unfiltered awe in Damian’s eyes, quiet but genuine. He looked at me like I was something not just wholly unique butspecial. Someone to be cherished. And for the first time since this agreement began, I really allowed myself to believe he wouldn’t ever walk away.
As the days and nights blur together, with each of us immersed in our own dedicated corner of the project, it becomes clear that the hard part isn’t the math; it’s the constant hunt for the right data to back it all up. Fortunately, a lot of information is accessible online—industry pricing and sales data, studies and surveys on patient affordability and existing patient assistance programs, copay and deductible trends, as well as insurance denial claim rates specifically related to the drugs Hallazgo produces. We even scour crowdfunding sites like GoFundMe for real-world examples of people struggling with healthcare costs, which fuels our motivation when we see just how widespread the problem really is in our country.
But despite what we’re able to find, what wedon’thave is access to Hallazgo’s financial department or internal data—not until Damian actually starts his employment there, which is still several months away, assuming it happens at all—so the best we can do is construct a theoretical framework of what the program might look like using what information we can glean from those publicly available reports, financial disclosures, census data, and studies, as well as the insider information Damian is able to persuade out of industry professionals who agree to meet with him because of his name.
And alotof people agree to meet with him, eager for the chance at a partnership with the industry-leading Hallazgo brand, which has traditionally focused on high-margin specialtydrugs and exclusive insurance agreements over exploring its corporate social responsibility, showing us plenty of untapped potential is out there if the company were to branch out. When Damian first asked me to help him with the proposal, I underestimated just how much he had already planned and considered. For someone who’s made a habit of only coasting when it comes to his schoolwork, I’m taken aback by how clever he is, and beyond impressed when it becomes clear he knows a lot more about this industry than I had expected. He wasn’t joking when he said he had ideas for ways to make the program profitable and appealing to the company’s board of directors, and with every research university department head and hospital executive who shows an interest in what we’re setting out to achieve, the more I believe this can actually work and become something real. Somethinggood.
And each time I glance at Damian while we’re working, those dark eyes set on his laptop screen or on the dozens of medical and economic journals scattered around him, I find I love him a little bit more—not just for what he’s done for me and my mom, but for what he’s attempting to accomplish now. The kind of man he’s aiming to become. More than anything, I love him for taking this risk, for reaching for something. For chasing the dream he holds onto so tightly, even if there’s the risk his father might reject it. What matters is that he’strying, that hecares, which means way more to me than any amount of money.
During these weeks of research, I glimpse a side of Damian I haven’t seen before, and I quickly find that Ambitious Damian is the sexiest version of Damian by far. He’s intelligent and calculating in a way that’s often masked by his sarcasm and general demeanor, and getting this chance to see him—reallyseehim—opens a floodgate inside me that I don’t know how to close.
Some days, I feel like I could go mad with how badly I want him. Other days, I don’t bother resisting. I simply lay downwhatever I’m working on, push his laptop aside, climb into his lap, and show him just how much his drive and determination turn me on.
When we aren’t cooped up in Damian’s dorm, we relocate to the library, or on the days when Gina has work, we come back to my house in-between classes and in the evenings, so I can keep an eye on Mom. Following her collapse last month, she was released from the hospital after twenty-four hours without needing a transfusion or any further complications, but the fear that it could happen again lingers like a bad taste in my mouth; I refuse to take any chances by leaving her alone for too long.
Luckily, Mom doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she even likes Damian despite learning about the bet. I’m sure it helps that I told her about his family drama, so she knows there’s a rebellious aspect to his past behavior. Plus, he’s a perfect gentleman in her presence, the epitome of charm. He’s polite, attentive, and even cooks us dinner most evenings (I hadn’t been aware hecouldcook, although I guess I’m not really surprised after meeting his abuela, who is an absolute mastermind in the kitchen). And I can tell she respects what he’s doing—that she has an emotional stake in what he’s setting out to accomplish with the initiative. I suppose it’s hard to dislike someone who is actively trying to financially help people with chronic and terminal illnesses, especially when one of those people is you. And I know she feels grateful to him for paying her hospital bill, even if she keeps insisting that we need to stop taking his money.
Still, the more time he spends at my house, the more I’m convinced it isn’t anythinghedoes that sways my mom’s mind in his favor so much as her seeing me happy.
And Iamhappy. I’m freaking ecstatic, and it took feeling this elation to realize just hownothappy I was before. I wasn’t unhappy, per say—there were plenty of good and meaningful things in my life—but in a lot of ways, I was just surviving theday to day, like Damian was, treading water with no land in sight. But now, I’ve finally found my way to solid ground, and with every step onto the shore, I’m leaving behind the endless, exhausting pull of the tide.
It’s terrifying, knowing how easily and suddenly life could snatch this away, but in those moments of fear, I remember what Ronnie said to me at the hospital—how I shouldn’t let this second chance slip away just because I’m scared. And in those moments, I cling even tighter.
While I’m thrilled my mom approves of Damian, Gina is another story. She was already firmly in his corner after what happened at the hospital in November, but now, she’s positively smitten—so much so, I’m starting to worry she might do something truly cringeworthy, like start an online fan club. To my horror, Damian is just as obsessed with my aunt. Because of her work schedule, we don’t see her often, but when we do, Damian always cries out, “Where the hell have you been, loca?” and then they immediately begin chattering like two pre-teen girls discussing their latest celebrity crush. They’resoengrossed in each other during these talks that I’m fairly certain I could burst into flame right next to them and they wouldn’t notice. But despite my internal grumblings, I secretly love it—love seeing how welcoming my family has been with him.
In fact, Damian grew on my mom and aunt so quickly that he even scored himself an invite to Thanksgiving, which we celebrated a week late to give my mom a chance to recoup after being in hospital. Ronnie and Andie were there as well, and that evening, surrounded by all the people I care about, my heart felt near to bursting. I even witnessed something that some would dare to call a miracle: Ronnie and Damian not only speaking civilly to each other butlaughing. About something having to do withTwilight, (Damian’s go-to conversation starter) but still. I thought I’d sooner see Hell freeze over than witness thetwo of them getting along, and it made me wonder if there isn’t something to Damian’s vampire obsession after all—if it has some secret magical power that somehow brings people together.
When I said as much to him that night, he barked out a laugh and pulled me into a crushing hug, chuckling into my hair.
“It isn’tTwilight,” he murmured before kissing the top of my head. “It’s you.”
Those two words have stuck with me since, and I see them echoed in every glance Damian’s thrown my way these last few weeks, in every smile he flashes. Ifeelit in the way he holds my hand now as I try not to squirm under the intrigued gazes of the people around us, bedecked in sharp suits and dresses, each of them assessing the unfamiliar blonde on the arm of the Navarro heir. We don’t go on many public dates anymore—not because we’re hiding, but because we don’t need to. Now that this thing between us has become something real, there’s nothing to prove.
Still, stepping into his world like this, surrounded by people who recognize him but not me, reminds me of how different our lives really are. The atrium of the Hallazgo conference building is breathtaking—a towering space of glass and steel, with polished marble floors reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers overhead and the moonlight filtering in through the vaulted skylight. The gentle notes of a string quartet curl around us and intermingle with the surrounding conversations like smoke, and a massive Christmas tree stands near the entrance, its twinkling lights casting shifting patterns across the floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal the snow-dusted paths and manicured gardens outside. Even the air smells expensive, tinged with champagne, pine, and whatever cologne the men in their tailored suits are wearing. I’ve done a lot out of my comfort zone these last few months, but attending the Hallazgo Christmas party might just take the cake.
“You look beautiful,” Damian murmurs, lifting my hand and kissing my knuckles when he notices me fidgeting for the umpteenth time this evening. I have my contacts in, so I can’t reach for my glasses, and my fingers are restless without something to grab at. “I’m so glad I picked out that dress. It fits you like a glove.”
I glance down at the dress in question, the ruched red mini with the long sleeves and high collar—the neck further accentuated by my hair, which is swept into an elegant updo—that Damian bought for me at that designer boutique near Warwick. That day he took me shopping feels like a lifetime ago, and it’s crazy to look at where we started when this agreement first began and where we’ve ended up. It’s crazy to look at this gorgeous man beside me and know that he’s mine. Damian is impeccably dressed himself, his black suit cut to perfection, the dark silk of his red tie catching the dim light overhead. The overall effect is effortless, polished, and completely unfair, especially with the way his sharp jaw and messy waves make him look both put together and roguishly disheveled at the same time.
He looks me up and down with a feral grin, then leans in close to whisper in my ear, “I can’t wait to peel it off you later.”
I flush at his purred words, which only make me squirm more. When Damian suggested I wear this dress tonight, I hadn’t been sure about it. It’s modest at the top, but it shows alotof leg, and I was worried I would stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of cocktail dresses and chic floor-length evening wear. But I’ve spotted enough other short dresses this evening to not feel too out of place, and I can’t deny that I like the way Damian looks at me when I’m wearing it.
Honestly, I think I could have worn an old potato sack, and people would still look at me the way they’re staring at me now—with that same sense of curious examination. And theyarecurious; they want to know how a girl who came from nothing, armed with only a high IQ, managed to tame the unruly Damian Navarro.
“Damian,” a gruff male voice calls, and our gazes turn in sync to lock onto one of those very people sauntering toward us. The man who approaches is older—mid to late fifties if I had to hazard a guess—with neatly styled hair and a close-cropped beard that are both more salt than pepper. When he’s an arm’s length away, he holds out his hand. “I didn’t think we’d see you this evening, but I’m pleased to find I was wrong.”
Though Damian offers the older man a polite smile and graciously takes his hand, he stiffens—just a little. Just enough that only I seem to notice. “Mr. Cunningham. Merry Christmas.”
Mr. Cunningham—a Hallazgo board member, I presume—glances between us, his gaze catching on mine. “Merry Christmas to you both. And this is…?”
Damian’s hand loops around me, settling on my hip with a silent possessiveness that’s surprisingly exhilarating andhot. This man isn’t a threat to me—I can tell as much by his kind hazel eyes—or to the place Damian has in my heart. And Damian isn’t the kind of guy who gets easily provoked, despite that one instance last month when I suspect he might have punched someone in the face (fingers crossed, it was Mason). But that isn’t what this is about. His arm around my waist isn’t a show of ownership or jealousy; it’s a quiet reassurance, a reminder that we are solid. That no one’s scrutiny—not the board’s, not the public’s, not even his parents’—can shake us or what we have.
“Alexandria Dornan,” I say with an easy smile, shaking Mr. Cunningham’s proffered hand.
“Ah. The genius, I presume?” he asks, the fascination clear in his eyes. Someone has been reading the tabloids, it seems.
