Chapter Three - The Doctor, The first Dinner
780 Words
By the time Arielle Brooks walked into the fertility clinic again, she had learned two important things about billionaire life.
One: Marble floors were always freezing.
Two: Damian Cross never walked anywhere—he arrived.
He stood beside her now, hands in his pockets, posture so straight it looked like he'd been built in a laboratory for intimidating purposes.
Dr. Simone Patel greeted them with a warm smile that felt like a blanket in a snowstorm.
"Good morning, Ari. Mr. Cross. Ready to begin?"
Ari swallowed.
"As ready as I'll ever be," she said.
Damian nodded once. Like a king approving construction.
The exam room was soft-lit, calm, and surprisingly normal. Ari sat on the bed while Dr. Patel prepared equipment. Damian remained by the wall, silent, present, unreadable.
Dr. Patel spoke gently through every step. Explained each medication, each timeline, each expectation. She treated Ari like a person, not a contract.
And Ari appreciated that more than she could say.
When Dr. Patel stepped out to retrieve paperwork, Ari let out a breath.
"Well," she said lightly, "this is officially the weirdest job interview I've ever had."
Damian's eyes flickered.
"You're doing well," he said.
Ari blinked.
Praise. From Damian Cross. It was like sighting a rare bird.
"Thank you," she replied.
Then she decided to push.
"Do you ever get nervous, Mr. Cross?"
Damian studied her.
"No," he said.
"Not even now?"
"No."
Ari leaned back on her elbows.
"That's impressive. Or concerning. I haven't decided yet."
For the first time, a corner of Damian's mouth tilted upward.
Not a smile.
But a crack in the ice.
Later, as they rode the elevator down, Ari felt the weight of what had started today. The reality of it settled in her chest.
She glanced sideways at him.
"Mr. Cross?"
"Yes."
"If at any point this becomes too much... emotionally, medically, anything... I need to know I can say so."
Damian looked straight ahead.
"If something becomes unacceptable, you will tell me. And we will adjust."
It wasn't warm.
But it was fair.
And Ari decided she could work with fair.
That night, in her penthouse bedroom, Ari texted her mother.
Mama: How's New York treating you, baby?
Ari stared at the ceiling.
Ari: I think I just agreed to grow a billionaire.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Mama: Lord help us all.
Ari laughed out loud.
For the first time since arriving, she felt brave.
And terrified.
***
Arielle Brooks learned a third important truth about living with Damian Cross:
The man did not eat.
At least, not like normal humans did.
By seven p.m., Ari was starving. She had spent the day filling out medical forms, exploring rooms she didn't need, and trying not to feel like a very polite hostage in a very expensive cage.
She headed to the kitchen, pulled out a skillet, and began to cook.
Fifteen minutes later, the scent of garlic, butter, and sizzling chicken filled the penthouse.
Damian appeared.
He always did.
He leaned against the kitchen island, watching her like she was an unfamiliar but intriguing business report.
"You're cooking again," he said.
Ari flipped the chicken.
"I enjoy eating," she replied. "It's a Southern tradition."
Lucas entered two seconds later, sniffing dramatically.
"If this is a trap to lure me into friendship, it's working."
Ari laughed.
Damian sighed like a man surrounded by children.
They sat at the massive dining table that could comfortably seat twelve uncomfortable billionaires.
Ari served plates.
Damian looked at his food.
It looked back at him.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Then took another bite.
Ari smiled.
"See? Real food won't kill you."
"It's good," he admitted.
Lucas clutched his heart.
"Did... did he just compliment seasoning? Should we call the press?"
Damian ignored him.
But he didn't stop eating.
Halfway through dinner, Ari realized something else.
Damian listened.
When she talked about Savannah, he listened.
When she talked about her brother's astronomy obsession, he listened.
When she teased Lucas about his inability to cook toast, he listened.
He didn't offer much in return.
But he listened.
And somehow, that felt like something.
Later, as they cleared plates, Damian said, "You should join me for dinner each evening."
Ari paused.
"That's a rule or an invitation?"
Damian met her gaze.
"An arrangement."
Ari smiled.
"Well, Mr. Cross... I accept."
And for the first time, the penthouse dining table did not feel like a boardroom.
That night, Damian sat at his piano.
He played quietly, thinking of a girl with a Southern accent who cooked real food in his pristine kitchen.
This arrangement was supposed to be simple.
He suspected it would not be.
- Writer
