The Billionaire's Cure

Chapter 1: Derrick's POV The whiskey burns my throat but it's a taste I welcome, because these days I'm ready to do anything to feel something other than the hollow ache in my chest. Eager, even. The Krusty Nail is a dive. I bought this place two weeks ago, I haven't had time to renovate but it's already serving it's purpose. A perfect bar to spend the evening, no board members, no reporters. Just me, a hidden bottle of Macallan, and the glorious silence of solitude. Robin argued. He always has something to say. "Sir, this is a security nightmare." "I need some air." He relented, but I know he's outside watching for anything that'll strain my already damaged reputation. The bar is half-full, with couples and drinks. My life tastes like this whiskey. Three years ago, on a rain-slicked highway. I lost the only woman who meant the world to me. "Don't let go," she whispered. I held on, but she slipped through my fingers anyway. And that's when my sickness started. Touch became poison, touch from a woman even more so. A woman's hand on my arm at a charity gala made me throw up for twenty minutes. A reporter who grabbed my wrist for an interview induced a panic attack so severe Robin almost called an ambulance. Doctors called it psychosomatic, a Trauma-induced aversion. I called it hell. I've tried everything. Hypnotherapy, medication, a shaman in Siam who burned sage and chanted for so long I thought my ears would bleed. Specialists who charged ten thousand dollars an hour to tell me to process my grief. Nothing worked. Every touch feels like fire, like Katherine's blood on my hands. I don't shake hands, I don't hug and I certainly don't let anyone close enough to try. Easier to be alone. I drain the whiskey from my glass and signal for another. That's when I hear it. "Get your hands off me!" I turn. Three men, one waitress. They cornered her against the wall near the service entrance, one of them has her by the wrist. Her fingers are turning white. She's struggling, she's trying to fight him but he's twice her size. The bartender is moving, but he's old and slow. Why on earth was he working at a bar this age? Before I know it, I'm on my feet. "Hey." My voice cuts through the noise like a blade. "Let the woman go." The man turns, he's big with tattoos crawling up his neck. His eyes red with rage and cheap beer. "Mind your own business, pretty boy." I step closer. "Let. Her. Go." He laughs. A wet, ugly sound. "Or what?" Behind me, someone shouts for 911. The waitress looks at me, she's beautiful. Even with her face flushed with terror. Hair escaping her ponytail in wild strands, her uniform stained with spilled wine. Her lip is split, there's blood trailing down her chin. She's beautiful. Eyes the color of sea lock onto mine. Something shifts in my chest. "Let her go, walk away, and I'll forget this happened." I want to scream, what kind of lousy bar is this? Then I remembered, I own the place. His eyes flicker, he's sizing me up. That's right, take a hard look! Tailored suit, expensive shoes, manicured hands. A rich boy playing tough or, a tough rich boy. He doesn't see the eight years of Muay Thai. He doesn't see the rage coiled in my chest like a snake. "You're dead," He snarls, releasing the waitress and lunging for me. I move on instinct. Three men, fifteen seconds. Two on the floor, groaning and the third sliding down the wall, dazed. I'm not even breathing hard. The bar has gone silent. Every patron is staring at me, the quiet businessman who just dismantled three much larger men like they were paper dolls. The waitress is staring too. "Are you okay?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. She nods, then she steps toward me. No. Don't come closer. "Thank you," she breathes. Her hand reaches out, toward my arm, toward my chest. I step back. Automatic, reflex action as my body moves before my brain can catch up, creating distance between us. Hurt flickers across her features. "Are you.." I start, but the words die in my throat. I want to explain. I want to tell her it's not her fault, that every cell in my body is screaming at me to reach out and touch her, to comfort her, to hold her, and that same body is recoiling in terror at the thought. I want to say all of that. But I can't, so I do the only thing I can. I reach into my pocket and pull out a card. White, thick, embossed with silver letters. DERRICK ASHFORD ASHFORD INDUSTRIES CEO I press it into her uninjured hand. "If you need anything," I say. "Medical care, Legal representation, Just call." Then I turn and walk away. I make it to the door before I hear the sirens. Robin is already there, his broad frame filling the entrance, his eyes scanning the room for threats. "Sir, are you—" "Get me out of here." My voice is shaking, my hands are shaking. "Now." He doesn't ask questions. He never does. The drive back to the penthouse is silent, I sit in the back of the SUV, staring at my hands, watching them tremble in my lap. I touched her. When I pulled the man off her, my arm brushed against her shoulder, barely a second of contact. Barely a whisper of skin against skin. And I didn't flinch. I wanted to stay, to protect her. Mine. The word comes out of nowhere, but it feels right. I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Robin." "Yes, sir?" "Find out who she is. The waitress." "Understood, and then?" It was rare for Robin to ask questions, so I oblige. "Then I'm going to make her an offer she can't refuse."