Trapped In The Billionaire’s Name

CHAPTER 30

Reina's POV

Saturday at Marco's was loud from the moment I walked in.

He'd invited three of his friends from the garage — men I'd known since I was seventeen, who had collectively decided at various points to treat me like a little sister, a medical consultant, and occasionally a referee. They were already occupying the couch and both chairs when I arrived, which meant Damian was walking into a full room and not the quiet lunch I may have implied when I told him what to expect.

He arrived at one. I opened the door and he looked past me into the apartment, assessed the room in approximately two seconds, and said nothing except "hey" to me and walked in.

Marco came out of the kitchen, looked at Damian, looked at me, and said, "You're late."

"I'm two minutes early," Damian said.

"Football started at one."

"It's one oh two."

"Late." Marco handed him a beer and pointed at the floor near the coffee table where a spare cushion had been placed with the deliberate casualness of someone who had thought about it. "Sit. Reina explained the basics?"

"She said you'd explain it."

"Good. She doesn't actually watch, she just thinks she does." Marco sat in his chair. "Reina, food's in the kitchen."

I went to the kitchen. I could hear Marco beginning an explanation of something and Damian asking a question that made Marco's voice sharpen with the particular pleasure of someone with a captive audience. I stood at the counter for a moment and felt the specific warmth of two important things occupying the same space and not colliding.

The guys were fine. Curious in the way of men who didn't ask direct questions but asked adjacent ones — how long had he been running the company, did he know anything about cars, had he watched the game last week? Damian answered everything without performing ease. He was just easy. He had the particular adaptability of someone genuinely interested in other people regardless of context and it showed without being tried.

By halftime, Marco's friend Dante had explained his entire transmission problem to Damian, who had listened with complete attention and asked two questions that made Marco look at him with visible reassessment.

I brought food out. Damian stood to help without being asked. Marco watched that happen with the expression of a man updating his calculations.

I sat on the arm of the couch near Damian's position on the floor cushion. Close enough that when he leaned back slightly his shoulder was at my knee. Neither of us engineered it. It just happened in the natural way things happened between us now.

Marco saw it. Said nothing. Which was loud.

The guys left at four.

The apartment exhaled into quiet. Marco collected bottles and I washed the plates and Damian dried them, which Marco observed from the doorway with an expression I chose not to examine directly.

"So," Marco said.

"So," Damian said.

"You understand the game now?"

"Enough."

"You asked good questions." Marco leaned against the door frame. "Most people pretend they understand so they don't look stupid. You just asked."

"Pretending to understand things is expensive," Damian said. "You end up making decisions based on information you invented."

Marco looked at him for a moment. Then at me. Then back. "That applies to more than football."

"Yes," Damian said. "It does."

I put the last plate away. Marco was quiet in the way that meant he was at the real thing he'd been waiting to say.

"She doesn't ask for help," Marco said. To Damian, directly. "You probably know that. She'll manage everything to the point of collapse before she'll tell you she needs something."

"I know," Damian said.

"What are you going to do about it."

"Show up anyway," Damian said. "Notice before she tells me. Make it easy enough that asking stops feeling like a cost."

Marco looked at him steadily. The full assessment. The real face.

"And if she pushes you away," Marco said. "Because she will. Not because she wants to. Because it's what she does when things get close."

"Then I'll wait," Damian said. "And come back. And not make her feel guilty for the push." He paused. "She's worth the patience. That's not a difficult calculation."

I was looking at the counter. My throat was tightened.

"Okay," Marco said.

"Okay?" Damian said.

"Don't push it." Marco pushed off the door frame. "You want more food?"

We left together at five.

The street was cold, and the afternoon had gone grey. We walked for a half block before either of us spoke.

"He tested you," I said.

"Yes."

"You knew he was going to."

"Yes."

"The thing you said. About waiting and coming back." I looked at him. "Did you mean it?"

He stopped walking. I stopped too. He turned to face me on the pavement with the particular directness he used when something was important.

"I meant every word," he said. "I know who you are. I know how you're built. I'm not walking in expecting a version of you that doesn't exist." He held my gaze. "The version that exists is the one I love. All of it. Including the parts that are difficult."

My chest was full.

"I pushed Marcus away," I said quietly. "Three years ago. When my mother's diagnosis came. I went completely cold and silent and he had to physically show up at my door for two months before I let him back in."

"I know," he said. "He told me."

I stilled. "When?"

"Thursday. He called again." Something in his face was steady and warm. "He wanted me to know so I'd understand it wasn't personal when it happened."

"When," I said. "Not if."

"He said when."

I looked at the pavement. Marco had called him. Had handed him the information he'd need to stay when I made it hard. Had done it without telling me because he knew I would have told him not to.

"He loves you," Damian said quietly. "He's just practical about it."

I looked up. "So are you."

"Yes," he said.

He put his hand out. Not reaching for me — just offering. Palm up. The same patience he always gave me. The same stillness.

I put my hand in his.

We walked.

I understand her now. Better than I ever had.