Trapped In The Billionaire’s Name

Chapter 45

Reina’s POV

The viewing was set for Tuesday evening.

Damian arrived early and waited outside the brownstone with two coffees. He handed one over without comment. The cup was warm through my gloves. We stood on the sidewalk for a minute and looked at the building the way people look at something they already half-own in their heads.

Inside, the agent talked less than most agents. She unlocked doors and stepped back. The garden level smelled like old wood and clean air. The light came in long and even across the floor. Upstairs the rooms opened into each other without urgency. Nothing asked to be filled yet.

We walked the second floor in silence. Damian stopped at the window that faced the street and rested his hand on the sill. I stood a few feet behind him and watched the way his shoulders settled.

“You like it,” I said.

“I do.”

“Enough to keep looking at other places?”

He turned. “No.”

That was all. We finished the tour. Outside he called the agent and told her we wanted the papers drawn up. He said it the same way he said most important things—plain, finished.

We walked back toward the subway. Halfway there he took my hand. Not to claim anything. Just to hold it. His fingers were cold from the air. Mine were not.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said after a few blocks.

“I’m trying to decide if this feels too easy.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. And no. Mostly yes.”

He glanced sideways at me. “We can keep looking.”

“I don’t want to keep looking.”

“Then stop deciding and just let it be easy for once.”

I didn’t answer, but I tightened my fingers around his.

That night I stayed at his place because it was closer and neither of us wanted the extra forty minutes. The apartment was quiet in the way large spaces get when only two people are using them. He made tea. I sat on the counter and watched him. When he handed me the mug our hands stayed together a second longer than necessary.

“You’re thinking,” he said.

“I’m always thinking.”

“About the house.”

“About the house. About what it means that I want it.”

He leaned against the opposite counter. “What does it mean?”

“That I’m not planning an exit anymore.”

The words landed between us and stayed. Damian didn’t smile. He just looked at me the way he had on the street in Cobble Hill—direct, certain, already decided.

“Good,” he said.

“You’re not going to ask me why?”

“I already know why.”

“Do you?”

“You’re tired of living like everything is temporary. So am I.”

I set the mug down carefully. “It’s not just the house.”

“I know.”

“It’s the way you look at the rooms like they’re already ours.”

“They will be.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of you.”

Later we went to bed. Nothing rushed. Clothes folded. Lights off. He pulled me against him and kept one arm across my waist like it belonged there. I listened to his breathing even out and felt the same quiet settle in my chest that had started on the sidewalk.

In the morning he was already awake when I opened my eyes. He was watching me the way Theo looked at Nadia—trying to understand something properly before speaking.

“What,” I said.

“Nothing.” He brushed hair off my forehead. “Just looking.”

“You’ve been looking for a while.”

“I like the way you sleep when you’re not worried about leaving.”

I closed my eyes again and let him.

We spent the rest of the week moving slowly toward the decision. Lawyers. Inspections. A second walk through the garden level at dusk so I could see how the light changed. Damian never pushed. He answered every practical question and left the rest alone.

On the second walk-through he stopped again at the same street-facing window.

“Still sure?” I asked.

“More than before.”

“What changed?”

“You stopped measuring the exits.”

I leaned against the wall beside him. “I still notice them.”

“Noticing isn’t the same as planning to use them.”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

Friday night we ate takeout on the floor of the empty living room because the furniture hadn’t arrived yet. Cartons between us. The windows open to the street noise below. He told me about a board meeting that had gone sideways and how he’d sat through it thinking about the south-facing windows instead of the numbers. I told him about a patient who’d finally started eating again and how the whole ward had celebrated with mediocre cake.

“You looked proud when you said that,” he said.

“I was. It’s rare.”

“You don’t talk about the wins much.”

“They feel fragile. Like if I say them out loud they’ll disappear.”

He reached over and stole a piece of my dumpling. “Say them anyway. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re stealing my food.”

“I’m claiming shared property. Practice for the house.”

I laughed under my breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still here on the floor with me.”

“Apparently.”

When the food was gone he reached across the space and pulled me into his lap. I went easily. His mouth found the side of my neck and stayed there. Not demanding. Just present.

“Reina.”

“Mm.”

“I’m not going to ask you to marry me again. Not yet.”

I tipped my head back against his shoulder. “Okay.”

“But I’m going to keep this place. And I’m going to keep you in it. For as long as you’ll let me.”

I turned enough to see his face. The usual control was there, but underneath it something quieter and more permanent.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

He kissed me then. Slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything because the proof was already living in the rooms around us.

We stayed on the floor until the streetlights came on fully. At some point his phone buzzed against the hardwood. Once then again. He ignored it. The third time he glanced at the screen and his expression changed by a fraction, enough that I felt it in the arm still around me.

He set the phone face down without answering.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing that can’t wait until morning.”

But his hand had gone still against my back, and the quiet between us had shifted. Not broken. Just altered. Like something had stepped into the room that neither of us had invited.