24. Chapter Damian
I have no business in New York except for the auction. So why exactly did I tell her we’re staying a week? Well, I don’t fucking know. She was so excited talking about how much she enjoyed New York, the words just sort of came out. I may or may not want to spend as much time as possible with her outside of work, and this seemed like the perfect excuse. I’ll just tag along on whatever she’s doing, and come up with excuses later. That seemed like a foolproof idea to me at the time, but right now, I’m not too fucking sure.
Arriving at the jet, Aria takes a seat on the opposite side of mine.
“Not daring to take my seat this time around?” I taunt .
She glares at me. “No. Because last time you acted like a deranged animal about it.”
“Sit next to me, come on.” I pat the seat next to mine.
“No, thanks.”
I raise a challenging eyebrow at her. She does the exact same, letting her firecracker self make an appearance. Getting up slowly, I make my intentions obvious. She holds my gaze, unphased, giving me a silent challenge. Little does she know, I love challenges. Especially when they come from her. As I get closer, she bulges her eyes as she realizes I’m not backing down.
“Okay, okay!” She palms my chest, stopping me from grabbing her. “I’ll move. Jesus. You were seriously going to do it again, weren’t you?”
I sit down, shrugging. “You should have waited to find out.”
“You’re deranged,” she murmurs.
I smirk triumphantly. “What’s the plan for when we get to the city?”
Her face brightens as she starts telling me all about her plans and the spots she wants to visit. It’s hard to concentrate on what she’s saying, and I find myself getting lost in her eyes that brim with excitement every time she mentions a certain spot she really wants to visit.
“Are you doing all of this by yourself?” I ask.
“I mean, yeah,” she laughs, “I don’t know anyone in the city.”
I hum without saying a word.
The flight is short, but we arrive a little past midnight, and I’m officially beat. Aria fell asleep quickly after we took off, and now I’ve been trying to wake her for the past ten minutes, and damn, the girl sleeps like a rock.
“Darling,” I whisper. “We’re here. Let’s go.”
I don’t know when or why I started calling her darling. It felt fitting. I can think of a million other nicknames that suit her too.
Sunshine.
My sunshine.
She brings light to my cloudy; dark days. Just like when the sun comes out after a particularly rainy day.
She’s snoring really softly, and a smile escapes me at the cute sound that’s coming out of her. She moves a little, but makes no effort to open her eyes. Deciding she’s probably not going to get up unless I shake her, I opt to swiftly grab her and get her out of the plane myself. Her head is pressed against my chest, and my heart wants to come out at the proximity of us. I walk out of the jet, then gently place her in the car, making sure she’s comfortable, then I get in so they can drive us to the condo.
The rest of the car ride is silent, except for her soft snores and mumbles here and there.
She talks in her sleep, and I’m definitely going to taunt her for it once she wakes up .
As we’re arriving, she opens her eyes softly and yawns. She straightens, looking around confused.
“Wow, you’re awake. Thought you were incapable,” I taunt.
“How did I get here?” she says through a tired yawn.
“Well, I spent ten minutes trying to wake you up, but you sleep like a rock. So I just lifted you in my arms and took you to the car.”
She hides her face with her palms with a groan. “Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was exhausted.”
“I can tell,” I say with a laugh.
We get out of the car and I grab our bags as she looks up, staring at the building. “Damn, this is a tall building,” she points out.
“You live in Chicago, and you’re surprised to see a tall building?” I ask dryly.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.
We walk up the entrance, where the bellman grabs our bags and goes into the elevator with us as he places in the key and marks the ninety-eighth floor.
“We’re staying on the ninety-eighth floor!?” she whispers-shouts.
“Again, Darling, are you even from Chicago?”
“Well, I’m actually not from Chicago. Been living there only four years, right after college.”
Well, that’s interesting. Also makes me realize I don’t know much about her. Not as much as I would like, anyway. I want to know her likes, and dislikes, what makes her laugh, and what makes her sad. I just want to get to know… her . All of her . Her faults and all. I’ll make it my life’s mission until I know every piece of her, not just the surface-level stuff.
As the elevator doors open to the living room of my condo, the bellman places our bags at the entrance and promptly leaves.
This condo was one of my biggest purchases when I started making money. At the time, I was spending more time in New York than anywhere else, so it just made sense. It’s a two-bedroom condo with floor-to-ceiling windows that looks over Central Park and the rest of the busy city lights. It’s mostly decorated in muted colors—black and gray, with a hint of white. I have a few of the early pieces I started collecting around the apartment that gives the place a more scaled and elegant look.
I grab her bags and tilt my head in the direction of the rooms. “Let me take you to your room.”
The guest bedroom is right across from mine, but the room still has privacy with its own walk-in closet and bathroom. She walks into the room, taking her shoes off and sitting on the bed as she undoes her messy bun, letting her curls fall in beautiful waves.
“Oh my God. I could stay here forever,” she says with a satisfying groan as she lays on the bed and spreads her arms, enjoying the comfort .
“It better be comfortable. That mattress costs twenty-five thousand dollars.”
She sits up quickly, gasping. “Damian, that’s outrageous! Are you insane?”
“Not insane. Just had a really expensive interior designer.” I shrug.
She shakes her head with a laugh, getting up and walking around the room, admiring every detail. “Okay, wow. This closet is insane.” She laughs in awe, going into the walk-in closet and admiring it.
I follow after her as I laugh with her and nod in agreement. “Yeah, I’m not even sure why I got this place. I don’t really have people often. Just my mother, and that’s rare. She doesn’t like traveling.”
“She lives in Italy, right? That’s who you were having dinner with that day at the restaurant?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you noticed I was there.”
“I always notice when you’re in a room,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Why?” I ask, surprise lacing my tone. My heart quickens, a million thoughts running through my head.
Does she think about me too?
She has this way of pulling me like a magnet when she’s in a room. Like a bright diamond that demands my attention. A sun that shines brightly.
Do I make her feel the same ?
“You have a very commanding presence. It’s like when you’re in a room people just gravitate toward you. Must be your million-dollar suit,” she teases with a soft laugh.
A feeling of disappointment floods through me. I don’t know what I’d hoped for, but it wasn’t that. I act offended. “Okay, I may have a twenty-thousand-dollar mattress, but the most I’ve spent on a suit is like twelve grand, so you’re incorrect.”
She giggles, murmuring, “Whatever.”
She keeps looking around, and I follow her aimlessly. Her presence is commanding too. I wonder if she knows the effect she has on people—on me . My whole body gravitates toward her when she’s near. I always know, automatically, when she’s in a room. With her bright smile and golden freckles that can captivate anyone, and her red curly hair that cascades in such rocky waves and takes my breath away, every single damn time. With those fiery hazel eyes that I can get lost in for countless hours, and I wouldn’t even mind, because as long as I’m near her, nothing else matters. Having her by my side makes me feel like everything will be alright. She’s become such an important part of my life. Not sure when it happened, or how. It just did.
It’s scary trusting people, because that has never gotten me anywhere. We are made of all those who have built and broken us, and I’m so fucking broken. I never thought someone could filter their way back in and make me feel so many emotions all at once. It’s a euphoric feeling I don’t want to let go of. Somehow, along the way, she’s become more. And I want to keep it that way.
“I shouldn’t have slept on the plane, now I’m wired and hungry,” she whines.
“Well, lucky for you, we’re in the city that never sleeps. What are you in the mood for?” I ask, walking to the kitchen and opening the drawer where I keep the takeout menus.
She follows after me, humming. “I would kill for some dumplings right now. Know of any good spots?”
“I’ve never had dumplings before, actually.”
She takes a step back, her hand flying to her chest in surprise. “Yeah, no. We have to rectify that.”
I take out all the Chinese and Japanese menus I can find and hand them to her. “Here you go.”
She giggles excitedly as she sits down at the island, spreading out the menus in front of her.
My body hums with the need to get closer and touch her unruly beautiful curls, maybe even trace her freckles with my fingertips.
Is this what obsession feels like?
She looks at all the options, and I keep a safe distance between us because if I get any closer, my body will probably get a mind of its own and do things that can scare her off.
She looks up, locking her gaze with mine. “What are you doing over there?” She pats the seat next to her. “Let’s choose together. Maybe some flavors sound interesting to you. Let’s have a feast.”
I ponder for a moment, then I give myself an inner pep talk.
I’m not some horny teenager. I can keep my hands to myself.
Without saying anything, I sit next to her. As she explains what a dumpling is, and how many options or different ways we can eat them, I find myself nodding along, but not really listening, because all I can notice is the way her eyes gleam excitedly when she mentions a type of dumplings she prefers, and the way she scrunches her nose when she mentions the ones she hates. The way she takes a strand of her hair and plays with it as she keeps talking. We agree on ordering from different places, not repeating any flavors, and ordering all the types: steamed, boiled, pan-fried, and deep-fried.
As we wait for the food, we sit on the couch and watch The Greatest Showman , a musical she suggests. I’m not even paying attention to the movie, because my view is so much better. She sings along to every single song and quotes the script before the actors even talk, as if she has seen this movie hundreds of times.
This, right here, is something I could get used to. Come home every day and watch whatever musical or silly movies she wants to watch. Order takeout. Teach her how to cook every Sunday. Just live a happy, normal life .
I quickly shut those thoughts down, because really, who am I to think I deserve something like this? To have a partner to love and spend the rest of my life with?
What makes me think I deserve her?
The food arrives little by little, and we definitely underestimated how much we ordered. We have a total of twenty bags, from twenty different Chinese restaurants, and some Japanese ones as well. We opt to sit on the floor of the living room and open all the bags, but she does it in a very specific and organized way, so we can know which places we liked and didn’t.
“This way, next time you come to New York, you can order from your favorite spot,” she says excitedly as she keeps organizing the takeout containers.
Only if you come with me too.
The comment is at the tip of my tongue. Because I hope that next time she’s here too. She makes everything more fun; better; vivid with color.
We start with her favorite type of dumplings: steamed. Then, we start doing mix and match, so I can explore my horizons, she claims. And we quickly find out that I’m more of a pork kind of guy, not so much chicken or shrimp.
“This one tastes so gingery.” She makes a blech face as she takes a napkin and spits it out.
“I like it. I think I like ginger.” I shrug, savoring the sharp, citrusy taste .
“Don’t get me wrong. I like ginger. I just don’t want it to be the center of attention. Ginger is more like a palette cleanser, like when you eat sushi. You know?”
I nod in understanding. “Alright, What do you rate it?”
She taps her cheek twice with her index finger, pondering. “A three, just because I appreciate how fresh it tastes, so I gotta at least give them that. How ‘bout you?”
“A four.”
She rolls her eyes and groans, dropping her chopsticks on one of the open containers.
I furrow. “What?”
“This is the twelfth dumpling we’ve tried, and you keep giving them the same rating,” she replies with an exasperated breath.
“None of them have been impressive yet.”
“Are you kidding!?” she shrieks as she finds dumpling number six and grabs the paper bag and shoves it in front of my face. “You can’t tell me you didn’t like Mrs. Yeng’s pork dumplings!? They had so much soup and all the flavors just burst in your mouth.”
“Will it make you happy if I give Mrs. Yeng a higher rating?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“It definitely wouldn’t hurt. I thought she deserved better.” She puffs, dropping the bag back where it belongs and crossing her arms. I almost believe she’s genuinely offended.
“I'll give it a six, then,” I relent.
She squints her eyes at me for a moment, before nodding firmly. “Okay, that’ll do for now.”
I can’t possibly eat anymore, but we started this game of rating every dumpling we try, and also, I like the idea of spending time with her, talking about every random thing as we stuff ourselves.
By the twelfth dumpling, she is ready to call it quits, but somehow, she pulls through.
She huffs. “I don’t think I can move. Matter of fact, I’ll just sleep right here.” We’re both sitting on the floor, our heads resting on the couch as we both look up, trying to get over the food coma.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into eating twenty dumplings.” I laugh, struggling to breathe with how stuffed I am.
She hits me on the arm playfully. “You repeated some of them! You ate like thirty.”
“Well, some of them were very good.”
She sits up excitedly. “Ah ha! So you accept that not all of them were the same rating.”
I let out a sigh. “I guess not.”
“And? Go ahead, say it.”
I roll my eyes and confess, “Mrs. Yeng’s was definitely a ten.”
She gets up and starts doing a triumph dance that looks both hilarious and terrifying. “I knew it! Man, you make things so complicated,” she says, sitting back down.
I sit up, locking my gaze on hers. “How so?”
“Like, if you really liked some dumplings more than others, why did you give them all the same rating?” she asks with a confused frown, like she couldn’t fathom the thought of giving the same rating to something so simple.
I’ve quickly come to realize this woman doesn’t play when it comes to dumplings. It’s kind of endearing and cute. “Because what if the next one is better than the previous?” I ask.
“That’s so… pessimistic.”
“I like to say I’m realistic,” I counter.
“No. Because being realistic would mean you can accept that there can be multiple good things, not only one,” she counters back.
I shrug, resting my head back on the couch seat, looking at her. “I’ve learned to keep my expectations at a minimum, keep hopes at bay.”
She places her arm on the couch and rests her chin on the palm of her hand. Her eyes study me intently, like I’m some sort of scientific object she needs to discover and understand. “You are a mystery, Damian Romano,” she murmurs.
“That’s half the charm,” I say barely above whisper with a playful wink.
The truth of the matter is, I always had to keep my expectations at a minimum. The majority of my life I expected so much from people—my father, to be more specific—that I eventually learned to let things go. Until it became part of my routine, and even when it comes to the most mundane things—like dumplings—I’ve kept the same rule. It’s how I’ve built my empire; how I became a self-made billionaire. Because when you stop expecting things from people, you start building your own expectations for what you want, and work harder for it. It’s a motto I’ve lived by, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.
I guess this is the difference between us. She’s a dreamer, I can tell. She sees the best in people, even when she shouldn’t. I wonder why. But if I think about it, this is probably why I’m so attracted to her. Because she sees the world so differently, and in a masochistic way, I like her point of view. Like life is an adventure, and that it’s okay to expect better from people.
That it’s okay to have hope, too.
She yawns as she gets up. “I’m heading to bed. I have a long day tomorrow.”
I nod, yawning. “Good night.”
She nods back and walks to her room. She stops and turns around, her fingers fidgeting nervously. “Listen, I know you must have a million things to do tomorrow, but if you want to come with me, you can. I’m just going to do some touristic things I like doing every time I’m in New York. I’m also going to The Met, thought you’d be interested.” She smiles at me, shyly .
My heart quickens at the thought of spending all day with her. This is what I wanted. So why am I hesitating? If I do this, there’s no coming back. I can control myself to an extent, and spending the whole day with her is certainly risky.
The hesitation must have shown in my eyes because she suddenly stiffens.
Before I can reply, she says, “Forget I said anything. You’re probably busy anyway.”
“No, no,” I interrupt her quickly, anxiety crawling at me at the thought of me missing this amazing opportunity to spend more time with her. “I was just thinking if I had anything pressing for tomorrow. But I don't. So, yeah. That sounds nice.”
Her shoulders drop with relief. “Okay. See you tomorrow then.”
I let out a huge breath as she leaves, letting my shoulders relax as I close my eyes.
Maybe it is okay to have hope, after all.