Chapter Eight: Closer

The clinic was a fortress of silence and sterile light, hidden beneath layers of encrypted security and filtered air. No signs. No patients. Just a private elevator that required Damian’s biometric scan and a secondary voice command. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly botanical, cedar, maybe, or vetiver, something Amara now recognized as him.

Niles had driven them in silence, the city a blur behind the tinted windows. Damian hadn’t spoken since the gala. He sat slumped in the back, his breathing shallow, his gloved hands clenched into fists. The hives had begun to fade from his face, but they still pulsed red on his neck, his wrists, the edge of his jaw. His body was healing, but it was fighting.

When the car stopped, Dr. Elias Voss was already waiting.

He stood in full protective gear, hood, face shield, gloves, a full-body suit that made him look like a scientist from a post-apocalyptic world. His blue eyes, sharp and clinical, scanned Damian the moment the door opened.

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” Voss said, his voice calm but laced with fury. “You know better than to go to a public event. Especially one with cameras.”

Damian didn’t answer. He let Voss guide him down the sterile hallway, his steps slow, unsteady.

Amara followed.

Voss turned. “You can’t be in the treatment room.”

“I’m not leaving him,” she said, her voice firm. “Not now.”

Voss hesitated. Then nodded. “Stay by the door. No contact unless I say so.”

She obeyed, but her eyes never left Damian.

They entered VIP Room 7, a space that looked more like a hybrid of a luxury suite and an isolation ward. Biometric bed. IV lines prepped. Monitors blinking softly. A private bathroom. A window that looked out onto the city skyline. Everything designed for a man who couldn’t be touched.

Voss rolled up Damian’s sleeve, cleaned the skin with a sterile wipe, and administered a second injection, a modified antihistamine cocktail laced with corticosteroids and a stabilizing agent only Voss had access to.

Within minutes, the swelling in Damian’s throat eased. His breathing slowed. The hives began to recede.

Voss checked his vitals, then turned to him, arms crossed.

“You went to a gala?” he demanded. “Surrounded by hundreds of people? Sweat. Perfume. Airborne skin cells. Cameras, do you have any idea how much static they emit? That alone could trigger a histamine cascade in your condition!”

“I thought we’d be in and out,” Damian said, voice hoarse. “We weren’t staying. I just wanted to walk her in. That’s all.”

“And look where that got you,” Voss snapped. “You’re lucky she got you out when she did. Another ten minutes, and you’d have needed intubation. Another twenty, and you might not have woken up.”

Amara flinched.

“I know,” Damian said quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

“It can’t happen again,” Voss corrected. “You’re not invincible. You’re not cured. You’re in remission, only when she’s near. But even that has limits. Your body is still reacting. It’s just slower. Less severe. But it will break down if you push it.”

He turned to Amara. “You did the right thing. The injection was administered correctly. You kept him calm. That helped.”

She nodded, relief washing over her.

Then Voss looked back at Damian. “You’re staying the night. I’m monitoring you. No arguments.”

Damian opened his mouth to protest.

“I said no arguments,” Voss cut in. “You’re not leaving until I clear you.”

Damian exhaled, defeated.

Voss left with a final warning glance and a soft click of the door.

Silence settled.

Amara walked to the bed.

“You should go home,” Damian said, not looking at her. “Get some rest. You’ve been through enough.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” she said.

“I’m fine. Voss will be in and out. Niles is downstairs.”

“So?” She crossed her arms. “I’m staying.”

He finally looked at her, those storm-gray eyes, tired, vulnerable, stripped of their usual control.

“You don’t have to play hero,” he said.

“I’m not playing anything,” she shot back. “I’m your wife. Whether you like it or not, I’m not running when things get hard.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Then vanished.

She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him.

“Can I ask you something?” she said softly.

“Anything.”

“When did it start?” she asked. “Your condition. When was your first reaction?”

Damian was quiet for a long moment. He looked down at his hands.

“I was sixteen,” he said, his voice low. “My parents died in a car crash. I was at school when they called. Just… a phone call. ‘Your parents are gone.’ No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.”

Her chest tightened.

“I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just shut down. I went home. Sat in their room. Didn’t leave for four years.”

“Four years?” she whispered.

“No school. No friends. No one. I had their life insurance. Trust funds. I ordered everything I needed, food, clothes, books. No reason to talk to anyone.”

“But weren’t you… lonely?” she asked, her voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked at her.

“The first time it happened was four years later. On my twentieth birthday.”

Amara leaned forward, her heart pounding.

“I got a call,” he continued. “From my parents’ lawyer. And a family friend. They told me my uncle, my father’s brother, was trying to sell Blackwell Biotech. The company my parents built from nothing. The one they poured their lives into. Their legacy.”

His voice turned cold.

“I said no. I told them I’d come back. That I’d take control. That I wouldn’t let anyone sell it.”

He paused, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“I hadn’t been outside in four years. I didn’t know how to talk to people. I didn’t know how to be in the world. But I knew one thing: that company was theirs. And I was going to protect it.”

He looked at her.

“I walked into the headquarters that morning. The boardroom. Everyone stared. Some whispered. Others looked at me like I was a ghost. My uncle, Victor, stood at the head of the table. He smiled. Said, ‘Welcome back, Damian. We thought you were dead.’”

Amara’s breath caught.

“I didn’t say much. I just signed the papers. Took my place as CEO. Demoted Victor to a junior advisory role. Told him he’d have no power, no influence. That the company was mine.”

A dark, bitter smile touched his lips.

“He didn’t like that.”

“He tried to kill you,” Amara whispered.

Damian nodded. “He arranged an accident. A gas leak in my office. I was inside during a meeting. The explosion, it was massive. I was thrown across the room. Hit my head on the wall. Fell into a coma.”

“How long?” she asked.

“Sixty-seven days.”

Amara’s hand flew to her mouth.

“When I woke up,” he said, “I was in a hospital. Alone. No family. No friends. Just machines. Tubes. Pain.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And then, a nurse came in. She was kind. Smiled at me. Said, ‘Welcome back, Mr. Blackwell. You’re going to be okay.’”

He paused.

“She reached out to adjust my IV. Her fingers brushed my arm.”

Amara froze.

“The moment she touched me,” Damian said, his voice hollow, “my body exploded.”

“What happened?” she whispered.

“Pain,” he said. “Fire. My skin swelled. Hives covered my arms, my chest, my face. My throat closed. I couldn’t breathe. I started convulsing. The entire ward went into emergency mode. They didn’t know what was happening. They thought it was a stroke. A seizure. An infection.”

He looked at her.

“That’s when Voss came. He was consulting on a rare autoimmune case. He saw me. Recognized the symptoms. Knew it wasn’t an infection. It was my immune system, attacking me. Attacking the foreign proteins from her skin.”

Amara’s eyes filled with tears.

“He saved me,” Damian said. “Injected me with epinephrine. Steroids. Got me stable. Then he ran tests. Blood. Skin. Genetic markers. And he found it, a mutation. A rare, one-in-a-billion condition. My body doesn’t just reject touch. It fights it. Like it’s under attack.”

“And that’s when it started,” she said.

He nodded. “From that day on, I couldn’t be touched. Not even by a doctor. Not even by a nurse. A handshake left my hand swollen for days. A brush of fabric against my skin could trigger a reaction. I had to live in isolation. Full protective gear for staff. Sterile environment. No human contact.”

She reached for his hand, his gloved hand.

“And no one knew,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I buried my file. Made everyone sign NDAs. Voss included. I couldn’t let Victor know. If he found out I was allergic to human touch, if he knew I couldn’t shake a hand, couldn’t hug a client, couldn’t appear in public, he’d use it. Claim I was unstable. Unfit. He’d take everything.”

“And you never got justice,” she said.

Damian shook his head. “No evidence. The gas leak was ruled an accident. Victor played the grieving uncle. No one suspected him.”

“So you built it all yourself,” she said. “From nothing.”

He nodded. “Ten years. I turned my father’s million-dollar company into a billion-dollar empire. All from behind glass. From silence. From solitude.”

She looked at him, really looked.

And for the first time, she didn’t see a billionaire.

She saw a boy who had lost his parents.

A man who had been buried alive.

And a soul who had clawed his way out of the dark, alone.

Her stomach growled, loud, unmistakable.

Damian raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not hungry,” she said quickly.

Her stomach growled again.

He chuckled, low, soft, the first real sound of amusement she’d ever heard from him.

“I didn’t know you could lie that badly,” he said.

She blushed. “Okay, fine. I’m starving. But I’m not leaving to get food.”

“I’m hungry too,” he admitted. “And I’m not letting you suffer in silence.”

He reached for the bedside tablet, tapped a few commands.

“Niles,” he said into the speaker. “Order McDonald’s. Two Big Mac meals. Fries. Shakes. Bring them up.”

There was a pause.

Then Niles’ voice: “Sir, are you sure?”

“Yes, Niles. McDonald’s. Now.”

The line went dead.

Amara laughed. “The billionaire eats McDonald’s?”

“Only when I’m recovering from an allergic reaction and too tired to care about image,” he said dryly. “And only when it’s delivered by someone in a hazmat suit.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him.

“Can I… have a hug?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate.

She moved closer, slowly, carefully, and wrapped her arms around him.

He stiffened at first, old instincts screaming at him to pull away. But then, slowly, he relaxed. His head dipped to her shoulder. His hands, still gloved, rested lightly on her back.

She held him.

Not as a patient. Not as a project.

As a man who had lost everything.

As a man who had been alone for too long.

They stayed like that, longer than necessary. Longer than safe. Longer than wise.

Then, slowly, she pulled back.

But she didn’t let go.

Their faces were close. Too close.

His eyes locked onto hers, gray, deep, endless.

Her breath caught.

His thumb brushed her cheek.

And then, slowly, inevitably, they leaned in.

The world narrowed to the space between their lips.

Closer.

Closer.

Then, a knock.

The door opened.

Niles stood there, holding two McDonald’s bags, a look of profound discomfort on his face.

“Your food, sir. Miss Collins.”

They scrambled apart like teenagers caught sneaking.

Amara wiped her mouth, she hadn’t even kissed him, but her lips tingled anyway.

Damian cleared his throat, adjusting his collar, his cheeks faintly pink beneath the pallor.

“Set it on the table, Niles,” he said, voice rough.

“Of course, sir.” Niles placed the bags down, turned, and left without another word.

Silence.

Amara laughed, nervous, breathless.

Damian didn’t. But his eyes held something new.

Something warm.

Something alive.

Outside, the city pulsed.

Inside, two broken souls sat across from each other, unwrapping greasy burgers, sharing fries, and pretending they hadn’t just almost kissed.

But the truth hung in the air, thick and undeniable.

They were no longer just partners.

No longer just a transaction.

Something else was happening.

And neither of them knew how to stop it.