It was nine in the evening when I walked into my apartment.
Place was a fucking pigsty.
There were clothes all over the place because I usually didn’t even make it to the bedroom because I was too tired. I plopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, and slept in my clothes, drooling all over the pillow.
Dishes had piled up in the sink, so high I couldn’t add a single dish on top without it rolling to the tile. My fridge was empty except for a carton of expired orange juice, a couple bottles of water, and a pack of sliced American cheese, which I snacked on when there was nothing else to eat.
I was too busy taking care of other people to take care of myself.
I catered to the rich and famous, but my life didn’t mirror theirs at all. There were no vases of fresh flowers on the tables, no dry-cleaning hanging in my closet, no clean sheets on my bed, no groceries in the kitchen.
Sometimes I wondered why I bothered to pay rent on this place, considering I was almost never here. Should just sleep in my office and save the cash.
But the hardest thing about coming home was the fact that no one was here.
I was alone.
My job consumed more than forty hours a week of my life, so I didn’t have time for much else.
Time for me.
The thought was so depressing that I skipped dinner and lay back on the couch, kicking off my heels, and pulled the blanket over my body so I could fall asleep right there.
I jolted awake at the sound of the knock on the door.
“Jesus…” I rolled onto the floor, the rug cushioning my fall.
The knock sounded again. “Cleo, open up.” It was Jake.
My squinted eyes looked out the window to see it was barely sunrise. I grabbed my phone off the floor and looked at the time. It was 6:30 a.m. I usually didn’t wake up for another hour before taking the walk to work.
He rang the doorbell a couple times.
“You’re so fucking obnoxious.” I finally got to my feet.
“Then open the door!”
I made it to the front door, my eyes still half closed, and unlocked it. “There. Happy?”
He came in and shut the door behind him, wearing a thick coat over his suit because it was still a freezing cold day for April. “I don’t want to talk in a goddamn elevator. I want us to talk this through—”
“When I have to get ready for work?” I asked incredulously. “You think that’s better?”
He looked me up and down. “Aren’t you ready right now?”
I looked down at myself, seeing the wrinkled top and twisted skirt, and I didn’t need to see my face to know my makeup was a shitshow. “Do I ever look like this at the office?”
He shrugged. “I think you look hot—”
“Jake, just shut up.” I closed my fingers to my thumb, mimicking his talking lips. “We’ve been doing…whatever the hell this is…for months. And you were married that entire time. Do you realize how disgusting that is?” I shivered, physically grossed out by the affair I’d had with someone’s husband.
“She’s never here—”
“You promised to be with her forever, Jake. Doesn’t matter if she’s here or in another country.”
He sighed in irritation, like I would never understand his justification.
He was right—I never would.
“I’m ending things next time she comes back into town—”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m doing it, regardless. Because being with you has made me realize that a real relationship is more important than money. We got married years ago because it was ideal for business reasons. But we signed a hefty prenup, so we can go our separate ways without a problem. I should have done it a long time ago when I started to be unhappy, and I’m sorry I lied about it.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, his apology meaning nothing to me.
“Baby, I really am sorry—”
“Please don’t call me that again.”
He shut his mouth tightly, his nostrils flaring. “I started to have feelings for you, and then I wanted you so much that I didn’t think clearly. I honestly forgot I was married, forgot every time we were together.”
“Do you have any idea what I just risked? I could have lost everything, Jake.”
“I know,” he said gently. “But you didn’t. No one knows—except for the two of us.”
And hopefully it stayed that way.
“Please give me another chance—”
“No.”
He dropped his hands to his sides in defeat.
“You made me an adulterer. You made me the other woman.”
“That’s not fair. You didn’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s not the kind of person I want to be. You should know that better than anyone.”
A slight look of guilt came into his face, like he did understand. “I’m so sorry, Cleo. It all just happened…and then the longer I didn’t tell you, the less I wanted to. And the longer it went on, I thought I would just divorce my wife and you wouldn’t know about it…”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s so stupid, Jake. I don’t understand how you’re a billionaire.”
“Well, they say love makes you stupid…” His green eyes looked into mine with meaning.
I shook my head. “Don’t go there…”
“But I—”
“No.” I took a step back. “I really need to get ready for work, and there’s nothing more to say about this. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We need to move on. You’re the client—and I’m the help. Period.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, showing puppy-dog eyes.
“I mean it, Jake.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not exactly easy.”
“It’ll get easier in time.”
He bowed his head, standing tall in his suit and coat, a handsome man who smelled like sex and money. He was a billionaire like most of my clients, and he was so down-to-earth and handsome that I’d dropped my guard. I’d gone to drop off something one afternoon, and he was there, in just a towel after getting out of the shower. And before I knew it…it happened. It was wrong at the time, which was probably why it was so much fun, and I was a bit reckless because I was in such a bad place in my life. But now it was just a stupid mistake that I hated myself for making. “What if I get divorced and then move out of the building—”
“I’ll never be with a cheater.”
He raised his head, his eyes narrowed in offense. “Come on, it’s not like that—”
“If you were unhappy, you should have left her. The only reason you’re leaving now is because you think you’ve found someone better. The same thing will happen to me when you get tired of me, when I’m working too much, whatever the excuse is.”
He stared at me for a long time, taking a deep breath like it hurt his lungs to breathe. “Man, he really messed you up…”
I continued to maintain my fearless gaze, wide awake at this point. “I’m not going to change my mind, Jake. Leave your wife or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not an option for you.” I walked around him and headed to the door. “Now, please go.”
He didn’t move for a while, his back to me, standing in my apartment with his broad shoulders as their own skyscraper. Then he turned around and walked to me at the door, looking at me with an emotional expression, as if walking away from me was actually hard, as if we may have really had something. He seemed like he might hug me, might kiss me, but he probably knew the attempt would only result in rejection. Wordlessly, he turned and left, his dress shoes tapping against the wood in the hallway.
Then I shut the door on him—for good.
Deacon’s texts were just as demanding as he was in person. Where are my clubs?
I’d just planted my ass in the chair in my office, getting a late start after the circus sideshow with Jake. Sometimes my clients emailed me with errands, but those usually weren’t time sensitive. If they wanted me to pull an instant magic trick, they texted me. And I pulled a rabbit out of my ass. I’m on my way up. I turned to Matt. “Hey, where’s Hamilton’s clubs?”
He’d just returned from another errand, a little red in the face from running around. “Uh, I think they’re in the back. I’ll grab them.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if the bag had a wheel on the bottom so they could be pulled. If not, they would be too heavy for me, and I’d have to pull out our big-ass cart from the back. The phone on the counter rang, and I snatched it quickly. “It’s Cleo.”
Barbara was hysterical over the line. “There’s something wrong with my toilet. The water is running everywhere!”
“It’s probably just clogged—”
“No, it’s filled my entire bathroom and is leaking into the hallway.”
She had a big-ass bathroom, so that was a serious flood. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up. “Matt!” He came back. “Barbara is having a serious tank issue. Grab all your stuff. Let’s go.”
“What about the clubs?” He leaned them against the counter then grabbed all his tools from the cabinet.
“I can’t think about that right now. Let’s go.”
It took nearly two hours to handle Barbara’s toilet problem.
Matt was a contractor who knew a lot about everything, from plumbing to electricity, so he could take care of most problems since they usually weren’t that complicated. When they were complicated, we called in the professionals.
Matt was able to fix the issue, and I cleaned up the enormous mess it had caused.
It took fifteen minutes of scrubbing to get the smell out of my hands.
By the time we were done, I fell into my chair and didn’t want to get up again.
And then I noticed the clubs.
My phone was sitting on the desk where I’d left it, because I didn’t want to expose it to the shit water and accidentally drop it. I didn’t look at it now, knowing Deacon had probably sent me a series of texts that were aggressive and bossy.
Matt had just carried his tools to the cabinet, tired from being bent over on the ground for the last few hours.
So, I grabbed the clubs myself.
Thankfully, there was a wheel on the bottom.
I took it by the handle and rolled it to the elevator and got inside. The clubs had been opened so they were ready to go because I doubted Deacon wanted to return them. They were the best I could find—with an incredible price tag.
I made it to his floor then wheeled the bag down the hallway.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
He must not be home.
I unlocked the door and pulled the clubs inside. His bedroom was probably the best place to store them since he had a huge walk-in closet, so I started to wheel them across the hardwood floor in that direction.
Then I heard him yell—and it made my bones crack.
“Just put him on the goddamn phone!” His voice echoed across the entire penthouse, all 6,000 square feet, powerful enough to shatter all the windows if they weren’t double-paned.
I halted on the spot, wishing I’d never let myself in.
“Valerie!”
Shit, he must be talking to the ex-wife.
I turned around and started to creep back to the front door.
His heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, heading right toward me.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I pulled the clubs too hard, and they toppled to the side, landing on the floor. “No…”
He entered the room, screaming. “I just want to talk to my son! Put him on! Now!” He was shirtless in just his gray sweatpants, his tanned skin tight over layers of muscle. He had an eight-pack that was so tight, he seemed more like a wax figure than a human. The muscles of his arms were flexed like he was a quarterback in the NFL. And his face…was so red. The veins in his forehead popped out, the tint of his skin almost cartoonish. He’d been a dick to me every time we interacted, but it was nothing compared to this.
Now I realized I should be grateful.
“Valerie.” He didn’t seem to notice I was there because he was so absorbed in the conversation, standing in his living room with his entire body shaking with adrenaline. “I just want to talk to my fucking son! Don’t you hang up on me. I sweat to fucking god—” The line must have gone dead because he stopped talking, the phone still pressed to his ear with the light shining. Then the phone turned black. The cords in his arms and neck popped, his stomach tightened even further like he was about to enter a boxing match, and he went so still, he seemed like a statue. But his breathing had gone haywire, deep and rugged, full of explosives that were about to be set off.
Then he threw his phone against the opposite wall, screaming as he did it, shattering the glass that covered the expensive painting he’d bought without thinking twice about it. His hands covered his face, like he was wiping sweat from his forehead after a workout. He slowly dragged his hands down, revealing watery eyes. Then two angry tears dripped down his cheeks.
Fuck, I should not be here.
His hands moved to his hips, and that was when he noticed me.
I was about to die.
I was on my knees next to the fallen bag, looking up at him because I didn’t know what else to do. I was like a deer in the headlights, so terrified that I couldn’t run, not even to save my life.
He stared at me as he continued to breathe hard, his tears gone but his eyes still watery. His powerful chest rose and fell with his rage, like a beast that couldn’t be tamed. The look on his face hadn’t changed, just as aggressive as it had been when he was on the phone, but he didn’t say a word to me.
I had no idea what to do.
Then he abruptly turned and moved to the couch, taking a seat as he rested his elbows against his knees, his body leaning forward, his palms pressed against his face. He sat there as he tried to calm himself down, to process that phone call along with the fact that I was on my knees near the front door.
He eventually moved his joined hands to his lips, staring straight ahead at nothing, his strong body even tighter sitting than it was standing. His brown eyes were dark like shots of espresso, and his five o’clock shadow looked coarse like a bunch of small blades protruding from his face. He blinked a few times but his eyes still remained wet, as if there would never be enough time for him to forget what just happened.
I couldn’t stay there forever, even though I was embarrassed for him, embarrassed that I’d been there to witness such a personal phone call that obviously ripped him to shreds. I should have texted him first. I shouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. I got to my feet as I lifted the bag. Instead of making it more awkward by putting it in his closet, I just left it against the table before I turned to leave.
“I just want my son…” His deep voice was steady and calm, strong like a piece of steel. The emotion on his face was a complete contradiction to that, but he managed to control that part of his body.
I stilled, surprised he didn’t just let me walk out the door. My hands came together in front of me, hanging at my waist. “I didn’t know you had a son…” He didn’t seem like the father type. He was just so cold, devoid of any emotion besides hatred.
“He’s five.” It was the first time he’d actually talked to me. He didn’t snap at me or give me a clipped answer. His eyes weren’t on me, looking at the other wall, but he was still having a conversation with me.
So, I crept to the couch across from him and took a seat, my back straight and rigid with my hands together in my lap. I’d never been so uncomfortable with a client, so unsure how to navigate a conversation, unsure how to help him. He was so difficult for me to read. I was afraid if I pushed it, he would snap at me, but I didn’t want to leave either…when it seemed like he needed someone to talk to. “What’s his name?”
He closed his eyes for a moment as he whispered it. “Derek.”
Now I saw this man in a new way. He was a father who loved his son…and that completely redeemed all his previous behavior. He was heartbroken, bitter, and broken by the loss of the one person he actually did care about.
“We’d only been seeing each other a few weeks when I knocked her up. To this day, I think she did it on purpose, but I stopped caring the second Derek was born. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so who gives a fuck?” He dropped his hands and stared at them as they hung above his knees. “I offered to marry her because I wanted to be a family…to be a father the way mine was to me. But I never loved her. I hated her. Every fucking day. But he kept me going.”
I just listened, my heart aching for him.
“But she was spiteful. When she didn’t get what she wanted from me, she’d cheat on me, which is fucking bullshit because I’d been faithful every fucking day, even though there were times when I didn’t want to be. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left. But then I had to move here for work…and now she won’t let me even fucking talk to him…just to be spiteful.” He covered his face again, starting to breathe hard once more, like he was so mad he couldn’t see straight. After a minute, he lowered his hands again. “I just want my son…he’s everything to me.”
There were two sides to every story—but I already hated this bitch. “I’m so sorry…”
He closed his eyes again and sighed, his nostrils flaring with anger. “I knew this would happen. But I did it anyway.” He dropped his gaze. “I’m a piece-of-shit father—”
“No, you aren’t.”
He lifted his gaze and looked at me, staring at me straight on for the first time.
“Parents don’t need to be together to be a family. You deserve to have both. You deserve to have a wife you love and be a father.”
He sighed quietly and shook his head. “I don’t want to be married again. I didn’t want to be married in the first place.”
“Alright, you deserve to be free of a toxic relationship. And you shouldn’t be penalized for doing the best for yourself. You did nothing wrong. I know it’s hostile right now, but it’ll calm down…”
He shook his head again, as if he didn’t believe me.
“I can get you the best lawyers in this city, Mr. Hamilton—”
“Call me Deacon.”
I faltered for a moment, surprised he was giving me a measure of intimacy after what I just did. “We’ll do this the legal way, get you the custody you deserve.”
“No. If I do it that way, I’ll lose.”
“Why?” I asked. “You’re a successful man who wants a relationship with his son.”
“I’ve got skeletons in my closet. Let’s just leave it at that. If we go to court, I’ll lose.”
“We have to try—”
Now, he snapped. “No.”
I went quiet, knowing I’d overstepped my boundary.
“Now she’s in San Francisco and I’m here…I’ll never see him. After he starts school in the fall, I’ll be lucky to see him a few times in the summer.” He took another deep breath, like he might start to cry, but he didn’t. “We’ll never be close. Valerie will get remarried at some point, and her husband will be his stepfather…and he’ll forget about me.”
A lot of men would like the opportunity to start over, to return to bachelor life with no responsibilities whatsoever. They would leave and never look back.
But not Deacon Hamilton.
“Is there a chance she would move here?”
He shook his head. “Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t, just to get back at me.”
“Get back at you for what?” If he was telling the truth, he had been in a loveless marriage out of commitment, sticking it out even if he didn’t want to be there. She was the one screwing around.
He never answered. “She’ll never move here. She took half my money…and now she took my son. I’d give her everything I had if she would just give me Derek.” He dragged his hands down his face again, so frustrated he couldn’t sit still.
I wanted to give him everything he wanted, just like I did with the rest of my clients. I wanted to wave my wand and pull off a miracle. The reason I was good at my job, becoming the director at such a young age, was because I really cared about the people. Others might be envious and jealous of their rich clients, but I saw them as regular people with problems just like everyone else. They just had different kinds of problems, rich people problems, so they actually suffered greater repercussions for their mistakes. “We’ll figure it out, Deacon.”
He ran his hand over the back of his head and down his neck. “I know you said you can do anything, but you can’t fix this. No one can fix this.”
Maybe. But I was definitely going to try.
I didn’t tell anyone what happened with Deacon, to protect his privacy, even among my coworkers.
Days had passed and I hadn’t interacted with him, but I thought about him often, the depressed single father who didn’t care about money, just his son. It explained his potent bitterness, the reason why he looked pissed off every second of the day. He probably even looked pissed off when he slept.
Now I felt bad for him.
Life had been so unkind to him.
My phone vibrated on the desk, Deacon’s name on the screen.
My heart raced at the sight of his name. I quickly took the call, assuming it was important. “It’s Cleo.”
As if nothing had happened, he barked orders again. “I need you to grab my laptop and deliver it to me at my office.”
I was disappointed he’d reverted to his coldness, but I didn’t indicate that in my tone. “Where’s your office?” I had no idea where he even worked because I tried not to Google my clients, not to view them the way the internet depicted them.
“Hamilton Pharmaceuticals.”
I raised an eyebrow, not expecting him to say that. He seemed like a stuffy suit who just crunched numbers on Wall Street or something. “Where’s your laptop?”
“Nightstand. I thought I put it in my bag last night. Guess not.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll tell my assistant you’re coming. Hand-deliver it to me. Give it to no one else.”
“Alright.” He’d told me that before, and I’d followed through.
He hung up without saying goodbye.
He was a little kinder to me…but only a smidge.
I rose from my chair. “Anna, I have to do something for Hamilton. Could you take care of Jim Scott for me? He’s expecting me to bring him the items he requested.” I pushed the bag toward her.
She grabbed it. “Yeah, I got it. Anything else?”
“No. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. Call me if you want me to pick up anything on the way back.” I took the elevator to his floor, let myself into his penthouse, and moved into his bedroom.
The bed was unmade, a couple ties lying on the edge of the bed as if he couldn’t decide what to wear that morning. His laptop was open on his nightstand, space gray and sleek. When I grabbed it by the edge, my thumb pressed down on a key, so the black screen lit up, showing the last item he’d been working on.
It was porn.
It wasn’t my place to judge, but I was at a moral crossroads. I had no idea what he was going to do with the laptop once he got it, if he would step into a meeting right away, hook up his computer to the sound system, and if he forgot the page was open, he could be humiliated.
So I closed out of it.
Sometimes I had to use my discretion, so I used it.
With New York traffic, it took me forty-five minutes just to reach his building, which was on the other side of the tunnel, outside of Manhattan. We had two company vans we used for deliveries, so I took one of those to make the trip.
It was a six-story gray building, sleek on the outside with a matching sign out front. The parking lot was full of cars and had a security check-in. Deacon must have given my name, because they let me through once I showed my ID.
I parked and carried the stuff inside.
When I glanced at the directory, I realized the place was a research facility.
2A Analytical Chemistry
2B Biochemical Analysis
2C Antibody Research
The list went on and on.
The corporate offices were at the top, where Deacon’s name was located.
Deacon Hamilton, MD. PhD. CEO.
I had no idea he was a doctor.
I took the elevator to the top floor and checked in with his assistant. “Hello, I’m Cleo Thompson. I’m Mr. Hamilton’s personal assistant. He asked me to drop off something.”
She was just as cold as he was, typing something on her computer. I imagined it was a chat box, her text appearing on his monitor in real time, probably because he wasn’t a fan of talking. Then she nodded. “You can go in.”
There were two large solid doors that led to his office, and his assistant’s desk was just outside. There was another desk with a security officer, like his only job was to protect Deacon’s doors, although I didn’t see why he needed protection.
I moved to the double doors and opened one, which was just as heavy as it looked.
Deacon sat behind his desk, wearing a charcoal gray suit with a gray tie, his dark eyes formidable as always. He had a wall of windows behind him, but the other walls were solid, covered with bookshelves and textbooks. He also had his degrees mounted.
Harvard School of Medicine
Deacon Hamilton, MD. PhD.
He had other degrees too, his undergraduate degree completed at Stanford. There were other awards, old articles framed that had his name in the headline.
I tried not to stare, but I was interested in all of his accomplishments. I wasn’t usually intimidated by my clients, but I was definitely a bit intimidated by his brilliant mind. His personality made a little more sense now.
Because he was a genius. An analytical type who only cared about data, who was so cerebral he didn’t know how to socialize with other people.
He didn’t look up from his desk as I approached, continuing to work on his monitor.
I approached the desk and set his computer on the surface, along with the plastic bag. “I know it’s almost lunchtime, so I grabbed you something.”
He pulled his gaze away from the computer and stared at the bag, as if he didn’t know what to make of it. “I didn’t ask you to bring me lunch.”
I pulled out the contents so he could see it. “I know. I just thought it would be a nice surprise.” It was salmon, broccolini, and wild rice. Salmon was the most common protein on his weekly grocery list, so I assumed he would like it. I set the plastic fork on top.
He didn’t say thank you. He turned to his laptop as if nothing had happened.
I tried not to take it personally.
He opened the laptop, and once that happened, his eyes immediately narrowed.
Like he knew something was wrong.
His eyes flicked back to me as he rose to his feet, over six feet of pure man. His looks were deceiving, because he was so handsome, so good-looking, it didn’t seem like he could be the intellectual type. But he had it all, brains and good looks. Well…he didn’t have the social skills. “I told you to bring my computer, not open it.” He kept his voice low and dispassionate, but the anger was obvious in his tone. “What I do in my free time is none of your business. I watch porn like all other men, and I’m not ashamed of that.”
“I didn’t know if you were stepping into a meeting—”
“Don’t look at my computer again.”
I didn’t think less of him for watching porn. I watched porn too. And I actually liked him more for not being ashamed of it, for not being even slightly embarrassed about it. His confidence was in full force. “I apologize.”
He shut his laptop again, a distinctive snap because he closed the top so hard. He lowered himself back into the chair and pulled the lunch toward him, opening the plastic lid so he could get to the food underneath. “You can go.”
“Is there anything else you need—”
“If there were, I would ask for it.” He held his fork as he looked up at me, his dark eyes dismissing me.
“Have a good day, Deacon.” I turned around and left his office.
He didn’t say it back.
When I checked the mail that afternoon, there was a large manila envelope for Deacon Hamilton. There were other envelopes too, bills and a lot of junk. I tossed all the pizza ads and DirecTV coupons and took the elevator to his floor. The envelope looked important, might be related to his divorce, so I wanted to make sure he had it in case he was waiting for it.
I texted him in the elevator. I’m dropping off mail.
There was no message back.
I got to his front door and rang the doorbell.
No way in hell was I going in there unless I knew for sure he wasn’t home.
He texted me. It’s open.
I entered his penthouse, finding him at the dining table with his laptop open, stacks of papers around him along with a black notebook. When I’d first seen him like this when we met a month ago, I assumed it was all just numbers and dollar signs on those papers. But now I wondered if it was his research.
He continued to type on the computer, in the middle of an email, and he didn’t greet me.
I put one pile on the desk but held the manila envelope.
When he was done, he looked at me, a beer on the coaster beside him. There was an expectant look on his face, as if he’d asked me a question that never left his lips.
“This came for you. It looked important, so I didn’t want to wait.” I handed it to him.
He took the envelope, read the sender’s address, and then sighed as he set it aside.
When I glanced at his paperwork, I realized it was, in fact, research. There were graphs of data, patient reports, and nothing to do with profits or payroll. “I had no idea you were a doctor.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, his t-shirt stretched over his muscular shoulders and strong chest. He always wore black or gray. So far, he’d never left the penthouse in anything else. Whenever I was in his closet, I only saw a few splashes of color. “You don’t Google your clients?”
“I try not to.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?” He was talking to me again, having an open dialogue. It’d been almost two weeks since we’d had that deep conversation about his son. He’d turned cold immediately afterward. He was still cold now, but at least not an ice cube.
“I’d like to get to know my clients as people—not their titles.”
All he did was blink.
“The media never portrays them accurately anyway. So, the way I would treat them would be based on public images, gossip, and most of the time, lies. I prefer to give them a clean slate.”
He could stare for long periods of time, hold eye contact like social decorum didn’t exist. Minutes could pass and he would hardly blink, like that level of intimacy with another person didn’t register as inappropriate in his mind.
“What are you working on?” I broke eye contact because I couldn’t take it anymore. I glanced at his paperwork on the table.
“Research and clinical trials.”
“So, you’re a pharmaceutical company that makes drugs and sells them to people?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing slightly as if I hadn’t guessed accurately at all. “No.”
I waited for an elaboration.
There was none.
Now I wondered if his shortness wasn’t rudeness. He just didn’t know how to talk to people. “I’d like to know more about what you do, if you’d care to share it with me.”
His expression didn’t change, so it was unclear if he was annoyed or not. “Most pharmaceutical companies are just spitting out pills that treat one problem but cause a multitude of others. My research is focused on the eradication of diseases, or at least the delay of delivery. Cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, diseases of that nature. I work with patients with advanced cases and attempt to cure hem or, at least, buy them more time. I don’t make pills so men can get hard. I don’t make antidepressants. I want to save lives—not alter them.”
This man really was an enigma. Cold as ice, but with a beating heart. “Wow. That’s amazing.”
He broke eye contact and rejected my compliment. “My father passed away from lung cancer a few years ago. It was ironic, because shortly afterward, I found a way to slow the progression of the disease significantly. If it had happened at a later time, I could have given him another two years.” He shifted his gaze out the window, not showing a drop of emotion, but that story must have cracked his bones.
“I’m sorry…”
He didn’t look back at me. “I invented a drug right out of college that revolutionized the treatment of neurological problems, and I invested the profit from that into my company. That was how Hamilton Pharmaceuticals was founded. I have a location in San Francisco as well as here.”
“You must be a really brilliant man.”
He slowly turned his gaze back to the computer. “So, no, I’m not like other pharmaceutical conglomerates, the ones that raise prices on the sick so they can’t afford their insulin and die on the street. I’m not interested in hooking people on drugs they don’t need and making them sicker than they already were. I’m interested in what actually works, what actually helps people.” He turned his gaze back to me, his gaze ironclad, like a king who had just slammed the tip of his sword into the ground.
I was good at reading people, but I’d totally misread him. “That’s something to be really proud of, Deacon.”
That compliment didn’t seem to mean anything to him either. He dropped his arms and closed the lid of his laptop, the very one I’d brought to him a few days ago.
“When did you know you wanted to be a doctor?”
“Always.” He grabbed his beer and took a drink. “I need to get back to work, Cleo.”
I knew the conversation was over, and if I wanted to know more, I’d have to Google him. “Have a good evening, Deacon.”
I did something I never did.
I Googled my client.
When I typed in Deacon Hamilton into Google, there were thousands of hits, tons of articles about his company and his research.
There was one article at the top with a headline that caught my attention. World-Renowned Researcher Deacon Hamilton Finds Effective Way to Slow Spread of Lung Cancer Without Surgical Intervention.
I clicked on the article and scanned it, but most of it was in language I couldn’t understand. I clicked on other things, finding YouTube videos of him on talk shows, giving speeches at the International Biotechnology Symposium, and a keynote speech he gave at a recent Harvard commencement ceremony.
People called him the most brilliant mind of the twenty-first century.
And he also won a Nobel Prize…at the age of twenty-nine.
I felt guilty for not recognizing his name, for not being more patient with him in our interactions.
Now I really had to help this man.
He was saving humanity.
Saving him was the least I could do.