You are late; the client is already waiting," Nina chided as I walked through the door, panting from the very light 'jog' I had to do to escape the traffic.
"How do I look?" I asked, and she gave me a look.
"Are you okay? Get in there; he has been waiting in your office for quite some time," she said, and I steadied my breath, smoothing a hand over my sleek bun.
The man paid two hundred million dollars to my foundation; I can't come in there looking like my problems.
I breathed in once, twice before I twisted the handle. His back was turned, and he was looking out the window, his hands folded around his body. I couldn't see his face, but he was clearly pissed.
"I am so sorry; this is the first impression you have of me coming here. The traffic was crazy," I said, dropping my files onto my table.
"I was hoping your work ethic and professionalism were better than your attitude, Miss Backlay," the familiarity of the voice hitting me.
Damien!
He was the anonymous donor?
I cleared my throat, composing myself again and finding my voice.
"Well, you are smoking a cigar in my office; that doesn't exactly exude work ethic, now does it, Mr...? " I half-joked, stretching out for a handshake.
"Mr. Damien Castillo," he said, slight amusement dancing in his eyes as he took my hands in his cold palms, touching the surface of my palm. The handshake was firm.
He took a huge puff of his cigar, eyeing me as he did so, then went ahead to take a seat, my face stately clearly hiding my disgust. I hate those things.
"I am donating my money to your foundation, aren't I? I can smoke anywhere I damn well please," he said, flashing me a smile.
"That's not a problem, Mr. Castillo," I said.
"In that case, please take a seat, Miss Backlay; we have business to discuss, don't we?" Damien said, dropping his cigar into an ashtray on my table.
"Of course, let's get into it," I said. I could feel his gaze on me as I opened the tablet, clicking open some files.
"You donated to the Miller case, right?" I asked.
"You have the records, don't you? Check there," he replied, leaning back in the chair.
I tried my best not to glare. It's two hundred million dollars for this case; think about the money, I told myself.
"It's customary to ask," I said through my forced smile.
"Plus, no one has wanted anything to do with this case for years now. They all think it's a dead-end case, and then you show up with two hundred million dollars ready to risk it all for a flimsy case; it's a little weird, no?" I asked.
"Let's just say I am a very wealthy man looking for where to blow off my billions," he said with a shrug.
"I need to know what you want in return—your endgame. It's lives we're dealing with—lives of women and children. I am not willing to stake that for ego," I said pointedly, and he still had that amused expression on his face that was beginning to tick me off.
"Do you think I have an ego?" Damien said, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
"We all have egos, Mr. Castillo; hence the reason for my question. What are you trying to get from getting involved with this?" I asked.
That's how my meetings with my clients went—they donated, and I gave something in return: "connections, power, publicity"; you name it. Rich people didn't give without wanting something in return; coercion could only take you so far sometimes.
"Do you interrogate all your clients like this, Miss Backlay?" he asked.
"Any client donating money, yes," I answered, and he nodded in understanding.
"In that case, let's just say I love helping people. I just have a huge heart and a lot of money; I can't stop myself," he said with a shrug, clearly not taking me seriously.
"That's not a good enough reason," I said, my frustration seeping through my voice before I hid it.
"Look, Miss Backlay, you own a charity foundation; I have money I want to help with—that's enough," Damien said, his eyes daring me to challenge him.
Two hundred million dollars is a lot of money, and I really want the case solved, damn it. I scribbled down his reasons into my notepad, moving on to the next.
"Anything else you would like us to know about?" I asked, and for the first time in this interaction, he actually seemed interested.
"I would like full participation in everything—every little decision-making, any changes at all; I want to know them all before and after they are carried out," he said. "I want the case started as soon as possible."
I frowned slightly, surprised by this; his desire for participation was surprising.
"Is there a problem, Miss Backlay?" Damien asked.
"No, there's none; it's just that none of our clients have requested this before," I said.
"Like I said, huge heart," Damien said, skimming his fingers through the files on my table. "That wouldn't be a problem, right?" he asked.
"No, of course not," I said, writing more into my notepad.
"One more thing," he said, still skimming his fingers through my files. "I would like no publicity about my involvement in this case; I want total confidentiality." This made a frown form on my face.
I had assumed that's what he wanted; after all, publicity, and I called bullshit on the thing he said about having a huge heart. I still called bullshit. What he said now seemed more real, and it confused me.
I opened my foundation five years ago, and since then, no one—not even one person—has ever cared about the money they were putting into this foundation, not even one.
Most cared about the cases because it pushed them into the limelight or further into it, wanting to take credit and play hero.
Five years until now, no one has cared, and I would be an absolute fool to believe he cared too.
"By total confidentiality, it also includes Mia Jess. I want you to keep your mouth shut about it the way I kept my mouth shut about your little 'death' experience," Damien said, folding his hands around his body, and I scoffed.
"Why are there air quotes around 'death'? I almost died," I said.
"In that case, you should have been nicer to the guy who rescued you, don't you agree?" he said, flashing me his teeth.
"Does the guy want a trophy for that? Because he keeps reminding me every minute," I said through gritted teeth, making Damien roll his eyes.
"Whatever; keep my secret, and I will keep yours. Do we have a deal or not?" he asked.
"Isn't that classified as blackmail, Mr. Castillo?" I said.
"Call it whatever you want, Miss Backlay," Damien said, rising from his chair. "Do we have a deal?" he asked, stretching out his hand, my brain fuzzy with his incredulous requests, but the words forming regardless.
"Deal.