CHAPTER TWO: THE THANK YOU

Amelia’s POV

It had been three days since the gala, and the buzz still hadn’t died down.

The shelter’s inbox was exploding with new donors, volunteers, and media requests. Clips from the event flooded social media feeds, and my colleagues were practically floating down the halls—laughing, crying, hugging. Our little world had been turned upside down in the best way possible.

But none of that compared to what I saw in my inbox that morning.

$2,000,000.

Two million dollars. From him.

I just… stared. For ten straight minutes, I sat in the breakroom blinking at the screen, trying to convince myself I wasn’t hallucinating. But the email stayed the same. The zeros didn’t vanish. There were no strings attached, no note about publicity, not even a cc to his assistant.

Just a short, quiet message attached to the wire transfer:

“I meant what I said.”

My hands were frozen around a coffee mug I hadn’t sipped from in nearly an hour. It had gone cold a long time ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I could hear everyone celebrating in the next room—my boss already making calls to board members, staff cheering as they got wind of the news.

But I just sat there.

He did it. Damien Blackwood actually did it.

I’d told myself that gala moment was a fluke. A powerful man indulging his curiosity for the night. But this? A two million dollar donation without fanfare? That wasn’t a fluke. That was deliberate. That was… personal.

And terrifying.

Two million dollars could rebuild the east wing, fund our mental health initiative, expand our outreach, and keep us afloat for years. It wasn’t just a gift—it was freedom. A dream no longer stuck to the back of a napkin.

But it was his money.

What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

I turned back to the email I’d been trying to write for over thirty minutes. A thank-you note. Simple enough, right? Except I’d rewritten it six times already and hated every version.

One was too cold. One sounded like a love letter. One made me sound like I was applying for a job at his company.

The cursor blinked back at me like it was judging me. Just say thank you, Amelia. Say it, and walk away.

I cracked my knuckles and started again.

Subject: Thank you

Dear Mr. Blackwood,

I wanted to express my deepest gratitude for your incredibly generous donation to Hart & Haven. Your support means more than I can express, and it will help change countless lives.

Thank you again—for believing in the cause.

Warm regards,

Amelia Hart

I stared at the screen. Was “warm regards” too much? Too familiar? I changed it to “sincerely.” Then back. Then deleted it entirely.

Ugh. Just send it.

I squeezed my eyes shut and hit send.

Then immediately regretted it.

What if he didn’t want a thank-you? What if he expected something else? What if—

A new email popped up. My heart skipped.

It was him.

Five words.

“Thank me in person. – D”

I leaned back so fast my chair creaked.

Wait. What?

In person?

Was that… flirtatious? Or just arrogant? I reread the message like it might suddenly make more sense. What did he want from me? A handshake? Another awkward conversation about trauma and shelters and compassion?

I hesitated. I shouldn’t say yes. But my fingers moved anyway.

When and where?

The reply came instantly.

Tomorrow. 7PM. Blackwood Tower.

Attached was a calendar invite—complete with the exact floor, a note about the private elevator, and a security pass embedded in a QR code.

I closed my eyes and let my head drop gently against the wall behind me.

What the hell was I doing?

The next twenty-four hours crawled. I went through the motions at the shelter—meetings, calls, emails—but I wasn’t there. Everyone else was still buzzing from the donation, planning out how we’d use the money, talking about expansion and renovations and hiring new staff.

I slipped away during lunch and wandered into the unused wing—the one we kept closed off due to mold and wiring issues. The air was cold, the windows streaked. The walls were cracked and bare. It smelled of dust and water damage. The lights flickered, and the floor sagged slightly under her feet. She imagined it gutted and rebuilt—sunlight streaming through wide and new windows, new furniture, a kitchen with working appliances.

They could finally install a learning center, bookshelves and therapy corner. A children's play area. New beds that didn’t squeak or lean or carry memories better left behind. Fresh paint and kids playing on clean rugs.

We could change lives here. Really change them.

And it was all because of Damien.

That night, I stood in front of my closet for way too long. I didn’t want to dress up. unsure what to wear. Not because I wanted to impress him. That wasn’t it. But because meeting someone who had altered the course of her entire organization deserved… respect. And maybe a little armor. This wasn’t a date. I didn’t want to send the wrong message—to him or myself.

But I also didn’t want to walk in there looking like I didn’t belong.

I settled on a green dress—classy, soft, a little bold without trying too hard. Pulled my hair back into a low twist. No perfume. Minimal makeup. Just… me, but slightly stronger-looking.

The cab ride to Blackwood Tower felt longer than it was. My fingers tapped restlessly on my purse, my heart playing a steady drumbeat of nerves and curiosity. I told myself it was just a thank-you meeting. I repeated it like a mantra the entire ride there.

When I stepped into the Blackwood Tower lobby, I felt instantly out of place. It was sleek, modern, intimidating. All glass and sharp lines and quiet power. The receptionist greeted me by name—by name—and handed me a guest badge. I barely got a word out before she pointed toward the private elevator.

Of course. Damien Blackwood didn’t use the public ones.

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper. I stepped in alone and watched the city fall away below me as the numbers climbed.

My reflection in the mirrored walls stared back at me—tense shoulders, twisted lips, uncertain eyes. I didn’t know what I expected. I wasn’t even sure why I was here. But I was going anyway.

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened onto the top floor, and I stepped into another world.

The air was warm, smelling faintly of cedar and something expensive I couldn’t name. The space was dimly lit and gorgeous—floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the suite like a crown. Leather, glass, wood. Everything screamed money, but not in a loud way. In a… dangerous way. There were bold abstract paintings, a fireplace glowing in the far wall, and a long stretch of dark flooring between me and whatever came next.

I moved forward slowly, my heels silent on the polished floor

Somewhere in this place, Damien Blackwood was waiting.

The man who had donated two million dollars because of one conversation.

The man who now wanted me to say thank you… face to face.

And for some reason, I couldn’t walk away.