Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires, #2)(69)

“Special is the last word I would use to describe you,” I repeat his words from our engagement party back at him.

His gaze holds mine hostage. “What word would you use then?”

“It’s improper.”

“All the better.”

I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”

“Then ask me what word I would use to describe you.”

I really shouldn’t, but curiosity wins out. “Fine. What word?”

There’s something about the way he looks at me when he says it that makes butterflies take flight in my stomach. “Yuánfèn.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. Was that even English?” I’m already at a severe disadvantage when it comes to the language I speak every day, let alone foreign ones.

He seems privy to some joke with himself. “No.”

I pull out my phone and try to search the word based on my spelling, but I must be butchering it big time.

“Can you say it again for me? Slowly.”

He says it again—this time with a phonetic breakdown of consonants and vowels—which should be easy enough for anyone but me to spell out. My fingers hover over the keys, and I try my hardest to spell the word he said, but the only thing that comes up is you ahn phan.

“Want my help?” His voice drops low, making me feel helpless.

I want to throw my phone at the nearest wall. Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away. Showing weakness in front of Declan is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I refuse to do it.

“Whatever. It’s probably a curse word anyway.” I clutch my phone with a death grip as I hop off the barstool.

“To you, it might be.”

His joke lands on deaf ears. I’m too far gone to do anything but walk away before I admit something I’m not ready to share.

“Hey. Where are you going?”

“To bed.” I don’t bother looking back at him.

“What’s wrong?” The scrape of his stool pushes me into action. I take longer strides. I’m halfway toward the stairs when his hand latches onto my elbow.

“What happened back there?”

I can’t look him in the eyes as I respond, “Nothing. I’m just tired.” I tug my arm out of his grasp, and this time, he lets me make a smooth getaway.

I take the stairs two at a time, all while Declan’s eyes burn a hole through my back. It’s not until I’m in the comfort of my room that I let it all out. I grab a pillow, shove my face in it, and let the tears fall.

I cry for the girl who was bullied all throughout her schooling. The one who became a running joke in class and was called every awful name in the book. Tears fall for the version of me that was ridiculed by her father until her mother had to intervene, only to see her get destroyed by his equally vicious words. The same person who made a working woman out of herself despite all the people who told her she would go nowhere in life because she couldn’t even read.

I spent most of my life trying to prove people wrong. It took years of tutoring to get to the place I am now, and I won’t let one setback throw me off.

So what if I couldn’t spell a stupid foreign word? My disorder might be a part of me but it doesn’t define me. Not anymore at least.

My phone buzzes against my comforter. I unlock it to find a new message from Declan. The fact that he sent a one-word text doesn’t shock me given his preference for using five words or less in all our conversations. It’s the content that surprises me, and not because it takes me three tries to finally make out the word.

Declan: Yuánfèn.

I consider ignoring it, but curiosity wins as I pull up my search bar and type the word in the box with shaky fingers. The results are mind-blowing.

Yuánfèn: A predestined infinity.

Turns out Declan likes to casually switch to a foreign language whenever he wants to avoid saying how he really feels. Because there is no way he would tell me to my face that he thinks I’m his destiny.

I think carefully about my next message. It takes me some time to find the perfect response for how I feel, and my search history is filled with variations of words that have no English translations. I copy and paste the word I found that describes exactly how I feel and press the send button.

Me: Kilig1.

I throw my phone across my bed and don’t touch it until the next morning. It’s not until I get dressed and put my makeup on that I have enough courage to open Declan’s message.

Declan: Merak2.

I copy and paste it straight into the search bar, only to drop my phone against the bathroom counter and shatter the screen.

A perfect symbol of how Declan is wrecking my plans, one by one.

Declan and I barely speak throughout the next day. I keep to my area and he keeps to his, with neither of us rehashing whatever the hell happened last night. I’m thankful that he doesn’t. Together we are dancing on a fine line, and neither one of us wants to take the plunge.

It’s complete mamihlapinatapai3 between us , with stolen glances across the conference table with no intention of seeking more. At least not for me.

Although Declan sure is trying. His latest strategy to rope me in with foreign words that have no direct English translation seems to be working. Now I spend my breaks looking up new words and adding them to a running list I have, just in case Declan tries to outdo me with one.