Chapter 3I Walked Away from the Billionaire Who Needed My Touch

I had always wanted to thank Damian in person.

But I never had the chance to meet him.

It wasn’t until college that I accidentally learned from the news that Damian Blackwood suffered from severe haphephobia.

A traumatic event in his teens had made him unable to tolerate anyone’s touch.

If a stranger so much as brushed against him, he would struggle to breathe.

Sometimes he would even become aggressive.

Even doctors could only speak with him from a distance.

I stared at his cold, pale face in the report and found a clear goal for the first time.

When I chose my major, I picked psychology.

While my classmates studied general counseling, I threw myself into trauma responses and exposure therapy.

I took classes during the day, worked part-time at night, and spent the hours after returning to my dorm reading case studies.

When people asked why I pushed myself so hard, I never said Damian’s name.

I only wanted to repay him.

Without his sponsorship, I would have lost my chance to study.

And the only way I could repay him was by helping him return to a normal life.

After graduation, I joined the Blackwood household with the best grades in my program and a complete treatment plan.

The first time we met, Damian sat behind a large desk.

His eyes were cold and empty.

He flipped through my file and asked expressionlessly, “You think you can cure me?”

I suppressed my nerves and answered seriously, “I can’t guarantee a cure. But I’ll do everything I can.”

Damian lifted his eyes and studied my face.

“The previous therapists lasted one month at most.”

I clenched my fingers and answered calmly, “I’ll last longer than they did.”

In the end, he kept me.

During the first month, I could only talk to him from six feet away.

In the second month, he allowed me to sit on the sofa across from him.

Three months later, I tried touching his wrist for the first time.

That day, with a layer of soft fabric between us, my fingertips had barely landed before he grabbed my throat.

His eyes were bloodshot.

“Get away from me.”

I endured the fear and lack of air without struggling.

I looked at him and whispered, “I won’t hurt you.”

His hand loosened little by little.

But cold sweat covered his forehead.

That was our first true touch.

Later, I could hold his hand through fabric.

After that, he allowed my palm to rest on his shoulder and the back of his neck.

It took me three full years to move from brief contact to long embraces.

When ordinary contact stopped working, treatment entered a deeper stage of desensitization.

The first time we kissed, Damian’s entire body went rigid.

His fingers dug hard into my waist.

His breathing was ragged when he ordered in a low voice, “Olivia, don’t leave.”

I held him and answered softly, “I won’t.”

Back then, I thought I was only soothing a patient.

But day after day, hugs and kisses blurred the professional lines between us.

I knew his breathing.

His body temperature.

Every shift in his emotions.

And I began looking forward to every night he needed me.

By the time I finally realized what had happened, gratitude had already turned into a love I could never say out loud.

It had taken me years to teach Damian to accept my touch.

And just as long to hand him my heart with my own two hands.

All the way to ruin.