The Charity Worker

For three years, I've had a guardian angel.

Anonymous donations. Always at exactly the right moment—when rent is due, when a program needs funding, when I'm about to give up. Someone who sees what I'm doing with Hodan Youth Services and keeps it alive.

Tonight, at the charity gala in Mayfair, I'm finally going to meet them.

"The donor is here," my board chair tells me. "He wants to meet you privately."

"He?"

"Surprised?"

"Wealthy anonymous donors are usually women." I straighten my dress. "Lead the way."

He's younger than I expected.

Thirty-two, maybe. Somali, definitely—I can tell by the cheekbones, the way he carries himself. Expensive suit, expensive watch, the casual wealth of someone who's never had to count.

"Ms. Farah." He extends his hand. "I'm Dalmar Adan."

"Mr. Adan." I shake his hand. "Three years of mystery and you're finally real."

"I was always real." His hand holds mine a moment too long. "I was just watching."

"Watching?"

"Your work. Your dedication." His eyes meet mine. "You."

I should be grateful.

This man has kept my charity alive. Without him, fifty Somali teenagers in Camden wouldn't have mentors, wouldn't have programs, wouldn't have hope.

But something in his gaze makes me uneasy. And intrigued.

"Why me?" I ask. "There are a hundred charities doing this work."

"None run by someone like you." He gestures to a private balcony. "Walk with me?"

I follow. Because he's my donor. Because I'm curious.

Because I can't seem to say no.

The balcony overlooks London.

Millions of lights spreading toward every horizon. We're alone out here—the party noise muffled by glass doors.

"I saw you speak four years ago," he says. "A conference on youth empowerment. You were passionate, articulate, beautiful." He turns to face me. "I went home and researched everything about you. Your charity. Your life. Your mission."

"That sounds..."

"Obsessive?" He smiles slightly. "Perhaps. But I'm a careful man. I don't invest in things I don't understand."

"And you understand me?"

"I understand that you wake up at 5 AM to answer emails. That you take no salary so more money goes to programs. That you cry when your kids graduate and pretend you don't." He steps closer. "I understand that you've given everything to this cause and taken nothing for yourself."

"The cause matters more than me."

"Does it?" He reaches out, touches my face. "Because I've been trying to convince myself the cause is why I keep giving. But that's a lie."

"Then why?"

"Because I wanted a reason to meet you." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "And I finally found one."

I should step back.

This is inappropriate. He's my donor, my benefactor, the reason my work exists. Getting involved with him compromises everything.

But his hand is warm. And no one has touched me in three years. And I'm so tired of being alone with my mission.

"This is complicated," I whisper.

"Everything worthwhile is."

He kisses me.

We don't make it back to the gala.

There's a hotel attached to the venue—of course there is, it's Mayfair. He has a key. I don't ask how.

In the lift, I try to be sensible.

"I can't be bought."

"I'm not buying you."

"Then what is this?"

"This is two people who've been circling each other for three years finally being honest." The lift opens. He pulls me toward his suite. "You've felt it too. Every time you read my donation letters. Every time you wondered who I was."

"I thought you were a bored billionaire."

"I'm not a billionaire." He unlocks the door. "Just a successful businessman who saw something he wanted and decided to be patient."

"Patient?"

"I was waiting for the right moment." He pulls me inside. "This is the right moment."

The suite is ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed the size of my office. Champagne chilling that he clearly ordered in advance.

"You planned this."

"I hoped for this." He pours two glasses. "There's a difference."

"You're very confident."

"I'm very determined." He hands me a glass. "The same quality you have. The one that made me notice you in the first place."

"I'm not like you."

"No?" He sets down his glass. "You've built something from nothing. You've convinced people to believe in your vision. You've refused to give up when everyone said you should." He takes my glass, sets it down too. "We're exactly alike, Hawa. We just apply our determination to different things."

"And right now?"

"Right now—" He pulls me close. "—I'm applying mine to you."

He undresses me like he's been practicing.

Slow. Deliberate. Every button an intentional choice.

"Dalmar—"

"Let me." He peels my dress off my shoulders. "I've imagined this. Let me have the reality."

I let him.

His mouth finds my neck. My collarbone. The swell of my breasts above my bra. He traces paths across my skin like he's mapping territory.

"Beautiful—" He unhooks my bra. "More beautiful than I imagined."

"You imagined this?"

"Every day for three years."

His mouth finds my nipple. I gasp, grab his hair, wonder how I ended up here—in a hotel suite with my anonymous benefactor worshipping my body.

"The bed—" I manage.

"Not yet." He drops to his knees. "First this."

He gives me his mouth on the carpet.

My back against the window, London spread below, his tongue working me while I try not to scream. He's skilled—too skilled, the product of experience and attention.

"Where did you—"

"Shh." He looks up. "Let me earn everything I've given you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He spreads me wider. "I've been wanting to for three years."

He returns to his work.

I come with London watching, my legs shaking, my voice crying out things I'll be embarrassed about later.

"Please—I need—"

He rises. Lifts me. Carries me to that ridiculous bed.

He enters me like he's coming home.

Slow. Deep. Eyes locked on mine.

"Hawa—"

"Don't stop—"

He moves.

Controlled at first, then faster as I demand it. The bed is as soft as it looks, and I sink into it while he drives into me, while three years of wondering finally become three years of knowing.

"Yes—Dalmar—yes—"

"You feel—I can't—"

"Don't hold back."

He doesn't.

Takes me with everything he has, pounds into me while I claw at his back and cry out things in Somali I didn't know I remembered.

"I'm going to—"

"With me—" He reaches between us. "Come with me, Hawa—"

I shatter for the second time.

He follows, and we fall into each other, into the ridiculously soft sheets, into whatever this is.

After, reality sets in.

"This changes things," I say.

"Does it have to?"

"You're my donor."

"I can stop donating."

"No!" I sit up. "The programs need—"

"I'll find another way." He pulls me back down. "Anonymous foundation. Board contribution. Whatever keeps the money flowing and keeps us free."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing about you is simple." He kisses my forehead. "But I've been planning for three years. Let me plan this too."

"You have an answer for everything."

"I'm determined." He smiles. "Remember?"

He restructures the donations within a month.

A foundation, properly anonymous, overseen by accountants instead of him. The money keeps flowing. But now there's no conflict.

Now there's just us.

"Dinner?" he asks the night the paperwork is finalized.

"I have a board meeting."

"After the board meeting."

"I have to prepare for tomorrow's youth session."

"After that."

"Dalmar—"

"I've waited three years to take you to dinner properly." He holds out his hand. "Give me this?"

I give him this.

And the next thing. And the next.

A year later, he stands in my Camden office.

The place he funded. The programs he kept alive. The teenagers who call him "Uncle Dalmar" now because he shows up for every graduation.

"Marry me," he says, surrounded by inspirational posters and secondhand furniture.

"Here?"

"Where else?" He kneels. "This is where you built everything. This is where I fell in love with your work. This is where I want to promise you forever."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm determined." He opens the ring box. "What do you say?"

I say yes.

Because some investments pay off better than anyone expected.

Because some patience gets rewarded.

Because determination, it turns out, is the most attractive quality of all.