Page 34 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

She sighs, the sound heavy and tired. “Donations are nearly at zero. Flatlined. If things don’t pick up…” Her voice trails off, but the unfinished sentence hangs thick between us.

“Are we talking about more cutbacks?” My voice is barely above a whisper, dread pooling like ice water in my veins.

“More than that,” she admits, her fingers worrying the edge of an unopened bill. “We need to cut you down to zero paid hours.”

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the wind from me. It’s not just about the money; it never has been. But losing those hours feels like losing a piece of my identity, a slice of purpose in a world that often seems senselessly cruel.

I at least have a few clients at the moment, Isaac included. And two other potential ones have already gotten in touch. Thanks to my work with Isaac and Baxter, doors are opening up. My bills are paid.

But the shelter is a different story.

“Okay.” The word emerges hollow, devoid of the conviction I’m scrambling to muster. “I’ll still be here. I’ll still come?—”

“You don’t have to.”

“Ricki.” I pin her with a hard look. “You know there’s nowhere else I would rather be. If I don’t train these dogs, who will?”

Ricki nods, but her expression remains guarded, hope a flickering candle in a storm. “We’ve brainstormed some fundraising ideas,” she offers with a forced smile. “Bake sales,community dog washes… Maybe even a training demonstration by you?”

“Sure. That sounds amazing.”

Anything for these dogs, for this place that feels more like home than anywhere else. But deep down, I know the truth. Bake sales won’t buy the expensive heartworm medicine. Dog washes won’t cover surgery costs.

“Times are tough,” Ricki continues, folding her hands atop the desk. “People are giving up their pets because they can’t afford them anymore. Asking for donations…” She shrugs, the gesture laden with sorrow. “It’s asking a lot.”

A lot from people who have little left to give. I understand that all too well; my own bank account isn’t exactly inspiring. But it’s not the numbers that keep me lying awake at night. It’s the faces of the dogs, each one imprinted on my heart, each one dependent on human kindness, money, and time that seems in ever-shorter supply.

“Let’s set something up for next weekend,” I say, trying to inject determination into my tone. “The weather’s supposed to be nice. People might come out, enjoy some sun, spend a few dollars…”

“Hopefully,” Ricki replies, but there’s a resignation in her tone that mirrors my own internal defeat. We’re two people fighting a tide with teacups, desperate to make a difference in a world that feels increasingly indifferent.

“Hey,” I add, leaning forward, compelled to offer some sliver of reassurance, however frail. “We’re not giving up. Not yet.”

Ricki manages a weary chuckle. “Never thought you would. You’re stubborn like that.”

“Comes with the territory,” I say, forcing a smile. My heart may be shattered, but it’s still beating — still fighting.

I leave the office feeling like there’s a weight tied around my ankle. I’m trying to be positive, but it seems like every time something good happens there’s another blow that just knocks me straight to the ground.

But I gotta keep going. For Baxter, for Taco, for every furry soul that will walk through those front doors in the days and years to come.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love is a force unto itself — a power that defies logic and leaps over obstacles. Love can heal a broken chihuahua mix. Love can soften the heart of a grumpy, solitary billionaire. And love, I have to believe, will find a way to save this place that means everything to me.

“Emily, wait.”

Stopping in the hallway, I turn to see one of the volunteers, her arms wrapped around a trembling bundle of fur. The new arrival is a scruffy thing, his matted coat doing little to hide the quiver that runs through him.

“Got a tough case here,” she says, her voice low and steady. “Behavioral issues. Found wandering the streets. We named him Prince.”

The dog’s eyes meet mine, deep wells of fear and confusion. His body is tense, a coiled spring ready to release. I kneel down, offering a calming presence, but he shies away, his anxiety palpable.

“Can you…?” She trails off, hope mingling with resignation.

I nod, despite the weight in my chest. “I’ll take a look.”

I speak in hushed tones, words meant to soothe. He flinches with each sound, a testament to his troubled past. I want to help, to ease his fears, teach him to trust.

“Hey, buddy,” I say gently, extending a hand, but not touching. “You’re safe now.”

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