Page 57 of Fixer for the Billionaire

"Seriously though," Quentin's tone shifts, "anything you need help with? All this... planning can be overwhelming."

"I appreciate it, but I think we have everything under control."

He sighs, the sound soft in the quiet car. "Including shutting me out."

I open my eyes to see him giving me a concerned look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been distant lately. I know we haven't defined what's going on between us, but... I still want to be there for you."

"There for me?" My voice rises in frustration. "I don't need anyone to be there for me, Quentin. I can handle things on my own."

He blinks, green eyes hard. "You're screwing with me, right? Sanchez, you're in over your head handling everything on your own. Your house is a mess, laundry piled up to the sky. You have more spaghetti bolognese on your blouse than in your mouth most days. From the look of the circles starting to camp out around your eyes, you're barely sleeping, and from what I can see, you haven't had a decent meal in days."

He sits up straight, fixing me with a stare. "And now, with applying for guardianship of the girls, it's gotta be?—"

"What?" I interrupt. "Who told you that?"

"Never mind who told me," Quentin snaps, "the point is, you're trying to do everything on your own and it's not working."

I bite my lip, feeling the sting of his words. He's right, of course. The truth is, I'm struggling. But I don't need my nose rubbed in it.

"You have no idea what I'm dealing with, do you?" I ask, frustration rolling in like a thunderstorm.

I can't control any of this, can I? The wedding, the book release, my future with my sisters—I'm in the passenger seat of my own life.

That's it. I need some semblance of control back, even if it's just choosing where this metal box on wheels takes us next.

I press a button to roll down the partition to the driver’s compartment, and I can see Quentin’s surprised face in the rearview mirror.

"Yes?" the driver asks.

I take a deep breath, knowing I need to make a decision. "Could you take a detour, please? To 115 North Street."

"Of course, ma'am," the driver replies, and I can practically feel Quentin’s eyes boring into me.

"What are you doing?" he asks as we turn off the main road onto a smaller side street.

"I'm directing him to my mom's place," I reply firmly. "You really want to see what you're dealing with? I'm going to show you."

I almost bite the words out. But I need to know.

Can a man who's never had to worry about anything more than his company's next published novel handle this kind of chaos? Or am I just setting us both up for a colossal disaster?

My gaze goes out the window to the darkening sky, the rest of my words unsaid.

Chapter Twenty-Three

CARMINA

As we pull up to my childhood home, the silence in the car is thick. I can feel Quentin's eyes on me, waiting for an explanation.

I take a deep breath before opening the door and stepping out onto the driveway. The familiar smell of grass and blooming flowers hits me immediately.

For a moment, I'm transported back to my carefree childhood days, playing in this yard. Back when my parents were still together. Before he cheated and left. Before my mom remarried Gabriela and Valeria's father.

Before she stopped giving a damn.

Now, the fresh flowers are gone, replaced with wild weeds and unkempt grass. The paint on the house is peeling, and the stench of cigarette smoke and neglect lingers in the air. My heart aches for what this place used to be.

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