Page 112 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
No.
Not now.
I stare at the screen for a long second, reading the message twice just to make sure I’m not misinterpreting it. But the words don’t change. Someone’s found me—or they almost have.
I feel the panic crawl up my spine, fast and sharp. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to give up this quiet town, this quiet life. And I’m not ready to tell the friends I’ve made here who I really am.
Because once I do, everything changes.
The way people look at me, talk to me. It always shifts the moment the name clicks. Suddenly I’m not just Cal—I’m Calvin Hale, the guy with the billions and the boardrooms and theburnout. And I lose the thing I’ve worked so hard to find here: being seen for me.
And Margot…
What if she looks at me differently too? What if she thinks this entire thing was a lie?
I grip the phone tighter and close my eyes, breathing through it. I’ve been running so long I almost convinced myself I could hide forever. But maybe time’s up.
I shake my head and scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering for a second before I tap on the name: Simon.
Simon is a private investigator I’ve used a few times before. Discreet. Swift. Brutally effective. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hello, Hale.” His voice is dry, clipped. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Not long enough.” I don’t bother with pleasantries. “I need you to do something for me. Urgent.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a tech journalist sniffing around Everfield—male, works forScoop. I want you to find him. Track him down. Pull him out of this town—quietly. I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure he’s gone.”
There’s a pause. I hear the scratch of a lighter—he’s smoking. Typical.
“Any name?”
“Raymond.”
“Okay. I’ll need time, but I’ll get it done as quickly as I can.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down and run both hands through my hair.
I came here to breathe. To be invisible. But it’s never that simple. Not for me.
I walk to the window, hands shoved deep into my pockets. It’s peaceful here. Quiet. Exactly why I came here.
But my thoughts are anything but calm.
I try to imagine it—telling her the truth. Sitting her down and saying, “Hey Margot, I’m not just some guy who needed a break. I’m Cal Hale. The Cal Hale.”
In my mind, I can see her face as the words land. That slow blink. The sharp intake of breath. Her spine going stiff like it always does when she’s hurt but trying not to show it.
And then the look—disappointment.
Not anger. Not even betrayal. Just that quiet, tired disappointment.
It’s worse than any yelling could ever be.
I can feel it already, curling around my chest like ice.
