Page 128 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I head straight for my car, fumble with the keys for a second longer than I should, then shove them in and start the engine. My hands are shaking. I need to get out of here.
Everyone here knows. Everyone heard. Everyone has an opinion, probably already forming some sad little theory about why I should’ve known better or why I shouldn’t have trusted a stranger or why I should hear Cal out.
And I can’t stand it.
I need Hazel. She doesn’t live at the inn. She hasn’t heard yet. She’s the only one untouched by this whole mess.
I pull out of the driveway, tires crunching over gravel, and drive. Fast. Away from the Key & Kettle. Away from Cal. Away from the look in Mom’s eyes.
I need to fall apart somewhere safe.
I think I’m going to cry the second I see Hazel. But I don’t.
Turns out, her place is a disaster. Paint cans everywhere, brushes crusted with color, two half-dead plants leaning sideways on the windowsill like they’ve given up. There’s glitter in the kitchen sink. A pile of mismatched shoes by the couch.
And instead of falling apart, I roll up my sleeves.
We spend hours cleaning, scrubbing, laughing when a paint can explodes under my foot and splatters across the floor like it’s personally offended. Hazel puts on upbeat music—something retro and ridiculous—and we dance in the mess, hair tied up, hands stained with green and gold and dust.
It’s exactly the chaos I need. No judgment. No pity. No questions.
By the time I leave, I feel lighter. Not fixed. Not okay. But better. I wait until well after Kettle Hour is over to drive back to the inn.
The last thing I want is small talk over pastries. I’m not ready to see the guests. Not yet.
I get home way past six, and the second I step into the house, I know something’s wrong. The air feels off. Stiff. Loaded.
Ana refuses to meet my eyes.
From the kitchen, I hear my family’s voices—low, urgent, almost whispering. Then silence when they see me.
I step forward. “What?”
No one answers.
They just look at each other, shaking their heads like they’ve rehearsed how not to make it worse. But Thea steps out from behind the counter, her phone already in her hand, face pale.
She holds it out to me like a warning. Or maybe an apology.
I hesitate for a beat before I take it.
And then I see.
Photos.
Dozens of them.
Me and Cal at dinner last night—smiling, talking, kissing. Apparently, Raymond was snapping pictures the entire time. Before he even walked up to us. Probably leaked it the second we left. And now it’s everywhere. Trending. Viral.
My stomach flips.
I scroll, heart pounding in my ears. Headlines, captions, tags. Words likebillionaireandsecret loverandinnkeeper mystery womanflashing across the screen. A hundred strangers have opinions about my life. A thousand more are reposting it.
I feel sick. And very foolish. Why did I think I could have something normal? I’ve always protected myself for a reason. This isn’t just a violation of my privacy, it’s a violation of my emotions.
I snatch the phone from Thea’s hands and storm out of the kitchen, heading to Cal’s room. My pulse is hammering, my privacy shredded, and I have a sinking feeling that this damage has just become irrevocable.
CAL
