Page 133 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I let out a quiet sigh. “You make it look easy.”
She chuckles. “That’s because we agreed to make it work. That’s the secret, Margot. We chose each other—again and again—even when it got complicated.”
I glance at her through the mirror, the reflection catching the warmth in her eyes. “But Jack never lied to you.”
“No,” she says softly. “Not about being famous, but about other things. There was a point where he didn’t know if he could trust me. Because fame makes you paranoid. Makes you guard the parts of yourself that are real. Especially when you’re used to people loving you for the wrong reasons.”
My chest tightens. I know exactly what she’s trying to do. “So now you want me to see it from Cal’s point of view?”
“I’m just saying… maybe he wasn’t hiding who he was from you. Maybe he was trying to be someone for you.”
I stare down at my lap, the braid sliding down my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Margot—”
“It’s too late,” I say, cutting her off gently. “He’s gone. And I told him to go.”
Mia doesn’t say anything at first. She leans forward, resting her chin on my shoulder so our reflections sit side by side in the mirror.
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she murmurs. “But don’t lie to yourself just to stay angry. You don’t have to forgive him. But you owe it to yourself to ask what you’re really afraid of.”
My throat closes. I don’t answer.
“Come on.” She rises to her feet, shattering the solemn mood. “I’ll be here until tomorrow, and I’ve always wanted to attend Kettle Hour. Aunt Edie says there’ll be mini lemon tarts today. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll have a reason to smile again.”
CAL
I’m sitting on the edge of the couch in my apartment in L.A.—hands steepled, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the letter fromScooplying on the coffee table like it might explode.
The logo mocks me.
A week ago, my legal team stepped in. Two days after that,Scoopfolded under pressure. They’ve issued a public apology, pulled every photo and article from the internet, and even promised to suspend the marketing team responsible for the leak.
Too little. Too late.
None of that fixes what they broke.
I stare at the letter, but my thoughts are stuck somewhere else. On her porch. On her voice breaking when she told me to leave. On how she let us go without a fight.
The memory cuts deeper than it should.
I was ready to fight for her. Ready to explain, to stay, to be vulnerable—I was so ready. And she looked me in the face like I was a stranger who’d stolen something from her.
Maybe I did.
Maybe that’s what hurts the most.
I let out a slow breath and drag a hand through my hair, restless. My chest feels too full, like something’s lodged behind my ribs and won’t budge. I haven’t touched a thing in this apartment since I got back. Not the fridge. Not the gym. Not even my bed.
All I do is pace. Sit. Stare.
Break a little more every day.
I thought time would dull it. I thought once the firestorm settled and the world moved on, I could too. But the silence left in the aftermath? It’s worse.
It’s where I feel her absence the loudest.
I need an outlet. Something—anything—to keep me from losing my mind.
