Page 32 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I glance at my brother one last time, and he gives me a knowing look. “Go get your girl.”
And I do.
Dinner in Nassau is at a rooftop terrace of a private waterfront restaurant, all glittering lights and lazy candle flames that sway with the ocean breeze. The scent of grilled seafood and citrus wafts through the air, mingling with soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers. The table is tucked into the far corner with an unobstructed view of the marina; the water reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun, yachts bobbing lazily as dusk settles in around them. Palm trees line the edges of the rooftop, casting long shadows that dance in the golden hour light, adding to the atmosphere of secluded elegance. The staff, polished and attentive, seem to know exactly when to top off a wine glass or clear a dish without ever intruding on the conversation.
The conversation flows easily—Mia and Charli discussing dress fittings, Ian and I trading contractor horror stories, and all of us laughing in that relaxed way that only happens when the wine is good and the company is better.
The warm breeze lifts strands of Charli's hair as she leans in to show Mia something on her phone—probably a menu sketch or a spice vendor she found earlier that had her practically buzzing with excitement. Mia gasps, then claps a hand over her mouth before they both dissolve into giggles again. Their heads bent together in conspiratorial delight, the candlelight casting halos over their animated faces. For a moment, I don't hear the music or the surf—I just watch her, laughing and lit up, and wonder how I ever lived in a world where that sound didn't exist.
It’s perfect—until a faint click draws my attention, sharp and unwelcome, slicing through the lull of soft conversation like a warning bell.
I glance to the right and spot him—paparazzi. Not local. He’s crouched just beyond the terrace railing with a long-lens camera, snapping photo after photo like he’s trying to catch a scandal of some sort.
Recognition hits like a punch to the gut. His name’s Russell Frasier—freelancer with a reputation for selling salacious shots to the highest bidder. He’d once camped out for three days outside a Monaco hotel trying to catch a glimpse of a tech billionaire’s mistress. If he’s here, it's intentional. And he’s not just looking for a photo—he’s hunting for a headline. Well, he's not going to find one here.
Ian sees it a beat later. His jaw ticks, eyes narrowing as he mutters, "Is that Frasier? You've got to be fucking kidding me."
“I’ll handle it,” I mutter.
“Not alone, you won't,” Ian says, already pushing up from his chair.
We head for the railing together, fast and focused, our movements smooth and coordinated because it’s not the first time we’ve had to deal with someone crossing a line. There’s an ease to it, like slipping into an old rhythm—no hesitation, no confusion, just a silent agreement that neither of us will let this slide. We may be brothers, but in moments like this, we’re a unit—calculating, protective, and absolutely in sync.
“Hey!” I bark, my voice sharp as a crack of thunder. The man startles, fingers still glued to the shutter. “You get one warning. That is it.” I take a step forward, the heaviness of my anger rolling off me in waves. “Put the camera down and walk away before this gets real messy.”
Ian folds his arms, stepping beside me like a damn linebacker, his stance wide and grounded like he’s daring the guy to test him. “Do you and your camera want to get tossed into the ocean, or are you walking out of here with that camera stillintact?” His tone is deceptively calm, edged with the warning that makes grown men rethink their life choices.
The guy stammers something unintelligible, holding up one hand like it might save him. "Hey, sorry, man—I didn’t know it was private! I’ll delete the pictures," he blurts, voice pitching up with panic.
"Not good enough," I say coldly, stepping forward again. "You knew what you were doing. You’re lucky all you’re walking away with your camera."
"Delete them. Now," Ian adds, folding his arms with slow menace.
The photographer fumbles with his camera, clearly shaking, and holds it out for us to see as he deletes the last several shots. "There. Gone. I swear. Please don’t call security."
"Security’s the least of your problems if you show your face again," I mutter.
The guy backs up so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, then turns and bolts like the coward he is.
We return to the table as Charli and Mia watch wide-eyed, clearly trying to decipher what just happened. I slip an arm around Charli’s shoulders as I sit, brushing a kiss to her temple, the tension still crackling faintly in the air. Her posture relaxes slightly at the contact, but I can feel the questions simmering under her silence. Across the table, Mia squeezes Charli’s hand, offering a wordless reassurance, while I settle back in my chair, my jaw still tight with residual anger.
“Everything okay?” she asks quietly.
“Now it is,” I murmur, my voice still low, a protective edge lacing every word. And I mean it. Because I’ll be damned if I let anything—or anyone—ruin tonight, especially not some bottom-feeding photographer with no sense of boundaries. My hand stays curled protectively around Charli’s shoulder, anchoring her close, like a silent promise that I’ve got her—no matter what.
After dinner, as we step out into the warm Nassau evening, Ian gives me a look I know too well—the one that signals a change of plans. “We’re flying out tonight,” he says, slipping his arm around Mia’s waist. “Early meeting back in Hibiscus Harbor tomorrow morning. I can’t miss. We’ll let the lovebirds take the yacht.”
“Already trying to get rid of us?” I joke.
“Just making room for all the sparks you two keep throwing off,” Ian says, his grin wide as he jabs me lightly in the ribs with his elbow. His tone is light, teasing, but there’s that telltale twinkle in his eye—the one that says he’s filing away every detail for later ammunition. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head like he’s both amused and slightly impressed. “You better watch it, man. With the way you’re looking at her, people are gonna start planning a wedding.”
We laugh, trade hugs, and Mia wraps Charli in a warm squeeze, whispering something that makes her laugh and blush at the same time. I catch the flicker of surprise on Charli’s face, followed by a wide-eyed smile that lingers even after Mia pulls back. Whatever Mia said clearly caught her off guard—in a good way. I make a mental note to ask about it later, curiosity already tugging at the edges of my thoughts. Was it a joke? A warning? A promise? Whatever it was, it left a flush in Charli’s cheeks that I can’t stop staring at.
Ian turns to me, his usual smirk in place, but his eyes are softer than usual. He claps me on the shoulder, then lets his hand linger for a second. "Be good," he says, his voice quiet but firm, then leans in slightly, eyebrows raised. "And don’t forget—don’t fuck this up." There's a teasing lilt to the words, butunderneath it is something steadier, heavier—like he’s trusting me with something important.
With a final wave, they disappear into the waiting car, leaving Charli and me standing on the curb, the night humming quietly around us.
As we walk hand in hand back toward The Marigold, Charli glances up at me. “Today was kind of... perfect,” she says, her voice soft but brimming with contentment. “Even the part where I was terrified five-hundred feet in the air.”
