Page 43 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Charli.
She’s been on my mind all morning. Not just because she looked damn good wrapped in my bedsheets this morning, her hair a wild halo and that smug little smirk when she stole the last of the coffee at breakfast.
No, it’s more than that.
Mia called her this morning, right after the sun came up and the storm clouds cleared, and offered Charli a catering contract for Magical Moments. Exclusive. Every bridal tasting, everywedding reception that comes through their boutique. Charli said yes immediately.
I knew she would. She’s not the type to hesitate when her gut tells her to leap—and this is her leaping.
I’ve never been so damn proud. Or so damn protective. Watching her build something after everything that happened at the Silver Willow... it makes something tight in my chest loosen. Like the future doesn’t have to look like a battlefield.
I rub the back of my neck and glance at my computer, smiling at the memory of her lighting up like a Christmas tree when she hung up with Mia—eyes shining, cheeks flushed, bouncing on her toes as she gushed about how Mia said her food had ‘soul’ and how she'd dreamed of doing something like this since the first time she set foot in a real kitchen.
Then my phone screen lights up.
Unknown Number: I’m sorry.
That’s it. Just those two words. No context. No name.
I stare at it for a beat, something uneasy curling low in my gut.
It could be a wrong number. Could be one of the dozens of employees who forgot a deadline. Could be someone trying to make amends for something that happened months ago and decided today was the day?
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto my desk with a huff. Probably a wrong number. Who even sends anonymous apologies anymore? If someone’s sorry, they can damn well say it to my face—and right now, the only thing I care about is getting those damn light fixtures to the right job site, not some cryptic nonsense buzzing in from the past.
I open my laptop and start hammering out a list of priorities for the finalization of Palmera Hotel and Spa, determined tostay ahead of the schedule. But even as I focus on reports and contractor bids, a quiet part of me keeps glancing at that message.
I'm sorry.
For what?
And why now?
It’s late afternoon by the time I finally get through the pile of work in front of me. The hotel is ahead of schedule—barely—but I’ll take the win. Ian’s wedding is coming up, and I refuse to let anything go sideways. The finishing touches on the spa are happening this week. Custom lighting, imported tile, even the scent diffusers Mia insisted on for “the right bridal energy.” It’s happening, and it’s going to be perfect.
I’m standing at the window with my third coffee of the day, staring out at the ocean, when I hear raised voices down the hall. Unusual. The front desk team knows how to handle visitors—especially the uninvited kind. Then I hear it: my name. Sharp. Loud. Female.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Before I can make it to the door, it swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Ava.
Her hair’s longer, darker than I remember. She’s thinner. Or maybe just sharper—like life sanded her down. But those eyes? Same stormy gray that used to look at me like I hung the moon.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. My mind goes blank except for one vivid flash—an airport terminal, my heart in my throat, her saying “I’ll be right back,” and then… nothing. She never came back. Not even a text that said “I’m sorry”. A full thirty minuteslater, I watched on a CCTV screen her board another plane—with another man.
Ava now shifts on her heels, clutching a designer bag like it’s body armor. “Hi,” she says, like this is just some casual drop-in. Like she didn’t detonate a landmine in my life all those years ago.
I let the silence stretch. Let it burn. She doesn't deserve an immediate response.
“Ava,” I say finally, my voice low. Controlled. “Bold move. Walking in here like this after all this time.”
She flinches—barely. “I know. I just… I needed to see you.”
My jaw ticks. “Why? Looking for another flight to catch?” And just like that, it clicks. The text from this morning—I’m sorry.It wasn’t a wrong number. Wasn’t a confused employee. It was her. The same message she had never had the guts to send back then, now tossed at me like a bone. Cowardly. Late. Meaningless.
Her expression cracks then, and for a second, I see it—regret. Real, jagged, human regret. She closes the door behind her but doesn’t come any closer to me. Smart.
