Page 46 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Sawyer watches us with a soft smile, which tugs at the corners of his mouth and never quite leaves his eyes. He squeezes my hand again, and I know without looking that he’s proud. Not just of what I’m doing, but who I’m becoming.
And for the first time in a really long time, I think I’m proud of me too.
People start trickling out of Hooplas, saying their goodbyes and hugging like they won’t see each other again in twelve hours. Sawyer rode with Garrett, who’s standing near the exit, twirling his keys in a not-so-subtle way of telling him he's ready to go.
“I’m out,” Garrett says. “You riding back with me?”
"Yes. My stuff is in your car," he tells him. Sawyer leans down and kisses my cheek. “I’ll see you back at the house?”
I nod, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He and Garrett leave, and I gather my things, still smiling to myself. I’m halfway to the door when a woman in designer heels and an expression like she just sniffed something offensive steps into my path.
“Charli, is it?” she says, extending a hand like I might be contagious. “I’m Ava.”
I pause. “Ava…?”
“Sawyer’s former fiancée.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She flicks a perfectly manicured hand in the air like she's bored with listing her own résumé. “You may have heard of my family—the Sinclair’s. Real estate, luxury hotels, international investments.”
“Oh.” I blink, every nerve on high alert. “Nice to meet you?” I don’t know why she’s here, or what she hopes to accomplish by cornering me like a Bond villain in heels—but my gut saysthis isn’t a courtesy call. This is performance art, and I’m her unwilling audience.
She laughs—a sound that drips condescension. “You’re a chef, right? I heard someone mention it earlier.” She points over her shoulder to the other patrons.
“Yep. I'm a chef.” I force a polite smile.
“Interesting.” She says it like it’s the verbal equivalent of a hairball. “I suppose everyone has to start somewhere. Sawyer and I made up today in his office, by the way. Did he mention it?”
I keep my smile frozen, even though my fingers twitch at my sides and my chest tightens. “No. He didn’t.”
I couldn’t possibly be jealous, I remind myself. He’s Sawyer Gallo—ridiculously handsome, absurdly wealthy, practically a walking magazine spread in human form. I shouldn't be rattled by someone like Ava. Should I?
But there’s something about the way her eyes gleam, the smug curl of her mouth, that starts to stoke something hot and sharp inside me.
I don’t show it. Not one damn flicker. But inside, my blood simmers. Not because I believe her, but because she came over here like she had the right to say any of this to me. Because she thought she could rattle me. Because she thought I’d be less. And because she waited until he left the bar before saying a damn word to me. Like a snake in the grass.
Oh, honey. You really shouldn’t have.
She tilts her head with faux innocence and flicks her hand in the air like she's shooing away a fly. “That’s odd. You’d think if he were really serious about you two, he’d mention someone like me. But maybe he didn’t want to intimidate you with the comparison.”
It’s a petty, calculated blow. And it lands—but I don’t show it. I just give her a once-over and smile sweetly. “Maybe he didn’t mention you because you’re irrelevant to him. You are to me.”
Her nostrils flare slightly, but she recovers fast. “We’ll see, won’t we?” she says, turning on her heel and gliding toward the door.
I stand there for a beat, letting the air settle around me and hoping she makes it to her car before I get out there and kick her boney ass.
Of course she showed up. Of course, she had to play games. I've dealt with people like her my entire adult life. My skin is thicker than hers. But I’m not letting her rattle me—not tonight.
Even if a little voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe she did get a little in my head.
By the time I get home, the quiet hits me like a wave—cold and jarring. The warmth and noise of Hooplas still cling to me like glitter, but the second the door clicks shut behind me, that energy fades, replaced by a silence so dense it practically echoes. The contrast is disorienting, like stepping from a crowded carnival into an empty cathedral. My skin still buzzes with the chaos of the night, but my heart feels heavy, like it already knows something’s not right.
Sawyer looks up from the couch where Ghost is curled against his side, his legs stretched out and a glass of whiskey balanced on one knee. The second he sees my face, his entire demeanor shifts—the easygoing curve of his mouth falters, his body tenses, and the glass in his hand dips slightly. Concern shadows his eyes, and he sets the whiskey aside, already half-rising. "Charli? What's wrong?"
I let out a slow breath as I unclip my purse and place it gently on the console table; the keys clinking softly in the bowl by the door. My fingers tremble slightly as I toe off my shoes, thesilence in the house only amplifying the heaviness in my chest. I brush a curl off my forehead, still damp from the humidity outside, and glance at Sawyer, who’s now standing, brows drawn together, sensing something’s off. My voice is quiet but steady. “I met your ex-fiancée, Ava, tonight.”
His brows snap together. “You what?”
“She came up to me after you left,” I say quietly. “Introduced herself. Ava.”
