Page 50 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I’ve had three espresso shots and no meals, and I’m currently negotiating with a sous chef about how many edible flowers are too many. Spoiler: he says there's no such thing. I think we’re bonding.
I glance at my phone, resisting the urge to text Sawyer something stupid just to feel connected. But he’s probably halfway to rum-drunk by now and chasing Ian down the dockwith a life vest. So I send him a mental “stay safe” and go back to my lists.
Because tomorrow is a big day. For Ian and Mia. For Sawyer. For me.
And if I close my eyes, just for a second, I can feel the weight of it all—the joy, the nerves, the insane, wonderful chaos of falling in love with a man who never wanted to fall again.
I open my eyes, smile, and reach for the next tray of hors d'oeuvres.
Let the wedding madness begin.
It’s the wedding day.
I’ve been in this kitchen since sunrise, conducting a culinary symphony of sauces, garnishes, seafood, meats, and pastries. The heat is oppressive; the noise is relentless, and my feet ache in ways I didn’t know were possible—but somehow, it's the magic that makes me feel the most alive.
I didn’t go to the ceremony. Not because I didn’t want to—God, I did—but because this... this is where I belong. This kitchen, this food, this chaos—it’s how I honor Ian and Mia. Not in a dress, not in a chair facing the altar, but right here, behind the scenes, making damn sure every bite their guests take is unforgettable. It's my way of loving them. Of showing up. With roasted garlic aioli and basil-infused risotto.
Still, I heard the ceremony was breathtaking. Ocean breeze drifting through swaying palms, soft fabrics billowing like a fairytale, candlelight catching crystal goblets and casting glittering reflections everywhere. Word is, the string quartet played something so emotional that even the bartenders were dabbing at their eyes with cocktail napkins. Apparently, Mialooked like she walked straight out of a bridal fantasy, and Ian—big, tough Ian—cried the second he laid eyes on her. Not that anyone’s surprised. He’s a Gallo. Once they’re in, they’re in for life—messy, loud, emotional declarations and all.
Now, the guests are trickling in, dressed to the nines and glowing with tropical tans, and everything smells so divine that it’s practically illegal. I’ve got citrus-glazed shrimp skewers glistening like jewels, grilled pineapple crostini stacked like edible sunshine, and delicate phyllo cups filled with whipped goat cheese and sun-dried tomato jam that makes people close their eyes on the first bite. And the drinks? Flowing with such synchronized precision, it’s like the universe hired a Broadway choreographer with a flair for rum and garnishes.
Sawyer hasn’t appeared yet, but I know he’s around somewhere. Probably chasing down a groomsman who forgot his shoes or talking his mother out of redoing the entire floral arrangement five minutes before dinner. The type of classic chaos that seems to follow the Gallo family like confetti. I’d bet anything he’s out there in a tailored suit, looking too damn good and being charming enough to stop a meltdown with nothing but that lopsided grin of his.
And even though I haven’t laid eyes on him today, I feel him everywhere. In the comforting order of the prep station. In the warm brush of sunset through the windows that feels like his touch. In the soft clink of glassware that reminds me of his laugh. In every heartbeat that’s out of sync without him, like I’m missing a beat I didn’t realize he kept steady for me.
It’s his brother’s wedding. And it’s the start of something brand new for us, too.
Whether he knows it or not... I’m all in.
The kitchen is humming. Everything is where it should be—timers beeping in a steady rhythm, staff moving like a well-oiled machine, the smell of butter and rosemary thick in the air. I’m plating tiny lamb chops, completely in the zone, when I hear it: the sharp, deliberate click of high heels on tile. Not the soft sneakers of a server, or the quick clip of a planner on a mission. No, this is a sound that screamslook at me.
I glance up, already bracing myself. Expecting maybe someone from the wedding team. Definitelynotthe person standing in the doorway like she owns the resort.
It’s Ava. Of course it is.
She’s dressed like she just wandered off the runway at Milan Fashion Week—silk, heels, hair too perfect for this tropical humidity. And that smug little smile? Just as I remember it from Hooplas. Only now, it’s softer. Slower. Like she’s trying a new approach.
Great. Because if there’s one thing I didn’t pencil into today’s chaos, it’s Sawyer’s ex walking into my kitchen with god-knows-what on her agenda. Immediately, every muscle in my body goes tight.
“Charli, right?” she asks, voice sweet like syrup but twice as sticky. “I just wanted a word. I know this is… not ideal timing.”
Ah, ya' think? That might just be the understatement of the damn decade. I'm in the middle of serving dinner at a wedding reception. Yeah, let's have a heart to heart.
I nod once, warily. “Make it quick.”
Ava flicks her hand in the air, waving off the clatter and bustle of the kitchen like it's background noise in her own personal monologue. "I just came to say... I shouldn’t have madefun of your career," she begins, her voice smooth, rehearsed. "It was rude. And petty. You’re clearly talented. The food has been superb." Her tone is polite, but there’s something performative about it—like she’s checking a box on a redemption tour instead of offering genuine contrition.
I blink. Is this actually an apology? A real one? And now, of all times? She couldn’t wait until the cake was cut or, I don’t know,never? Why is she even here? Did Ian invite her? Is she just showing up unannounced like a wedding crasher with an emotional vendetta? Seriously—what is this woman’s endgame?
Then she smiles that too-perfect smile. “But I also came because… there’s something I think you deserve to know. About Sawyer and me.”
I tense because here it comes. I keep my expression neutral. “Go on.”
“I wasn’t just some awful girl who ditched her fiancé at the airport all those years ago,” she says somberly. “I was scared, pregnant, and terrified. I couldn’t tell him and I panicked.”
My heart thuds, the word slamming into me like a freight train. “Pregnant?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief. I blink, trying to reconcile the word with the perfectly put-together woman in front of me. My stomach dips, and for a second, the entire kitchen—the sizzling pans, the clatter of plates, the shouts of my staff—fades into a low hum. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears.
“I have a daughter. Well...wehave a daughter,” Ava says, her voice suddenly trembling as she reaches into her purse. Her fingers fumble for a second—just long enough to betray the nerves behind her polished exterior. When she finally produces the photo and hands it to me, I see it: a little girl, only four or five, with big brown eyes that mirror Sawyer’s so closely it knocks the breath out of my lungs. She has messy curls, a dimple on her left cheek, and a gap-toothed smile that hits me like a gutpunch. I stare at the picture, stunned, my pulse roaring in my ears.
