Page 19 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I can’t help the grin that pushes its way onto my face. “I’ve been asked to cater Ian and Mia’s wedding. It’s in the Bahamas. They’re flying me out to the island this weekend so I can scout the venue and get a feel for the menu. It’s a tremendous opportunity?—"
Carl’s mouth flattens. “No,” he turns away from me and back to the tickets on the line.
The smile dies on my lips. “What? Why?”
He tosses the ticket aside, crossing his arms over his chest with all the smug authority of a man who thinks the world should bow at his feet. “You’re not taking the weekend off. In fact, starting tomorrow, you’re on doubles all weekend. We’re short staffed, and if you’re such hot shit, you can handle the workload.”
My stomach sinks. “But you haven’t even posted the schedule yet.”
His tone is bitter, and final, like he’s reading a fact off a clipboard. “And now I’m telling you about your schedule.”
I clench my hands into fists at my sides, trying not to shake. “Carl, this is a real opportunity for me. A career-changing one. I’m not asking for a month. It’s only a weekend.”
He smirks. “And I’ve worked here for years. Years. Mr. Gallo, Ian as you call him," he says with a sneer, "never once asked me to cater a damn wedding, much less fly me to a private island. Must be nice, huh?”
So that’s what this is. Not about staffing. Not about responsibility. Just plain, ugly jealousy. I grit my teeth. “This isn’t personal?—”
“Oh, it’s personal, alright.”
He turns and walks away, like that’s the end of discussion. Like his word is gospel and I should just fall in line.
I stand there for a long second, stunned. Angry. Humiliated. I stare at the prep counter, the half-chopped rosemary, the oil-slicked pans, the kitchen that’s no longer a lifeline but a leash.
I can’t afford to walk out of this place. Not yet. I need the paycheck, the references, the money to put a roof over my head. But it tastes oh so bitter on my tongue.
I return to my station and pick up my knife, but the rhythm is gone. My hands move, but my thoughts are a tangled mess. The Bahamas. The wedding. All of it slipping through my fingers.
Behind me, Carl starts whistling—off-key, tuneless, and smug as hell. The sound that isn't about a song, but about power. About control. I don’t even have to look to know he’s grinning to himself, satisfied in the pettiest way possible. Each sharp, shrill note feels like a taunt, digging under my skin like a splinter I can’t quite reach. He’s enjoying this. The win. The power trip. My silence. And the worst part? I have no choice but to let him have it.
By the time I get home, my body aches in places I didn’t know could hurt. The patio lights are on, casting a warm glow over the pool deck, and I spot Sawyer outside at the patio table, hunched over his laptop, a phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. His voice is low, focused, but there’s an edge to it—like something’s not going his way and he’s barely keeping the frustration in check.
Even irritated, he looks good—too good, honestly. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing with every keystroke, that sharp jawline catching in the light every time he turns his head. It’s ridiculous. No one should look that good while talking about vendor quotes and steel shipments. I fold my arms and take a second too long to look away. Damn it. I school my expression into something neutral and force myself to remember I’m mad, tired, and completely not interested in the man currently making multitasking look sexy.
Definitely not interested.
Mostly.
I watch him for a bit longer, taking in the way his fingers fly over the keyboard, the way his brow furrows when whoever he’s talking to says something he clearly doesn’t like. He doesn’t seeme yet, and for a second, I think about sneaking past, heading straight for a hot shower and pretending none of this night happened. But the disappointment pressing on my chest won’t go away, and I know I need to tell him I'm not going tomorrow.
Sawyer ends the call with a clipped, “Then fix it,” and tosses his phone onto the table beside his laptop. He runs a hand through his hair, and when he finally looks up and sees me, his expression softens.
“Hey,” he says, looking up from his laptop. His voice is rough with the edge of a long day but softens when he sees me. His eyes scan my face like he already knows something’s off, and the tension in his shoulders eases just slightly. “You’re home.”
I hover for a second, shifting my weight, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. My eyes flick from the pool to the edge of the table, anywhere but his face. He's so focused, so sure, and I feel like a cracked plate next to him. Still, I clear my throat and force a smile that wobbles at the edges. "Can we talk for a sec?" My voice is too soft, too tight, but it’s all I’ve got.
He sits back in his chair with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the stress lines on his face easing just a little. He gestures to the seat across from him, his voice warmer than it has any right to be after a long day. “Of course. What’s up?”
I sink into the chair, hands folded tightly in my lap. “I'm sorry, but I can’t go to Palmera this weekend.”
He blinks, brows furrowing as confusion flickers across his face. "What? Why not?" His voice is caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief, like he can't quite piece together why this would even be a question.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “Carl won’t give me the time off. He said I have to work doubles all weekend. I made the mistake of telling Carl that I was flying out for Ian and Mia’s wedding prep and he decided to punish me for it. He’s jealous.He’s been there for years and was never asked to do something like this.”
Sawyer’s eyes narrow, his whole body going still as his jaw ticks. "Why didn’t you quit? Just walk out?" His voice is sharp—not cruel, but loaded with disbelief and something dangerously close to anger. It's the tone that says he can't understand how anyone could stand being treated like that. His eyes search mine like he's waiting for an answer that makes any of this make sense.
My throat tightens as the words crawl up, thick and clumsy. "Because I can’t, Sawyer," I say, and the confession scrapes something raw inside me. "I’m living in your house. Rent free. I don’t have a lot of savings and my safety net has been depleted. I’m trying to save for my own place because the next time I move out of my van will be because I own a place. I won’t depend on anyone having control over my life like that again." I press my hands flat against the table, trying to ground myself, to hold in the frustration and shame swirling in my chest. "If I quit now, I have nowhere to go but back to my van. I'll have some money saved, but not enough to live on. I've got no backup plan." My voice drops, brittle and small, but still steady. "What else was I supposed to do? I have to work. I don't have a choice."
He exhales slowly, anger flashing behind his eyes, but it’s not aimed at me. “I hate he has that kind of power over you.”
