Page 2 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I straighten. "Where? Is she okay?"
He hesitates. Then hands me a tablet. "She boarded a different flight."
I blink. "What? No. She wouldn’t do that. We were going together. We were?—"
"Just watch." He presses play.
There she is. Ava. My Ava. Laughing, carefree, her hand entwined with a man I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing the same blue sundress, the same gold pendant I gave her for ouranniversary, the same smile I thought was mine. He leans in and kisses her like they’ve done it a hundred times before—and she melts into it. No hesitation. No guilt. She kisses him back like she means it. Like I never existed.
I say nothing. I can’t. My whole body just shuts down. It was like watching a life I thought I had blink out, frame by frame, in grainy footage. I should be angry. Instead, I just feel hollow.
Ava and Tan Suit Guy walk down the jet bridge together, side by side, their arms brushing, their heads leaning close. She’s laughing at something he says, that carefree, tinkling laugh I used to live for. There’s no hesitation in her steps, no backward glance. Just Ava, disappearing down the tunnel with another man, like I never existed.
The camera footage ends, but I don’t.
Something in me breaks clean in two. Not a fracture—this is total collapse. Like the load-bearing wall in the center of who I am just crumbled to dust. My ribs go hollow. My throat burns. I feel like I’m floating outside my body, watching a version of myself being dismantled in real time. Despite that, I can't look away from the screen, like some part of me is hoping the footage will change, that it’s all some twisted mistake. But it’s not. She’s gone. She chose someone else. And that bitch did it with a smile on her face.
Eli says nothing for a long time. Then he claps me on the shoulder and mutters something about buying me a drink later.
But I’m already gone. Not physically. No—I walk out on my own. Get in my car. Drive until the sun disappears.
That night, I learn the most important lesson of my life.
Don’t let anyone get close enough to ruin you. Since that day, I’ve kept people where they belong–on the outside of the blast radius. Safer for them. Safer for me.
Charli Whitmore
The Silver Willow Restaurant
Two weeks ago
There’s a rhythm to the chaos of a kitchen. A pulse. A hum. And right now, mine’s thundering. "Two sea bass, one rare steak, three risottos, and table seven is still waiting on their duck," I call out, sliding the newest order ticket onto the rail.
"Chef, the fryer’s slowing again."
"Switch to the backup," I snap, not missing a beat. I’m already checking plates, adjusting garnishes, and dodging a line cook’s elbow. The Silver Willow is packed tonight—anniversary dinners, date nights, a table full of influencers livestreaming their food like it’s the second coming. Every burner’s lit, every seat filled. This is where I belong. In the middle of heat and noise and precision.
The kitchen hums with that perfect blend of chaos and rhythm-the kind only real chefs know how to ride. Order slips flutter on the rail. Pans hiss. Steam rolls up from boiling pots, and I’m right in the middle of it all, orchestrating with a wooden spoon in one hand and a towel slung over my shoulder like a badge of honor.
This isn’t just a job. It’s my heartbeat. My one constant. The place I always belong-even if it technically never belonged to me.
I flip a pan with a flick of my wrist and call out, “Table six up!” as the plate hits the pass like it knows the way.
Until something cuts through the rosemary and garlic butter.
Burning. Smoky.
Wrong.
It hits my nose, faint at first, like someone left bread too long in the toaster. I spin toward the ovens. Check the burners. Walk the line. Everything’s running hot, but nothing’s burning. I sniff again.
It’s not coming from the kitchen.
I push through the swinging doors into the dining room. Laughter, clinking glasses, candlelight—nothing out of place. But the smell is stronger now, curling around the edges of the room.
Then I see it. Smoke snaking out from the men’s restroom.
"Shit."
