Page 4 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I nod like I understand. Like that vague explanation makes it all better. Like I didn’t just lose everything and now I’m supposed to wait quietly while they figure it all out. My hands won’t stop shaking, but I shove them into the sleeves of my jacket so no one sees. It’s not the cold. It’s the reality.
No home. No job. No clue what comes next or where I’m going to go. And no one to blame but the damn flames that ate through the last shred of stability I had left.
I follow Sawyer out of the fire station and into the parking lot. “Sorry about the place,” he says finally, voice low and even.
I nod, not looking at him. “It was your restaurant that burned.”
There’s a pause, one of those thick ones where something else wants to be said but neither of us has the guts or the energy to say it. Then he clears his throat and walks away.
Chapter 1
Sawyer
The Silver Willow wasn’t just another investment. It was mine. I walked through this place a dozen times before closing on it. Listening to the head chef, Charli, talk about turning the seasonal menu. She ran that kitchen like a damn command center. One look, one word, and people moved. There was power in her presence – even if she didn’t demand it. I talked to my brother, Ian, about turning it into something higher end without losing its soul.
Now it’s a blackened shell, soaked in ash and foam, the bones of it sagging like a dying animal under tarp-covered scaffolding. I stand across the street with a cup of shitty gas station coffee in one hand and a pit in my stomach that hasn’t let up since the night it burned.
I couldn’t cook to save my life—still can’t. I once set a frozen pizza on fire and damn near triggered the sprinkler system in my old condo. But there was something about the controlled chaos of a kitchen that always fascinated me. The precision. The timing. The art of turning raw ingredients into something unforgettable. Watching a well-run kitchen was like watching a symphony—everyone moving in sync, heat and motion and steel, all dancing together. Owning The Silver Willow had beenabout more than profit. It was about creation. Community. Legacy. It was the first thing I had that felt personal—mine, not inherited, not handed off, not part of some soulless real estate portfolio.
Now it’s gone.
Ash clings to the air like a memory you can’t scrub out. The scent of charred wood and bitter grease settles in my throat and stays there.
I take a long sip of the bitter coffee, watching a charred beam get lifted into a dumpster. The groan of metal and wood echoes down the block like the building’s crying out one last time. I clench my jaw. What kills me isn’t just the money I lost—it’s the people. My team. My staff. My chef. The ones who showed up early and stayed late. The ones who believed in what we were building. People who trusted me to make something permanent in a world that rarely is. And now? They’ve got nothing. No warning. No backup plan. Just ashes where their future used to be.
Charli Whitmore, my head chef, had been with the restaurant long before I bought it—an absolute force in the kitchen. Could command a brigade with a look. I’d only had a handful of conversations with her before the fire, but she is smart. Driven. Loyal to the bone.
And now out of a job.
Not on my watch.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen for a beat. My thumb hovers over Ian’s name before I finally tap it. He’s probably still in bed, grumpy as hell, but he’s the one person I trust to make things happen fast—and right now, that’s all I care about. I pace along the sidewalk, smoke still drifting faintly from the building across the street, my free hand tightening around the coffee cup until the paper crinkles.
He answers on the second ring. "If you’re calling before seven, someone better be dead."
"Charli Whitmore," I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "She was my executive chef. Hell of a cook. Hell of a leader. You got an opening at the club for her? Somewhere she can land on her feet while I figure out what comes next?"
A pause. Then, "Jesus, you’re not even going to say good morning?"
"Not in the mood, big brother. She’s been through hell, Ian. She’s a damn talent, and she deserves more than being tossed aside like collateral damage. I need her placed so we don’t lose her. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now."
Ian sighs, and I picture him sitting at his kitchen counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and holding his phone with the other. "Fine. Yeah, I’ve got a spot at the country club. One of the executive chef slots just opened up. But full disclosure—she’s walking into Carl’s territory. He doesn’t play nice with fresh blood, especially not someone coming in with your stamp on her."
I grit my teeth. "She can handle Carl. Trust me. He’ll either respect her or get the hell out of her way."
"Then consider it done," he says, sounding more awake now. "Tell her to come in Monday morning, seven sharp. I’ll make sure HR has her paperwork ready. And Sawyer? Don’t hover. Let her find her feet."
"I’m not going to hover," I lie. Because I will. Of course I will. I’m Sawyer fucking Gallo.
I hang up and stare at the smoking ruin across the street, the scent of wet soot clinging to the morning air like a curse. Sirens are long gone, but the wreckage hums with silence, the kind that settles over a grave. I should’ve let HR handle it. Should’ve pointed her to an employment site like everyone else, but the thought of her out there, jobless, makes my jaw clench.
I watch as a couple of construction workers shift around the site, cataloging damage, clearing debris—familiar faces, all of them. Guys I hired years ago. Today, not one of them looks me in the eye.
Good. Because I don’t have answers yet. Only promises. And those burn hotter than fire.
It’s not enough. I’m going to rebuild The Silver Willow—better, stronger. And I’m going to take care of every person who depended on it.
Charli’s van is parked in the alley behind what’s left of The Silver Willow, tucked in beside the delivery ramp and an overflowing dumpster. I spot it as I round the corner, and sure enough, the driver’s side window is cracked open, and her silhouette is visible through the glass.
