Page 3 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I make a beeline for the fire extinguisher on the wall, yanking it free as I shout, "Everyone, out! Fire! This is not a drill!"
I yank the fire alarm on the way, and it screams to life, shrill and immediate.
Diners scream. Chairs scrape. Someone drops a wineglass.
I charge into the men’s room, and the wave of heat hits me like a wall. Flames are already crawling up the back wall—paper towels, toilet paper, a trash bin all engulfed. I spray the extinguisher, white foam coating the floor and walls, but it’s not enough. The fire eats through it, growing angry.
Smoke chokes the doorway. I stumble back, coughing, eyes watering. One of my line cooks comes charging over to me, “Javier, go! I’ve got it. Don’t look at me like that–move!”
Back in the dining room, my staff are ushering guests toward the exits. I help where I can, guiding people through the haze, shouting directions. Someone trips. I haul them up. I don’t stop. Not until the last customer is outside.
"Charli! Let it go!" a firefighter yells, grabbing my arm. I hadn’t realized I’d gone back in. I’m spraying another extinguisher, desperate to stop the spread. "Out. Now."
I stumble backward, coughing through the smoke as muscular hands drag me out the door. The rush of chilly nightair slams into me as the chaos of the fire blurs behind me. I find myself on the pavement, legs buckling from underneath me as the adrenaline burns off.
My chest heaves. My throat burns. My eyes won’t stop watering-not from the smoke anymore, but from everything crashing in at once.
And then I watch it burn.
Orange flames roar through the roofline, devouring everything in their path. Windows explode, sending shards of glass scattering across the pavement. Smoke pours into the sky, thick and black, curling upward like a funeral shroud. I hear the beams groan, the bones of my restaurant cracking, collapsing inward.
People stand on the sidewalk behind caution tape, murmuring, taking videos. Some are crying. Some are just watching. I’m numb to all of it. My throat tastes like ash, my lungs ache with every breath, and all I can do is stand there, useless, as the one place I felt safe is swallowed whole.
The Silver Willow is gone. My job. My home. The only safe, steady thing I had left. All I can do is sit here on the asphalt and stare as flames tear through the place I built a life inside of–and realize there’s nothing left to go back to. I built something with love and sweat and sleepless nights. And now all I have is a van, a blanket, and no clue what tomorrow even looks like.
The flames reflect on the windshield of my van—my other home. Not that anyone knew. I’ve been living out of the office behind the kitchen for months. Ever since my sleezy landlord sold the little house I’d been renting for a year out from under me. The real estate market shot up beyond anything I could afford. No family to help. No safety net. Just me and a mattress behind the dry storage and the prepped stock.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe past the grief clawing its way out. It’s not just a fire. It’s the end of the last thing I built with my own hands.
No home. No job. Just smoke, ashes, and the sound of everything I fought for falling apart.
I don’t cry. Not yet.
But I know this is going to break me. The question is—how quietly can I shatter?
The briefing room at the Hibiscus Harbor fire station smells like burned plastic and bitter coffee. I sit on a cold metal chair, hands wrapped around a paper cup I haven’t touched. My clothes still reek of smoke. I probably do too.
Across from me, two men stand near a corkboard covered in fire maps, reports, and photos. Captain Morgan—square-jawed, grizzled, all business—and his second, Chance Carter, who looks barely older than me, eyes too sharp for his age.
The owner of the Silver Willow and my most recent boss, Sawyer Gallo, sits beside me, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hasn’t said a word since we got here. Just radiating pissed-off billionaire energy in his tailored shirt and scuffed boots. I haven’t quite decided if I’m grateful for his silence or annoyed by it. We’ve only ever talked a few times when he was inquiring about purchasing the restaurant. Once he did, he’s pretty much let me run the place the way I see fit, never bothering me or asking too many questions.
"We’re treating this as a confirmed arson," Captain Morgan says, pinning a photo of the scorched men’s restroom wall to the board. "Based on the point of origin, accelerant patterns, and what your staff described, this fire was intentionally set."
My stomach knots. It’s one thing to suspect arson. It’s another to hear it out loud.
"Is this connected to the other fires around town?" Sawyer asks, voice low and tight.
Chance nods grimly. "We think so. The yacht fire at the country club, the apartment complex last fall, and about six smaller incidents—dumpsters, abandoned homes. No clear pattern yet, no suspects, and nothing was stolen. Just destruction."
"So, you have nothing," I say, sharper than I intend. "No leads, no one to question?"
Captain Morgan shakes his head. "Not yet. Whoever it is, they’re smart. Methodical. They leave just enough behind to burn, but not enough to track."
Sawyer exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I want to help. I’ll pay for specialists, private investigators, whatever you need. Just tell me where to start."
Chance glances at Morgan, then shrugs. "We won’t turn down the help. We’re stretched thin."
"Good," Sawyer mutters.
