Page 51 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
“She’s at that age where she's been asking who her father is,” she whispers, her voice quivering with something that almost passes for vulnerability. “She’s got questions I can’t keep answering with half-truths and bedtime stories. She deserves to know him—really know him. To have that piece of her life filled in. To have a family that isn’t just me.”
The words tumble out before I can stop them, sharp and stunned. "Does he know about her?" My voice cracks around the edges, disbelief tangling with something darker—betrayal, maybe. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t ignore the thundering silence that follows.
Ava gives me a small, almost sheepish smile. "Yes, he knows. He's known all along. He's been paying child support ever since she was born—quietly, consistently. He’s done the responsible thing."
I stare at the photo, the breath catching in my throat. Sawyer has a daughter. A whole human being he helped create. A little girl he’s known about for years, and never once mentioned to me. My chest tightens as a strange, bitter ache spreads through me—a cocktail of hurt and disbelief. Why didn’t he tell me? Why did I have to find out like this, from Ava, of all people?
The weight of that omission feels heavier than anything else. Not just because he kept a secret, but because it wasthissecret. A child. His child. How could he look me in the eyes, whisper all those promises, make me feel like I was part of something real... and never say a word about the most important person in his life? My throat burns with unshed tears, but I force myself to hold it together. Not here. Not now. Not in front of her. I just keep staring at the photo, as if the answers might be hidden in that little girl’s eyes.
Ava gives a small, sad smile, but there's an unmistakable glint of triumph beneath it. “I thought you should know. Since you’re playing house with him now.” Her words drip with carefully measured condescension, like she’s gifting me a truth I’m too naïve to see. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to have a real family?” she continues, her voice soft but smug. “For him and our daughter to be together. To be what they should have been all along—a family.”
I say nothing and just hand the photo back to her.
Ava sighs, hesitating at the doorway. "Anyway... thank you for listening." She pauses, her expression tightening just a little before she adds, more quietly, "Just... please do the right thing. For her. She deserves a chance to know her father. She deserves a family." Her voice falters at the end, the practiced sadness giving way to something that almost sounds like hope. Then she turns and walks out, the scent of her perfume lingering behind her like a parting shot.
I stand there, unmoving. Staff whirl around me, asking questions. I answer automatically. I plate hors d’oeuvres. I finish the prep. But my mind is spinning. What do I do now?
This isn't about me. It’s about that little girl. She deserves a father. A real one. Not some guy whose girlfriend stood in the way.
I know what it’s like to grow up without someone to lean on. My mother died when I was eight, and my father... well, he treated me like I was more burden than a daughter. I spent most of my childhood trying not to take up space, trying to earn scraps of affection that never came. I know exactly how lonely and hollow that kind of life feels. And I won’t—can’t—be the reason another little girl grows up thinking she’s unworthy of love. Wondering what she did wrong. So, I make the only decision I can.
After the last dish is served, I wash my hands, pack my things, and grab the next commercial flight off the island and back to Hibiscus Harbor.
I leave the island.
I leave Sawyer.
Because if there’s one thing I’m good at—it’s starting over.
Even when it breaks my heart.
Chapter 21
Sawyer
Weddings are supposed to be joyful—full of champagne-fueled laughter, bad dancing, and love thick enough in the air to make even the cynics cry into their overpriced cocktails. A celebration where the stress and chaos dissolve for one perfect night and only the good stuff remains. But standing here, suited up and going through the motions, I can’t shake the gnawing sense that something’s off. Like I’m watching it all through a glass wall—present, but not really in it.
From the moment I stepped into my tux this morning, it’s been go-go-go. Helping Ian get dressed. Keeping his nerves in check. Making sure the rings didn’t mysteriously vanish between the suite and the altar. Giving speeches, calming our mother down after she decided the napkins weren’t the right shade of cream. And now, hours later, I’m still in Best Man mode, shaking hands and laughing at the same toast for the tenth time.
But through it all, I keep catching glimpses of her.
Charli.
She’s been a blur of motion in the distance—in the kitchen, near the serving tables, ducking out of the ballroom with a tray in hand. We’ve not made eye contact. Not for lack of trying. Every time I see her, she’s already gone again. And that smile sheusually tosses me when she knows I’m looking? It’s been missing all night.
I tell myself it’s just the chaos. She’s working. I’m working. We’re in two different worlds tonight, orbiting around the same event but never quite colliding.
Still, something doesn’t feel right.
When the music slows and the lights begin to dim, Ian grabs the mic and calls for everyone’s attention. Mia’s glowing beside him—barefoot now, cheeks flushed from champagne and giddy happiness. She’s clinging to his arm like she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, and Ian, grinning like the luckiest man on earth, wraps his arm around her waist and kisses the top of her head with so much tenderness it makes a few people audibly sigh.
"Before we wrap up the most incredible night of our lives," he says, looking around the room, "we want to take a second to thank the people who made this magic happen. The staff has been unbelievable—from the kitchen to the servers to the coordinators. So if you could all come out for a quick round of applause, we’d love to show our appreciation."
The crowd claps and turns, and slowly the staff emerges. The kitchen doors swing open and familiar faces step into the light—chefs in crisp whites, bartenders still dusted with citrus zest, servers with tired smiles and wine-stained aprons. The applause swells with warmth and genuine gratitude. Ian has one arm wrapped around Mia’s waist, the other lifting his champagne flute as he personally thanks them all. Mia’s eyes are misty, her free hand pressed to her chest like the moment is nearly too much.
But I’m not watching them. I’m watching that doorway. And Charli doesn’t come through it.
My chest tightens as I wait. My eyes search the group, heart picking up speed. Still no Charli.
