Page 53 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
"To Charli," I snap, stepping in closer, my patience threadbare. "What. Did. You. Say." My voice is sharp enough to slice through steel, each word slow and deliberate, like a lit fuse burning down to the inevitable explosion. I’m done playing nice.
Her lips twitch into a smile. Smug. Satisfied. That’s when it clicks—this wasn’t chance. This wasn’t a coincidence. She orchestrated it. She said something, twisted a knife in just the right way to send Charli running. And she’s proud of it. The knowledge detonates in my chest like a landmine. She did this. She made her leave. And she’s standing here smiling like she’s already won.
Fury rises, white-hot and wild. I step back, every muscle in my body taut with rage. "You went behind my back and messed with her. After everything you already did to me, you thought you could come here and screw up the one good thing I had left?"
Ava’s expression falters. "Sawyer—" she breathes, stepping closer again, her voice shaky now but still laced with desperate insistence. "You know we were good together. We had something real—don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that. The way we used to be, how we fit together, how we understood each other like no one else ever has."
She reaches out, fingertips grazing the edge of my jacket sleeve like a whisper, her eyes shimmering with something that might’ve once passed for vulnerability. "You and me... we make sense. We are meant to be. I know I messed up, but people change. I’ve changed. Haven’t you ever thought about it? About us?"
Her voice drops into something softer, coaxing. "Charli doesn’t belong in our world, Sawyer. But I do. I always have. I’m not here to fight anymore. I’m here to make things right—because you don’t need her. You needme."
"Don’t. Just—don’t." My voice is sharp, slicing through the lingering clatter of the reception like a whip. "You don’t get to dothis. You don’t get to come in here, screw with Charli’s head, and act like you're doing me a favor."
Ava's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing, lips parting like she might try again. But I’m not done.
"You were good at pretending," I continue, my voice low and tight with fury. "But you don’t get to rewrite history, and you sure as hell don’t get to play the victim now. So let me make it real fucking clear—stay the hell away from me. And from Charli. Because if you come near her again, I will ruin you."
Ava’s face twists in disbelief, her eyes wide and blinking like she can’t fathom how the script didn’t play out the way she imagined. For a moment, she looks genuinely rattled—like the thought that her scheme might backfire never even occurred to her. That her charms, her manipulations, her carefully calculated performance wouldn’t be enough to pull me back in. It’s written all over her face: confusion, frustration, and a desperate glint of disbelief that the world might finally see through her act.
I ignore the look on her face and turn on my heel, storming out with fury clenching my jaw and my heart hammering like a war drum. Every step pounds with purpose—rage, betrayal, and something dangerously close to heartbreak. I'm done with her games. Done with being manipulated. I will not let Ava be the end of this. I will find Charli. And I will make this right. No matter what it takes. Because I amnotlosing her. Not like this.
Behind me, Ava’s voice rises in a pitch just shy of a wail, frantic and strained. "Sawyer, please! Don’t walk away from this—we werereal!" Her desperation clings to each word like a drowning woman to driftwood, cracking through the last shreds of her composure. There’s no grace left in her voice, no arrogance—just raw, unfiltered need. But I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. Let her beg all she wants.
That chapter is closed, and I’m done rereading the same lies.
Chapter 22
Charli
The plane touches down in Hibiscus Harbor just after midnight.
The air is thick and humid, the type of muggy that clings to your skin like regret and makes your hair explode into a frizz ball. The streets are mostly quiet, save for the occasional porch light or the flicker of a late-night diner. I don’t go home—not that I really have one anymore. I go tohis.
Sawyer’s house is dark when the taxi pulls into the drive. Ghost meets me at the door, her ears twitching, like even she knows something isn’t right. I reach over and run my hand down her back, grounding myself with the rhythm of her breath.
"Come on, girl," I whisper. "Let’s get this over with."
Inside, everything is exactly the same. My shoes by the door. My favorite mug in the drying rack. A half-used notepad on the counter with my handwriting across the top:order cilantro. The life I was building is still here. It’s just not mine anymore. I guess it never was.
I walk through the house like a guest, touching nothing, trying not to breathe too deeply. If I let myself inhale too much ofus, I might never leave and I have to leave. I know Becky is staying in the guest bedroom, so I'm quiet as a mouse, so I don'twake her. I leave a note for her letting her know I have Ghost with me.
Ghost trots beside me as I head to the bedroom. No—ourroom. That’s what Sawyer started calling it. That was before everything cracked wide open.
I pack fast.
Stuffing clothes into my duffel bag with mechanical efficiency. Shoving binders and recipe cards into crates. Staring too long at the sweatshirt Sawyer lent me for our first night in the Bahamas. It still smells like him. Ocean and cedar and something warm I don’t have a name for.
I press it to my chest, just for a second, eyes squeezed shut, and then I shove it into the bag. This is what love looks like when you're trying to do the right thing. It looks like walking away.
I’m not doing this because I don’t love him. God, I love him. More than I thought I could ever love anyone. But if Ava was telling the truth—and the resemblance in that photo says she probably was—then there’s a little girl out there who needs Sawyer a hell of a lot more than I do and I won’t be the thing that stands in the way of a child having a father. Not after the way I grew up. Not after all the empty words and broken promises I lived through.
I haul my duffel bag into the back of the van and slam the doors a little too hard. Ghost hops in beside me, nose pressed to the window like she’s waiting for Sawyer to appear in the driveway. A part of me wishes he would. That he’d burst out of the house, demand an explanation, and pull me back in with those strong arms and soft words.
But I also know if hedidcome out, I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave. So I drive.
I don’t head for the beach. I don’t go to the Java Hut. Instead, I drive straight out of town to Pelican Point.
The Rusty Anchor hasn’t changed. Paint still peeling in places, the neon sign still flickering like it’s in a fight with itself. It’s barely two in the morning, but I know Rusty’s already there. The man treats breakfast like church and the griddle like a pulpit.
