Page 8 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I stiffen. "I never asked for a damn rescue," I snap, the words punching through the tightness in my throat. "I take care of myself. I always have. I’ve been on my own since I was a kid, and I’m still standing. I don’t need anyone sweeping in like some white knight just because things look a little messy." I’m not used to being someone who needs saving, and I hate Sawyer might see me that way.
He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans closer. “You deserve better than this,” he growls, leaning into my space, every inch of him radiating heat and authority. “You’re not some burden, Charli. And I sure as hell am not the type of man who stands by and watches someone I know live in these types of conditions."
I shake my head, heart hammering against my ribs. “I’m fine, Sawyer,” I say, even though we both know it’s a lie. “I don’t need saving.”
He closes the distance between us until I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. “You think sleeping in this damn van proves something? That you’re strong? I already know you’re strong. You’ve got nothing to prove.”
“I’m not trying to prove shit to anyone. Especially you.” I say with fake defiance in my voice.
He motions again to the tight corners of my life, jaw clenched. “You’re not staying here another night. I won’t allow it. You want to be stubborn? Fine. But you can be stubborn in my guest room. Follow me.” He turns to walk about but only makes it two steps before looking at me. “If you don’t, Charli, I’ll have this van towed.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but the words tangle with the knot forming in my throat. I don’t want him to see me like this—stripped down to the version of myself I try so damn hard to keep hidden. I don’t want the pity in his eyes, the softness in his voice. I don’t want to be someone he looks at differently, like I’m fragile or broken or less. Being seen like this—is exactly what I’ve been avoiding… exactly why I’ve told no one about my living conditions.
Having no other choice because I can’t afford to lose my van, I trail his sleek black Maserati through a maze of manicured roads and guarded gates, deeper into a world I’ve only ever seen from the outside. This part of Hibiscus Island doesn’t just whisper wealth—it screams it, from the gleaming beachfront estates to the private docks lined with yachts that probably cost more than I’ll make in a lifetime. By the time we reach the massive stone drive that curves toward his house, I’ve gripped the steering wheel so tight my fingers ache.
His mansion is more modern resort than home—glass, steel, and rich wood all pressed into sharp angles softened by warm lighting and lush tropical landscaping. The kind of place that doesn’t just have a view, itisthe view.
I kill the engine and stare for a full beat, hands still gripping the wheel, knuckles pale. I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. But when you don’t have choices, you stop thinking in terms of pride and start thinking in terms of survival.
I release a shaky breath, grab my duffel bag, and climb out of the van. The driveway beneath my boots is too smooth, the air too clean, and the silence is deafening.
My duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, my spine locked straight, and my pride is dragging behind me like a battered suitcase with a busted wheel—loud, awkward, and impossible to ignore.
His home is beautiful—modern lines and warm wood, with soft lighting and sleek furniture. There’s a faint scent of cedar and citrus, and everything is so clean it’s almost surreal. I hover near the doorway, not sure where to stand, let alone what to say.
Sawyer glances over his shoulder. “You can drop the bag anywhere. Your room’s upstairs, third door on the right.”
I nod stiffly but don’t move.
He turns fully, arms folding over his broad chest. “Look Charli, I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
“No,” I cut in, voice tight. “It’s not, but I appreciate it. Thank you.”
He studies me for a beat, then softens. “You’re not here because I pity you. You’re here because I couldn’t knowingly let you live in your van. I won’t.”
My mouth opens, but the words don’t come. I want to say something—anything—to push back, to assert some kind of control over this whole upside-down situation. But the lump in my throat is too thick, pride swelling and collapsing all at once. So, I nod, stiff and silent, and finally set my duffel bag on the floor.
Something massive and light gray comes barreling around the corner, paws thundering against the polished floor like a four-legged freight train, and I freeze mid-step. My first instinct is to back up, find something to grab—anything—before the blur of muscle and motion resolves into a Doberman with glossy fur and eyes locked right on me.
The Doberman skids to a stop in front of me, paws spread, ass in the air, and tail wagging like a metronome. Her ears are alert, eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes me instinctively tense. She looks like she could take down a full-grown man without breaking a sweat—and enjoy it. Her whole posture says, 'guard dog,' but there’s a flicker of something gentler in her gaze, as if she’s waiting to see if I pass some kind of invisible test.
“That’s Ghost,” Sawyer says casually from across the room as he flips through some mail. “Don’t let the face fool you. She's a total softie.”
Ghost lets out a chuff, then promptly leans her entire weight against my legs—like a beanbag with a zero sense of personal space. I wobble, flail for balance, and end up gripping the edge of a nearby console. "Oh, okay," I mutter, as she presses even harder, like she’s trying to merge into my actual bones. "So, we’re best friends now? Cool, cool. No personal boundaries, got it."
“See?” Sawyer laughs. “Told you.”
Chapter 3
Sawyer
Idon’t know what the hell I was thinking. Charli is asleep upstairs in my guest room.
She followed me through the house, still stiff from pride and probably a little mortified to be here, but Ghost—my traitorous mutt—made it impossible to keep things tense. She trotted ahead like a furry little realtor, showing off her favorite lounging spots and even dragging out her favorite squeaky toy from under the couch to present it to Charli like a prize.
Charli cracked a smile. The real kind. The kind that tugged at the corner of her mouth like she wasn’t used to letting it happen.
She looked around my place—vaulted ceilings, clean lines, designer everything—and asked me, deadpan, “Why does a single guy and his dog need this much house?”
