Page 63 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”Click.
Just like that, the line goes dead.
And I breathe again.
But at that moment, I hear a soft throat-clear sound behind me, and I turn to see Margot standing just beyond the rosemary.She’s holding a mug, her skin lit softly by the moonlight. A smile tugs at my lips—automatic, like muscle memory now.
She smiles, too, and walks over to sit beside me on the bench.
She smells like mint and chamomile. Comfort.
“What was that about?” she asks gently. “I heard you say you wouldn’t be returning to the company. What do you do, exactly?”
The smile slips off my face.
Dang.
That part of me—my real life, the weight of it—was supposed to stay outside this town. It wasn’t supposed to follow me here. And Margot isn’t supposed to find out anything.
“Well…?” she urges playfully.
I school my expression, lean back, and shrug. “Nothing that interesting. Just… business stuff.”
It’s vague. Cold. A door slammed shut mid-conversation.
And she notices.
I see her retreat—shoulders drawing in, eyes cooling over. She rises, the warmth from moments ago vanishing.
“Right,” she says, voice clipped. “Goodnight, Cal.”
She walks away before I can stop her.
And just like that, I’m alone again. But this time… there’s no warmth, just loneliness. Knowing the bubble I created around myself is gone, I rise from the bench and find my way back to my room.
The next day, Margot is… different.
Distant. Evasive. Like I’m made of static she can’t stand to be around.
She slips out of the kitchen the moment I walk in for breakfast. Doesn’t look at me once. Doesn’t speak. It’s like we’ve reverted back to day one—only this time, there’s tension in the silence. A tension I caused.
Now I’m back in my room, pacing like a man waiting on a verdict. I glance out the window at the summer sky stretching endlessly above the trees, but it offers no peace.
I’ve got three days left.
Three days until my three weeks are up.
I should be packing. I should be checking in with my team, arranging flights, confirming meetings.
Instead, I’m standing here, thinking about Margot Hartwell and how I managed to ruin the one connection that’s felt real in… years.
And for what?
Because I panicked? Because I couldn’t tell her the truth?
I rake a hand through my hair and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees.
