The Billionaire’s Secret Desire (Hibiscus Harbor #6)

Prologue

Sawyer Gallo

Palm Beach International Airport

Five years ago

"You sure you want to do this?" I ask, lacing our fingers together as we sit at the gate, waiting to board. My leg’s bouncing like it has somewhere better to be, but it’s nerves. Not cold feet. Hell, I haven’t felt this certain about anything in a long time.

Ava smiles at me, that slow, secret smile she saves just for me. "I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t sure."

She kisses my cheek, then rests her head on my shoulder.

I wrap an arm around her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—vanilla and something floral—and feel that rare thing bloom in my chest: peace.

We’ve been planning this trip for months.

A week in Turks and Caicos. Just the two of us.

Sun, sand, maybe a few conversations about wedding colors if she wants. She’s the woman I’m going to marry.

Ava keeps checking her phone and when I asked about it earlier, she told me it was her mom one time and her assistant the other. I don’t push. I just hold her hand tighter.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, standing and smoothing her skirt. "Bathroom. Don’t miss me too much."

I grin and watch her disappear down the terminal, eyes glued to the sway of her hips. The love of my life. She makes everything feel possible.

Five minutes pass. Then ten as I wait for her to return.

I check my watch. The gate attendant starts boarding group one.

Still no Ava.

I try her phone, but it goes straight to voicemail.

A prickle of unease crawls down my spine.

"Excuse me," I say to the gate agent. "My fiancée stepped away and hasn’t come back. Can you hold our boarding passes a second longer?"

They nod, distracted, scanning another ticket. I grab my bag and head for the bathrooms.

I stand outside the women’s restroom, shifting from foot to foot as people come and go.

After what feels like forever, I flag down a janitor and ask if he’s seen a blonde woman in a blue dress.

He shakes his head. I even knock once, then twice, before stepping back.

Can’t exactly barge in without causing a scene. She’s not in there.

I check the shops, the Starbucks, even the Hudson News. I start asking people. Describing her. Blonde hair. Blue sundress. Smiles like sin.

Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, our flight takes off without us. I don’t even watch it go. My gut says something’s wrong… really wrong.

Airport security is called after I all but demand someone do something.

One of the gate agents brings me over to a podium and has me speak with a supervisor.

They jot down a description and ask for a photo.

My hands are shaking as I scroll through my phone to find one from dinner last week—she’s smiling, tan, golden hair shining under the restaurant lights. I hand it over.

They send it to security, and within minutes, a TSA agent is leading me behind a rope line and into a small office where the air smells like burnt coffee and printer paper. A monitor shows split screens of the terminal. People hurrying through the airport. Bags rolling. Faces blurring.

I try not to lose my shit while they ask me basic questions. Her full name. What she was wearing. Where I last saw her. Each answer comes out clipped and angry. Not at them. At myself. At her. At this sick feeling in my gut that something is very, very wrong.

"Sir," someone says. "There’s an officer from the Hibiscus Harbor police department here who can help."

Eli Ford walks in, badge clipped to his belt, eyes scanning until they land on me.

"Jesus, Gallo," he mutters. "You look like hell. What’s going on?"

I fill him in. He says nothing at first, just asks to see a photo of Ava. Then he disappears behind a door with the head of security.

I pace. Try to breathe. Try to understand what the hell is happening.

Ten minutes later, Eli comes back. "We found her."

I straighten. "Where? Is she okay?"

He hesitates. Then hands me a tablet. "She boarded a different flight."

I blink. "What? No. She wouldn’t do that. We were going together. We were—"

"Just watch." He presses play.

There she is. Ava. My Ava. Laughing, carefree, her hand entwined with a man I’ve never seen before.

She’s wearing the same blue sundress, the same gold pendant I gave her for our anniversary, the same smile I thought was mine.

He leans in and kisses her like they’ve done it a hundred times before—and she melts into it.

No hesitation. No guilt. She kisses him back like she means it. Like I never existed.

I say nothing. I can’t. My whole body just shuts down. It was like watching a life I thought I had blink out, frame by frame, in grainy footage. I should be angry. Instead, I just feel hollow.

Ava and Tan Suit Guy walk down the jet bridge together, side by side, their arms brushing, their heads leaning close.

She’s laughing at something he says, that carefree, tinkling laugh I used to live for.

There’s no hesitation in her steps, no backward glance.

Just Ava, disappearing down the tunnel with another man, like I never existed.

The camera footage ends, but I don’t.

Something in me breaks clean in two. Not a fracture—this is total collapse.

Like the load-bearing wall in the center of who I am just crumbled to dust. My ribs go hollow.

My throat burns. I feel like I’m floating outside my body, watching a version of myself being dismantled in real time.

Despite that, I can't look away from the screen, like some part of me is hoping the footage will change, that it’s all some twisted mistake.

But it’s not. She’s gone. She chose someone else.

And that bitch did it with a smile on her face.

Eli says nothing for a long time. Then he claps me on the shoulder and mutters something about buying me a drink later.

But I’m already gone. Not physically. No—I walk out on my own. Get in my car. Drive until the sun disappears.

That night, I learn the most important lesson of my life.

Don’t let anyone get close enough to ruin you. Since that day, I’ve kept people where they belong–on the outside of the blast radius. Safer for them. Safer for me.

Charli Whitmore

The Silver Willow Restaurant

Two weeks ago

There’s a rhythm to the chaos of a kitchen. A pulse. A hum. And right now, mine’s thundering. "Two sea bass, one rare steak, three risottos, and table seven is still waiting on their duck," I call out, sliding the newest order ticket onto the rail.

"Chef, the fryer’s slowing again."

"Switch to the backup," I snap, not missing a beat. I’m already checking plates, adjusting garnishes, and dodging a line cook’s elbow.

The Silver Willow is packed tonight—anniversary dinners, date nights, a table full of influencers livestreaming their food like it’s the second coming.

Every burner’s lit, every seat filled. This is where I belong.

In the middle of heat and noise and precision.

The kitchen hums with that perfect blend of chaos and rhythm-the kind only real chefs know how to ride.

Order slips flutter on the rail. Pans hiss.

Steam rolls up from boiling pots, and I’m right in the middle of it all, orchestrating with a wooden spoon in one hand and a towel slung over my shoulder like a badge of honor.

This isn’t just a job. It’s my heartbeat. My one constant. The place I always belong-even if it technically never belonged to me.

I flip a pan with a flick of my wrist and call out, “Table six up!” as the plate hits the pass like it knows the way.

Until something cuts through the rosemary and garlic butter.

Burning. Smoky.

Wrong.

It hits my nose, faint at first, like someone left bread too long in the toaster. I spin toward the ovens. Check the burners. Walk the line. Everything’s running hot, but nothing’s burning. I sniff again.

It’s not coming from the kitchen.

I push through the swinging doors into the dining room. Laughter, clinking glasses, candlelight—nothing out of place. But the smell is stronger now, curling around the edges of the room.

Then I see it. Smoke snaking out from the men’s restroom.

"Shit."

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 night air 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.

I nod like I understand. Like that vague explanation makes it all better.

Like I didn’t just lose everything and now I’m supposed to wait quietly while they figure it all out.

My hands won’t stop shaking, but I shove them into the sleeves of my jacket so no one sees. It’s not the cold. It’s the reality.

No home. No job. No clue what comes next or where I’m going to go. And no one to blame but the damn flames that ate through the last shred of stability I had left.

I follow Sawyer out of the fire station and into the parking lot. “Sorry about the place,” he says finally, voice low and even.

I nod, not looking at him. “It was your restaurant that burned.”

There’s a pause, one of those thick ones where something else wants to be said but neither of us has the guts or the energy to say it. Then he clears his throat and walks away.