Page 27 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

ANYA

The kiss takes my breath away. It’s on the verge of becoming something bottomless, but my mind races. It’s too loud, too much. I can’t do this. I cut the cord of warmth before it reels me in, and I break the kiss. “I…I need some air.”

Theo’s pupils are blown and he’s a little breathless. “Of course. I’ll step out?—”

“No, you stay.” I’m on my feet before I know it. “Enjoy the quiet. I’ll be back.”

My heart’s hammering so hard I taste copper, but I slip downstairs while he stays in my pink museum of a bedroom.

It’s suffocating. One more second in that space and I’ll cave to the illusion that everything can still fit inside tidy, impossible boxes labeled good girl, good daughter, good fiancée-turned-free spirit.

Boxes that don’t fit three men, an ex-fiancé, and a town that runs on recycled opinions.

Mom hums over pie dough in the kitchen, pushing sugar crust across a glass dish. “Sweetheart, you all right?”

“Just walking off the noodles,” I lie. My sandals dangle from fingertips as I pad barefoot to the front porch.

Dad’s voice rumbles out back with Gage’s—still finishing fence talk, no doubt, in low man-tones.

I had no idea building a fence was so detailed that they could still be talking about it hours later.

Hunter lounges on the swing nursing sweet tea, but he’s turned away, eyes on the darkening street. Good. Fewer questions to dodge.

I slide through the screen door and down the steps.

A warm breeze carries marsh salt and citronella from a neighbor’s tiki torch.

Almost dark now, just slips of purple and red light at the edge of the sea.

It should smell like childhood safety. Instead, it feels like a funeral viewing for my reputation.

I keep to the sandy shoulder of Seawall Drive.

Most beach houses sport the Stars and Stripes in one fashion or another, flags fluttering in anticipation of tomorrow’s parade.

Window by window, I sense people inside pausing nightly routines to peer beyond lace curtains.

Calvin gave them a show earlier. Now they’re scanning for an encore.

Maybe it’s just my paranoia. Too long in Boston, and I’m thinking everyone in the South has it out for me. It’s silly, if I’m honest with myself. Sure, gossip fuels Castle Beach, but it’s a holiday. These people are going to be busy with family and friends. They don’t have time for gossip.

Hell, Mom barely had time to eat supper.

I have no idea how she has the energy to keep making everything by hand the way she does, but I’m so glad that she does.

That’s how things are here. People care to make the effort to do things right.

It’s something I need to keep in mind whenever I trash this place.

Castle Beach really isn’t so bad. It’s painfully small and most people can’t find it on a map, but it’s quaint and the folks are hardworking, blue-collar types who take pride in their work. I shouldn’t act so ashamed of my hometown.

Two blocks down, Mrs. Baker kneels beside her legendary hydrangeas, trimming browned petals with a surgeon’s focus.

It tracks—she was a surgeon before I was born.

Once she retired, she insisted everyone call her Mrs. Baker, instead of Dr. Baker.

Why she’s trimming her flowers in the dark, I’ll never know.

She’s in her eighties now, wearing a cardigan even in July.

She was once known for pressing mason-jar lemonade into my hands after school. I lift my fingers in greeting.

She hesitates—wave fluttering like a weak pulse—then drops her gaze back to the flowers, snip-snip. Not even a smile out of her. The motion cuts deeper than any shears. She saw Calvin’s tantrum and Hunter’s slap. Her careful distance screams that I too am being pruned from polite gardens.

Heat floods my cheeks and a weight presses on my sternum. If Mrs. Baker can’t offer lemonade, who will?

I picture tomorrow’s grandstands—cousins, cheerleader classmates, local paper photographers. All ready to update the Markoff chapter in Castle Beach gossip archives. Anya ran off to Boston and came back with three men—Calvin’s own brothers, no less.

My parents will sit in church absorbing whispers like sponges. They don’t have the Carver fortune or invitation power to scrub stains. They have no defense outside of, “We did the best we could with her. We don’t know where we went wrong…”

I cut toward the seawall, where waves slap concrete in steady applause.

I force my gaze up to stop my neck from straining downward under the weight of shame.

The sky has gone blue-black, stars twinkling above no matter the chaos below.

I hug myself against the wind, mind whirling like the carnival tilt-a-whirl Dad never let me ride.

Proper girls don’t ride something that could make their dress flare up, and I was always a proper girl. Until now.

Everyone is thinking it. I’m tarnished. Ruined. Unworthy. I’m going to vomit sesame noodles. I can’t take this. The judgment, the isolation, the whispers. I’m out of practice. It’s too much. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I have to get out.

The air is too hot, too humid. It flows into my lungs, sapping my strength. It isn’t the familiar wind of my childhood. It’s a stifling oven, and I’m cooking from the inside out.

Options. I need options. I could stay. Endure tomorrow’s parade, extended family interrogations, neighbors’ side-eye. Risk Calvin doubling back with more insults—or legal threats if he spins his grievances. Watch my parents’ posture shrink under the weight of gossip.

I can crash on a friend’s couch? Except…my “Boston friend” circle is three Carvers. Calvin’s influence still pollutes city hall venues and tech meetups. The job market demands references he could easily sour with one call.

Last but not least, I could disappear. Savannah is an hour from here.

Buses run late. Pawn shops don’t ask why a woman trades a three-carat antique diamond for rent money.

A waterfront tourist café always needs servers.

No one there knows who I did or didn’t have in my bed. No one needs to know who I am.

The diamond ring—my only portable asset—sits in my suitcase upstairs.

Suddenly, the plan feels sharp, doable. I won’t drag Gage, Hunter, and Theo into a mud pit of Baptist whispers.

I won’t ruin Mom’s Fourth of July brunch or Dad’s fence pride.

If I vanish quietly, they can smooth the narrative.

Our daughter needed space, or she’s house-sitting for a friend.

Whatever they want to tell folks is fine by me.

Castle Beach gossip has the attention span of a beach gull—squawk loud enough, then wing away.

Decision clicks into place like a lock bolt. I spin on bare heels and head back—mind already plotting. Order a Lyft to the Jekyll Island exit, cash in the ring first thing, motel a few nights, scour Craigslist for rooms, a barista résumé is easy enough to put together. Simple.

Maybe I can be a better person in a new place.

Go by my middle name. I’ve always liked Hazel, but my parents insisted on calling me Anya, and it stuck.

It’s a fine name, but…new place, new life, new name.

I can be Hazel. Hazel Marks. That’ll make it harder to find me, and right now, that’s what I want more than anything.

The cottage glows warm as a lamp against the dark street. Voices drift from the deck. Gage’s deep timbre, Dad’s hearty chuckle. Good—distraction in the backyard. Hunter must be with Mom finishing dessert plating. Theo could be upstairs, maybe showering or scribbling contingency spreadsheets.

I slip beside the crepe-myrtle hedge along the east wall.

Moonlight slices through branches, stripes of pale silver guiding me to the lattice gate that hides the crawl-space door.

Hinges still squeak the same mournful note.

I wince but push through, crouch into cedar-scented dark.

My old route. I used it senior year to sneak out for beach bonfires with Billy—ancient muscle memory helps me unlatch the under-porch window and wriggle inside.

Cool sandy soil, PVC pipes, and spiderwebs—castle catacombs of my misspent youth.

A plywood panel leads into the linen closet in the laundry chute corner. I brace my feet on the wall studs, chimney-climb until I can nudge the loose latch. A grunt, a push, and I sprawl onto a shelf of lavender-scented towels. The closet door creaks open to the upstairs hall. Nobody there.

I tiptoe past the bathroom, where the shower is running. Theo is inside, humming low. I hate this. I don’t want to leave him or the others behind. But this is better for everyone involved. I know it in my gut. I can’t hurt them if I’m not here.

At my bedroom door, I pause, ear tuned. Only the distant whir of Dad’s cordless drill outside, maybe securing the last post cap. Coast clear.

Lamp on. Suitcase out from beneath the bed.

I unzip and dump the neat stacks of clothes I laid in the dresser only hours ago, shoving in the essentials—two pairs of jeans, three tees, some leggings, underclothes, the black maxi dress.

The fabric still smells faintly of Gage’s cologne. Phone charger. Toothbrush. Hairbrush.

Is this really all my life is?

Oh, right, the ring. I’d tucked it into a bundled pair of socks, because I didn’t know what else to do with it.

The diamonds refract lamplight like tiny paparazzi camera flashes.

A beautiful, empty promise. I stuff it back in, secure in the knowledge that even though Calvin wasn’t there for me, his money will be.

I zip the suitcase, chest tight. Tears blur my vision. I have to go before I lose my courage to finally do the right thing.

That’s what this is. I finally found the courage to do what’s right. Maybe that’s why it feels so wrong—I’ve never done the right thing willingly.

I always listened to my parents when I was a girl.

They told me what the right thing was, and I did it out of fear of retribution, not because I wanted to do the right thing.

Then I met Billy, and we were in Purity Club together, and whatever purity there was in me, he took it.

So I bailed for Boston, hoping to figure out my life, and instead, I found Calvin.

I quit my job for him. I kept house up for him.

I even dressed how he wanted me to dress.

Now, I’m choosing to do the right thing, and it feels so wrong. The right thing never came naturally to me, and obviously, it’s because I’m broken. What kind of woman ends up in bed with three of her ex-fiancé’s brothers? Clearly, I need help. Professional help.

There’s only one way that happens.

I gulp and open the rideshare app on my phone. I’m doing this. I won’t drag them down with me. I might have done some messed up things in my life, but ruining my parents won’t be one of them.

And I won’t tie Gage, Hunter, or Theo to a broken woman. No matter how much I love them.

My hands shake when that thought hits me, and I press the wrong button, canceling the rideshare. “Shit,” I hiss at myself.

It feels like a sign. I shouldn’t be doing this. But what else can I possibly do? Stick around and ruin everything? Even I’m not that selfish.

I finish setting up my ride, and there’s something so final about it that the weight of my heart forces me to sit on the bed.

It’s hard to breathe again. My heart races, even though it’s heavy.

Blood throbs in my veins, cold then hot, then cold again.

I’m nauseous on top of everything else. Lucky me.

Am I getting sick on top of everything else? Or is this a panic attack?

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe deeply. It’s a struggle, but I can do it. The perfect metaphor for what I’m about to do.

This won’t be easy. How could leaving everyone I love be called easy? But that’s part of doing the right thing, isn’t it? If it were easy, everyone would do it.