Page 28 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

GAGE

Fiddler crabs click in the marsh beyond the dunes, and a mild cicada drone fills every pause in conversation. Nighttime at the beach in Georgia. The air is heavier than I’d expected. I used to think Boston summers were bad until today. The salt-damp air clings to every inch of my skin.

Mr. Markoff—stern Russian jaw, new polo, and a drill that probably weighs less than his forearm—has thawed just enough to ask me about my post-hole-spacing days.

I answer automatically, but my eyes keep tilting toward the upstairs windows.

The fence is nearly finished—ten feet left—yet the glowing pink light where Anya’s room sits like a frosted cake slice over the porch roof keeps stealing my focus.

That’s where Theo and Anya disappeared nearly an hour ago.

I’m irritated. Funny. I’m not jealous in the slightest. I’m just annoyed that they’re hooking up while Hunter and I are making nice with her parents. They’re really gonna make me track them down, aren’t they?

Mr. Markoff notices. His cordless drill whirs to a halt. “Your brother, he is…still looking for screws?” The faint accent wraps each r in steel wool.

“That or he’s reorganizing the whole toolbox.” I force a grin. “I’ll go see if he needs a hand.”

“Upstairs tool search?” He smirks as he slides the drill bit from the screw head and sets the tool on a sawhorse. “We can finish the rail after.”

I wipe cedar dust off my palms and head toward the porch steps.

The kitchen window glows warm, silhouettes of Hunter and Mrs. Markoff flitting back and forth.

Hunter twirls a wooden spoon like a baton, and her laugh rings as bright as wind chimes.

I push through the screen door, wave away the smell of cooling peach glaze, and take the stairs two at a time.

Upstairs, dried lavender sprigs hang from the corners to hide the scent of sea air in the hallway.

Night-lights cast scalloped shells onto the walls.

I pause outside Anya’s door, expecting to catch muffled conversation, or her moans, or maybe Theo’s crisp tenor reading fortune-cookie jokes.

Instead, there’s only silence, broken by a wet sniff.

My gut knots. I knock once. “Theo? You guys alive?”

No answer. I push the door wide.

Cotton-candy walls glow beneath a single lamp.

Porcelain dolls glare from a vanity that smells faintly of dust and gardenias.

On the pink shag carpet, Anya kneels beside a carry-on suitcase—zipper closed, handle extended.

A bulging backpack leans like an accomplice, and a pair of sneakers with mismatched laces waits by the door. Theo is nowhere.

But Anya startles, shoving a balled sock deeper into a side pocket before yanking the zipper. Too late—I spot a glint of something shiny swallowed by cotton.

My heart slams. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

She straightens, rubbing her cheeks. “Nothing.” Her voice cracks. “Just, uh, reorganizing.”

Clearly, that’s bullshit. “Where’s Theo?”

“He, um, I think he’s downstairs. Be there in a minute, okay?”

She’s on edge. That suitcase is packed tight. This isn’t some organizational urge. My stomach turns to wet cement. This can’t be what I think it is, but my gut sinks too hard, too fast for me to ignore it. “What’s actually happening right now, Anya?”

Her shoulders droop as she gnaws her bottom lip for a beat. “I’m going to Savannah.” She reaches for a phone on the nightstand, thumbs an app like it’s a detonator. “The rideshare is six minutes away.”

I forget to breathe. “No.”

“It’s for the best.” Tears wobble across her lashes, drop onto the suitcase.

She stands, clutching the suitcase handle so tightly her knuckles blanch.

“The town already hates me. Mom’s terrified of gossip.

Dad’s building fences like Maginot lines, trying to stay occupied, like it’ll help.

If I disappear now, the whispers die faster. ”

The air drains from my lungs like a popped beach float. “You’re running away. Running away from your problems is never the right call.”

She tips her head back, blinking tears toward the ceiling. “I didn’t ask.”

“Fine.” I close the door behind me, lean against it so silence can seal tight. “Savannah to do what?”

“Pawn the ring.” She yanks the sock ball apart, displaying the ring. Credit to Calvin, it’s nice and gigantic. Perfect for pictures, I’m sure. The diamond sparks under the lamplight. “First month’s rent. Day-shift café job. Start over.”

Anger, sorrow, and panic crash like rogue waves. “You think running leaves less damage?”

“I think staying will drown everyone.” She swipes another tear. “Please, Gage. Let me go.”

“We drove eleven hundred miles to be by your side, not to chase your taillights.”

“That was the agreement, wasn’t it?” she whispers. “Once we arrived, the arrangement was over.”

“That was before Calvin melted down in the driveway,” I counter. “Before Hunter risked jail time to protect you.”

“I know, I just…” She sniffles and wipes her eyes.

I’m not giving her the chance to speak when all she’s saying is bad idea after bad idea. I cross the pink carpet and kneel. “Talk to me before you vanish. Why bolt now?”

“Because I’m the problem.” She takes a chest-heaving breath. “I called you my boyfriends—didn’t ask. The town elders will call it…sinful.”

“You’re worried about some old gossip hounds? For real?”

“This is over, isn’t it?” she says, ignoring my question. “This temporary thing between us? That was the plan. We should stick to the plan. It lets you off the hook?—”

“Off the hook?” I reach for her hands, but she jerks back. The hurt sharpens my voice. “What makes you think we want to be off the hook?”

“I just?—”

“Do you want to leave because you don’t feel for us, or because you’re scared of other people’s opinions?” I have to know. Which is she avoiding?

Silence. The cicadas outside stop like a dropped needle.

Her answer emerges ragged. “I can’t be me when everyone knows my business.

These people, they’ll make life hard on my parents, Gage.

All because I’m the weirdo who brought home three guys for the holiday, and my ex made a scene.

What else am I supposed to do? Let them suffer? ”

My chest caves in. “What about staying with people who…who care?” The word love nearly breaks out of me, but I swallow it.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” The words hiss out of me. “What are you saying?”

Her eyes shimmer. “If you hate me for bailing, it’ll be easier. So, do that. Hate me. Forever. Please.”

“I can’t hate you.” My own voice fractures. “Don’t make me try.”

She lifts her chin, tears streaking her freckles. “Ride’s four minutes away.”

I rake a hand through my hair, fighting for calm. “You pawn the ring, live in a stranger’s spare room, and wait tables. That’s not a new start. It’s self-imposed exile.”

“But it’s my exile,” she whispers.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” I say quietly. “You flew to Boston without knowing anyone there. You cared for Calvin when he barely saw you for who you are, and you survived his dumping you. That’s muscle.” I tap my chest. “Other people’s judgment is just noise.”

She clutches the suitcase handle tighter. “That noise is drowning me. I have to get out. Hate me, Gage. Tell the others?—”

I exhale, a broken laugh. “I could punch granite smooth easier than hate you, baby.” Emotion floods me, suffocating me from the inside out.

“You changed my axis, Anya Markoff. I wake up thinking about how to make you laugh. I fall asleep hoping I’m in your dreams. You are in my bones, my thoughts, my heart. You have pulled me back to myself.”

“No, I didn’t.” She sighs, wiping a tear. “I pulled you and Theo and Hunter off course. I’m sorry for that.”

“You haven’t. You brought us to life. Don’t do this.”

A brittle sob escapes her. She stuffs the ring box into the sock and zips the pocket. “Ride’s two minutes away. I have to go.”

I head off the panic rising in my throat. “Then we have two minutes to decide if fear drives or hope.”

She steps back, hugging arms around herself. “I’m not doing this.”

I can’t let her go. I can’t. Hell, I can’t even breathe?—

Downstairs, a chair scrapes violently, and Theo’s tenor shouts something I can’t parse. My adrenaline spikes as I turn around, expecting a problem. I plant myself between Anya and the door, fists clenching so hard that my nails bite skin. The only relief comes from locking the door.

Polished shoes clack up the stairwell with furious momentum. Theo’s voice rises, a warning note. The handle rattles, the hinge groans. Weapon. I need a weapon. Between the porcelain dolls and the trophies, I grab the best option—the heaviest trophy from her shelves.

The voices are clearer through the door now, closer. Anya’s mom says, “Now, Calvin, let’s?—”

Theo snaps, “Get out of this house!”

My jaw clenches as I raise the trophy. This motherfucker?—

Anya gasps, “I can’t face him again.”

“You won’t.” But anger claws my insides—if Calvin breaches this room, the conversation ends in blood.

More footsteps and shouts rise from the stairs and hall, each step a countdown. I plant my feet, fists curling. The door handle rattles again. “Anya!” Calvin’s voice cracks with rage. “Get your ass out here!”

“Stay behind me,” I whisper.

Mrs. Markoff says, “Young man, you will keep a civil tone in this house!”

“Back off, lady!”

Theo barks, “Don’t you talk to her like that!”

“You betrayed me! All of you! I have every right to talk to you how I want!” He pounds the door. “Anya!”

Just what this family needs. More drama.