Page 61 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

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.

26

GAGE

Fiddler crabs clickin 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 eachrin 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.”