A Secretive Deal with My Billionaire Boss (by Gregory Ellington) novel Chapter 388

Our food arrived. Ethan dove into his spaghetti with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never eaten before, sauce immediately decorating his face.

“Napkin,” I reminded him.

He wiped his mouth, leaving a red streak across his cheek. “This is so good!”

Despite everything, I smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

Across the restaurant, I heard Anthony’s laugh. Loud, carrying, the kind that made other diners look up.

Alexander’s voice followed, too low for me to make out words but unmistakably his. That particular cadence, the way he spoke with authority, even in casual conversation.

I focused on my pasta, twirling noodles with mechanical precision.

“Mom, can we get dessert here, too?” Ethan asked around a mouthful of spaghetti.

“Maybe. Finish your dinner first.”

“I am finishing it!” He shoveled in another huge bite to prove his point.

“Slow down. The food isn’t going anywhere.”

He ignored me as he continued his assault on the spaghetti.

Movement caught my eye. Anthony stood, pulling out his phone as he headed toward the restroom. Alexander remained at the table, finally visible as Anthony’s body no longer blocked my view

He looked tired. The kind of bone–deep exhaustion that came from more than just a long day. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming against his water glass in that familiar pattern I’d seen a thousand times.

Was he stressed about work? About Katherine? About showing up in Connecticut like some kind of stalker?

Not my problem, I reminded myself. Not anymore.

“Can I have more breadsticks?” Ethan asked.

“You haven’t finished your spaghetti.”

“But I want breadsticks now.”

“Finish your dinner.”

He pouted but returned to his plate. I checked my watch. Seven fifteen. Alexander and Anthony looked settled in, their plates still half full. We could finish, skip dessert, and be gone before they were done.

Except Ethan had other ideas.

“I want the chocolate cake!” he announced, pointing at the dessert menu. “The big one with ice cream!”

“Inside voice, baby.”

“Sorry.” He lowered his volume fractionally. “But can I? Please? I was really good today. Miss Daisy said so.”

I hesitated. We could stay for dessert. The restaurant was busy enough that we might go unnoticed. And Ethan had been good.

“Okay. But you have to finish your spaghetti.”

“I will!” He attacked his plate with renewed vigor.

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I picked at my Alfredo, appetite gone. Alexander was still visible in my peripheral vision, his attention on his phone now. Anthony returned, sliding back into his seat with whatever story he’d been telling clearly not finished.

Our waitress cleared our plates. “Room for dessert?”

“Chocolate cake!” Ethan practically shouted.

“Please,” 1 added.

“With ice cream!” he continued. “The biggest piece you have!”

The waitress laughed. “Coming right up.”

She disappeared, and I allowed myself another glance at Alexander’s table. Both men were leaning back now, clearly winding down. They’d be leaving soon.

We just had to make it through dessert.

The cake arrived, massive and covered in chocolate frosting with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top. Ethan’s eyes went

wide.

“This is the best day ever!”

“Don’t get it everywhere,” I warned, but he was already digging in.

I watched him eat, trying to memorize this moment. My son, happy and messy and completely oblivious to the man sitting across the restaurant who shared his eyes.

Alexander and Anthony stood. They were leaving.

Don’t look over here, I thought. Just leave.

Anthony pulled on his jacket. Alexander checked his phone one more time. They moved toward the exit, passing close enough that I could smell Alexander’s cologne.

Neither looked our way.

The door closed behind them. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Through the window, I watched Alexander’s Aston Martin pull out of the parking lot. The taillights disappeared into the evening

traffic.

He’d been right there. Twenty feet away. And he had no idea.

“Can we come back here?” Ethan asked. “This was really fun!”

“Sure, baby. We can come back.”

I wiped the chocolate from Ethan’s face with my napkin, his protests muffled as I cleaned his chin. He squirmed like a fish out of water, the way he always did when forced to sit still for more than thirty seconds.

“But Mom, I can do it myself!”

“You missed half your face.”

He grabbed the napkin from me, scrubbing at his cheeks with the grace of a tornado. Good enough. I signaled for the check, eager to get home before Ethan’s sugar rush transformed into a complete meltdown.

The waitress appeared with the bill. I handed her my card, keeping one eye on Ethan as he attempted to stack sugar packets into an elaborate tower.

“One’s gonna fall,” I warned.

“No, it won’t, I’m an expert.”

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Three seconds later, the tower collapsed across the table.

“Oops.”

I helped him clean up the mess, paid the bill, and gathered our things. “Come

nstruction expert. Time to go.”

Ethan bounced out of his seat, full of that boundless energy only four–year–olds possess. We headed toward the exit, his hand warm in mine as he chattered about volcanoes and dinosaurs and whether dinosaurs could eat pizza if they were still alive.

The door swung open just as we reached it.

Anthony Williams stepped inside, his face breaking into a wide smile when he saw me.

“Madison Harper! Fancy meeting you here.”

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