Theodore stayed seated in the office, eyes tracing the clean lines of the modern décor—sleek, minimal, and twice the size of his head director's.
The door opened. She walked in. Taylor trailed faithfully behind her, and a suited man—probably the lawyer—slipped in with them.
"Good morning, Theodore blurted, scrambling under the sudden weight in the room as he rose from his chair.
"Morning, Mr. Reid," Taylor replied with a polite nod.
Ilana didn't bother. She slid into her seat with a composure so razor-sharp it almost cut the air, papers set neatly before her, eyes already scanning—not him, but the work.
Theodore raised a brow. Not offended. Amused. Millions would kill for his attention, scream his name just for walking past them casually. Ilana Kierson, on the other hand, couldn't be bothered.
But then again, Ilana Kierson didn't listen to pop. She listened to money talk.
"My lawyer already reviewed your conditions," Ilana began, voice clipped, eyes skimming the papers like they bored her.
"Full creative independence over your career and prior consultation before any decision that might affect you. Not much, but reasonable." Her gaze lifted, steady, suspicious—like she couldn't quite believe that was all.
"Yeah, that's all," Theodore confirmed with a small nod, almost too casual for the weight of the moment.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like he was a puzzle with too few pieces.
"You said yesterday that you weren't helping me, but the record label yesterday… this deal—" he leaned forward, brow raised, waiting for her to admit what he suspected.
"—has absolutely nothing to do with your agency." Ilana cut him off before he could finish, her tone crisp, final. A wall he wouldn't scale.
"One more thing!" Theo blurted, making everyone pause and glance at him.
"Go on…" the lawyer sighed, pen poised, his patience clearly thinning like he had been waiting all day to get this over with.
"I… can tell people that we're together, right?" His voice dipped, awkwardlu, like even asking was too much.
Ilana's lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed, measuring him.
"Of course," she said coolly. Then, after a beat, her voice cut sharper: "But don't count on it."
With a flick of her hand, she signaled the lawyer to finalize everything—two copies, clean and binding.
****
A few moments later, the lawyer slid the thick stack of papers across the glass table. The pen—a sleek black Montblanc—rested neatly on top, like a weapon waiting to be used.
"Whenever you're ready," the lawyer said, voice clipped.
Theodore exhaled and accepted the reality of it all before picking the pen to inscribe his signature on the marriage certificate and contract papers.
After it was all done, Theodore got his copy, Ilana got hers and locked it in her drawers right there.
The lawyer left a few minutes later, leaving Ilana, Theodore, and Taylor in the room.
"Who did you come with?" Ilana asked, as if recalling something halfway through a thought.
"My assistant, who's also my cousin. And a few bodyguards. They're all downstairs." Theodore listed.
"I'll have my secretary help you move to my penthouse. The press wouldn't dare come there," she said.
"Are you…comfortable with that?" He raised a brow, curious.
"No," she answered curtly.
"Well…thank you," he offered anyway.
"And you're gonna meet my grandfather…and my mother," she continued, already thinking ten steps ahead.
Theodore nodded, seeing the obvious and reasonable point to the request. But inside his head, he was already wandering, already wondering how domestic Ilana was when she wasn't carrying the world on her shoulders—when she was just in the warmth of her family and the place she called home.
"Don't mistake this for intimacy, Mr. Reid," Ilana cut in sharply, her tone slicing through his thoughts. "You'll meet them because you have to, not because you're welcome."
Her words hung in the air like cold steel.
Theo swallowed back a grin anyway. Somehow, the bite only made him more curious.
"Last thing. I'm gonna send you a script. Memorize it." Ilana's voice cut clean, leaving no room for argument.
Theo only nodded, strangely unbothered. He didn't need to question how she'd drag him out of boiling oil—because for some reason, he already trusted her to do it.
****
Later that night, Ilana balanced her phone between her shoulder and cheek, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand while her other thumb scrolled through a stream of headlines about Theo.
"Evening, Pops. Have you taken your meds?"
"I don't need drugs. Have you forgotten your old man is a general?" His voice boomed with pride, the kind you could picture painted on his face.
"Was a general, Pops. You're not anymore—and it's not like you're storming a battlefield with a handful of prescriptions." She chuckled mid-bite.
"Still got nothing on me," he grumbled, but she could hear the smile under it.
Her own softened. "How's Mom?"
The line shifted, tone dipping into quieter waters.
"She's stable now, peaches. Happier, too."
Ilana placed the slice down, her hand free but her chest suddenly heavier. "I'm coming to see you both soon… with my fiancé."
Silence. Just the faint hum of the line. She waited, back straight, jaw locked like she was bracing for impact.
"Peaches?" Pops said finally, and the weight of disbelief threaded his voice.
"Pops?" Her reply was smaller, her breath caught in her throat.
Another pause—longer this time. Then, warm but edged with the authority of an old commander, he said, "Can't wait to meet him."
The corner of her lip tugged, a laugh slipping out with quiet relief. "You sound like you always believed in me."
"Of course I do. I raised you, didn't I?" His voice surged with pride again, making her laugh a little louder.
The call carried on, but her eyes never left the glowing chaos on her screen—the storms of Theo's name across the internet. Even while hearing her grandfather's blessing, she was already orchestrating tomorrow's war.
After the call with her grandfather, Ilana's phone buzzed again. The screen flashed a familiar name: Maurice.
"Hey, Reese," she answered immediately.
"What's up, Lana? What's the update?" he asked casually, the sound of a muted TV in the background.
"He signed it. We're meeting Pops and… Mom tomorrow evening." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was the faintest exhale on the other end.
"How's Auntie?" Maurice asked in a subtle manner.
"Pops said she's stable. Happier, even."
"That's good to hear." He smiled a little to himself before pivoting. "So, when am I gonna meet him?"
"After your trip to Florence." Her voice had already slipped back into businesslike neutrality.
"My trip's in two weeks, Lana. I'm literally still in town. What are you talking about?" He sounded mock-offended.
"He's… not ready yet." Ilana tilted her head as she closed the pizza box and rose to toss it in the trash.
"Oh? And why's that?" His tone turned curious.
"He's too quiet." She pursed her lips, thinking it over. "Doesn't push back, doesn't make big requests. I don't like that—it feels suspicious."
"You do realize not everyone's plotting against you, right?" Maurice chuckled, already knowing where this was going.
"What's my life without enemies?" she scoffed.
"But you wanted control," he reminded her gently.
"He's easy." She rolled her eyes.
"So really, you just don't find him challenging." He nodded as if confirming it to himself.
"Sue me," she muttered with a yawn.
"You know what? I think he's perfect for you. You don't need someone who overstimulates you." Maurice grinned on his end of the line.
Ilana narrowed her eyes, unimpressed with his conclusion. A beat of silence passed before they both hung up.