The next morning, Ilana was already gone for work by the time Theo arrived at her penthouse. The movers—sent by her company, not his—were efficient, sliding in and out with the handful of things he owned.
One suitcase. A couple of guitar cases. That was it.
Compared to the vastness of her home, his belongings looked almost comically small. He set them down and took a slow glance around. The place was stunning—minimalist, sharp, the kind of luxury that didn't need to shout. Even the ordinary details probably cost more than his life insurance policy.
Felix trailed behind him, hands in his pockets, clearly enjoying himself. While the movers arranged the cases, the housekeeper gave Theo a tour of the penthouse. She was polite but meticulous, pointing out panels, routines, little rules.
"Miss Kierson likes everything in order," she said, lingering on the word as though Theo's mere existence might disrupt the Feng Shui of the place.
Felix leaned close, smirking. "So… can I keep your old place now? Since you'll be living up here with your billionaire sugar-wife?"
Theo stopped, turned, and leveled him with a look. "She's not—ugh. Just shut up."
Felix snickered, satisfied, while Theo rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to feel like an imposter in a space that didn't belong to him.
****
Hours later, after the movers had gone, Theo sat cross-legged on the couch with his tablet propped on his knees. Ilana's email glared back at him: a crash course in surviving dinner with her family. Every page was a script—pre-approved answers, rehearsed pleasantries, exit strategies.
Words weren't the problem. He lived in words, wrote them, bled them. It was the pressure of them—how each one had to land next to Ilana without making him look like a fraud—that pressed against his chest.
His thumb hovered over a line about her grandfather when Felix, sprawled sideways on the opposite cushion, piped up through a mouthful of chips.
"Bro… did you know Ilana's grandpa was a general before Kierson became an empire? Like… medals, parades, all that. Straight warlord energy."
Theo didn't look up. He exhaled slowly, eyes glued to the script.
Felix kept scrolling. "Dude went from tanks to boardrooms like it was a hobby."
Theo hummed without looking up, flipping to the next page of the script.
A notification lit his phone. Another tabloid about his scandal. He swiped it away before the headline could get under his skin.
But Felix wasn't done. "And here's the wild part—this article says she's the eldest daughter of her mother. Except her mom only married into the Kierson family, like… six years ago. How's that math work?"
That finally made Theo lift his head. "What do you mean?"
Felix shoved the tablet toward him, eyes lit like he'd cracked a code. "See? It's right here. Ilana's mom became the official wife six years ago, but Ilana's already grown by then. So technically she's… what? An heir from before the marriage? A retroactive Kierson?"
Theo blinked. "That doesn't even make sense?" He stood, leaning over the couch to snatch the tablet.
"Exactly!" Felix leaned back, smug. "Which means somebody's rewriting history. Either the family's covering tracks, or the press is. Either way… scandal."
"That's enough Felix." Theo's voice cut sharper than he meant, the tablet heavy in his grip. "You've said too much for today."
Felix scoffed. "For today? What am I, your word quota?"
Theo didn't answer. He was already scanning the article himself, jaw tight, the words blurring under the weight of what they implied.
The elevator ding split the silence. Both of them froze.
Theo's stomach dropped. Because whoever was behind that door wasn't a headline—it was Ilana.
Theo's stomach dropped. Because whoever was behind that door wasn't a headline—it was Ilana.
The elevator doors slid open. They'd braced for a woman who carried herself like gravity was optional. Instead, out stepped someone tired—shoulders low, jacket draped over one arm, heels dangling from her hand.
On her second step, her eyes landed on Felix sprawled across her couch, laptop abandoned on one of the couches, and Theo standing like he'd been caught red-handed.
She clocked Theo's tall frame first, then the kid on her couch. Both of them were staring at her.
"I see you've moved in already," she said, voice flat but not unfriendly. "Good evening."
"Good evening," Theo answered, careful.
Felix scrambled upright. "Good evening, Ms. Kierson."
Her brows lifted as she finally registered him. She turned back to Theo. "Whose kid is this?"
Theo cleared his throat. "My assistant. Also my cousin. He's not staying—I'll kick him out soon."
Felix shot him a betrayed glare and mouthed something that looked a lot like wow, rude.
"Oh." Ilana shrugged, already moving toward the kitchen.
Theo had expected ice. A clipped remark, a knife disguised as politeness. Instead, she let it go, and that surprised him more than her walking in at all.
"How were the movers with your things?" she asked over her shoulder.
Theo hesitated, caught off guard by the question. "…They were perfect. I didn't have much to carry anyway."
"Why not?" she asked, tone flat.
"Didn't wanna be rude," he said casually.
Ilana gave a quiet "hm" that could've meant anything.
On her way to the kitchen, she passed the couch—and her eyes flicked to the laptop left open, the neat little script glowing across the screen. For a split second, her steps slowed. Then she moved on like she hadn't seen it.
She opened the fridge and leaned inside. "The housekeeper showed you around, right?" Her voice was muffled by clinking jars and bottles.
"Yeah. She told me all I needed to know," Theo replied, too quick, too polite.
Felix, meanwhile, looked like he might physically explode from keeping his mouth shut. He kept glancing between them, lips twitching with unsaid commentary.
Ilana turned from the fridge, irritation ghosting across her face. "Haven't you two eaten?"
Theo raised a brow, caught between confusion and curiosity. She looked less like the Kierson heir and more like someone genuinely annoyed about dinner.
And that—her standing there barefoot, jacket forgotten, asking about food—wasn't the Ilana he'd been warned about. It wasn't the clipped, stern voice Felix had overheard on the phone. This was something else. Something he hadn't rehearsed for.
"I'd offer you leftovers," Ilana said, tone deceptively casual, though her jacket kept sliding down her arm, "but I can't seem to find them."
"I think I saw the housekeeper throwing them out," Felix blurted.
Ilana's head snapped toward him—not a glare, but the kind of alert, assessing look that could make someone feel pinned to the wall.
"She said you keep forgetting to throw them out," Felix added, words tumbling over each other.
Theo shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass, silently begging him to shut up.
Ilana's brows pinched. She exhaled slowly, and for a moment, she looked less annoyed at the housekeeper than at herself. "Fine. I'll order takeout." She shut the fridge with a muted thud, already pulling out her phone. "I hope you're not picky."
"We're fine with anything," Theo said, offering a brief, diplomatic smile.
Ilana's eyes flicked to him—quick, unreadable—and back to her screen. "Good. Saves me the trouble of pretending to care.
Ilana tapped her phone, ordering food like this was any other night—like they weren't strangers trying to survive under the same roof.
Theo wasn't sure if that made it better, or worse.