I wasn't planning to Google myself that morning.
But Rhyland's heightened voice, "What the actual hell?" from the kitchen was a pretty strong invitation.
I stepped out of the bedroom wearing my best I-don't-care face—messy bun, baggy sleep shirt, and baby spit-up on the shoulder. Vogue, watch out.
He turned the tablet toward me. "Congratulations. We're famous."
I appeared confused. On the screen was an image,the image from yesterday. Rhyland's kiss on my cheek. Me snuggling Noah. A damn Tiffany gift bag sitting in the background like a ribbon on the lie.
The headline?
Billionaire Playboy Tamed: Rhyland Cross's Secret Family Revealed
"Ah no," I protested. "No, no, no."
"Page Six. And six other sites," he said, scrolling. "The comments section is. A war zone."
"Let me see." I leaned forward.
She's a beautiful, lucky woman.".
It won't last. He's a manwhore.
That baby's too cute to be his.
Plot twist: she's his best friend's sister. Filthy. I love it.
I let out a sigh. "Do we sue?"
"We smile. And make them believe what we want them to."
I stepped back. "No way. This wasn't the deal."
"This is exactly the deal. You pretend. I get the money. You live in a penthouse with a wine and oat milk stocked fridge."
I crossed my arms. "You told me this would be low-key. Quiet. No public anything."
He shrugged. "Blame the kiss."
"I will. That kiss had no business being that… convincing."
He smirked. "Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
He raised a brow. "Felt like one."
I grabbed the tablet and set it facedown. "If my brother sees this—"
"He won't."
"Because he lives in a wifi-free cave?"
"Because he trusts you."
I shook my head. "You're enjoying this."
He didn't deny it.
Across the room, Noah clapped his hands as if he agreed.
"I need coffee," I said to myself.
It was an hour later that we were sitting at a tiny corner café four blocks from the penthouse. Rhyland was wearing sunglasses like he was avoiding the paparazzi. I was in a hoodie and hoped no one would notice me.
Noah sat between us in a stroller, chewing on a plastic giraffe as if it owed him money.
"Stop worrying over nothing," Rhyland said, sipping his beverage.
"I'm not worrying. I'm having a pensive moment"
"Same thing, but with worse posture."
I slouched still more, out of spite.
Rhyland settled back, looking at me like I was a puzzle he'd half-solved in his sleep.
"Do you regret saying yes?" he asked.
I blinked. "You mean to this whole debacle?"
"Yup."
I paused. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because Caleb doesn't know where I am. Because Noah slept through the night for the first time in weeks. Because I didn't wake up to the sound of my front door rattling in its frame."
His eyes eased.
"I didn't mean to open a wound," he whispered.
"You didn't. You just reminded me it's still there."
We sat there in silence for a moment. The hum of the city swirled around us—horns, feet, life passing too fast.
"I didn't think it was that bad," he said.
"I didn't say anything."
"Even your brother?"
I shook my head. "He would've come back home on the first flight. He got himself arrested. Lost everything. I couldn't do that to him."
He nodded slowly. "You kept him safe."
"And now I'm watching Noah. Which means living a lie with a man I barely tolerate."
He smiled. "But you do tolerate me."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
I raised an eyebrow. "What if all this goes up in smoke in our faces?"
He shrugged. "Then we dodge. And blame the baby."
Noah sneezed, as if in assent.
Meanwhile, back at the penthouse, I showered Noah in new pyjamas and sat with him in the playroom while Rhyland took a call in his office.
The image kept flashing in my head—how real it was. How happy.
I hated how much I wished it wasn't fake.
Noah toddled over to me with a book. I swept him onto my lap, kissed his forehead, and started reading although I couldn't focus on one word.
The intercom beeped.
I startled. "Hello?"
"Delivery for Miss Emery Wells."
I opened the door to a courier holding a floral arrangement so huge I couldn't see his face behind it.
I signed, tipped, and set the thing down on the counter.
A note was passed in the bouquet.
You're hard to reach. We need to talk. – C
I stood rigidly still.
Rhyland entered the kitchen a second later. "Flowers? From whom?"
I handed him the card.
His face darkened. "Caleb."
"I thought he had no idea where I was."
"He doesn't. This hit your social media. He's investigating."
My throat went dry. "He's not done with me."
"No," Rhyland put down the card. "But I'm done with him."
His tone was reserved. Final.
"Don't," I said quickly. "You don't need to make this any worse."
"I'm not going to call him or show up at his office. Yet."
"That doesn't sound comforting."
"I'm doing this for your protection."
"I don't need protection. I need peace."
"And sometimes peace is a matter of threatening things behind the scenes."
I stared at him. "You're not afraid of anything, are you?"
"I'm afraid of lots of things."
"Like what?
He looked at me—an honest look—and for a moment, I saw a flash of something unguarded.
"I'm afraid of losing everything because I couldn't close my mouth."
He glanced over at the picture of us now on display on the investor's gift table. "Or my hands to myself."
The tension was high.
"Don't," I whispered. "Don't make this more complicated."
"I'm not attempting to."
"Then stop looking at me like I'm the solution to a problem you never asked."
He stepped forward.
"I'm terrible at this," he said. "Not the acting. Not the wanting something real."
"Good. Because this isn't real."
"I know." He smiled, painful and bitter. "But explain that to my heart."
I stepped back. "Stop."
"Tell me to stop really, Emery."
"I am."
"Why is your hand trembling, then?"
I turned before he could spot it.
My phone vibrated—and the text was from Caleb.
"Nice picture. He has no clue, does he?"