I looked at her, but she didn't blink. She didn't look away.
"The garage," she said smoothly. "It's my hobby. I'm thinking of going into the acting industry. I want to be an actress."
I stared at her. "An actress?" I repeated.
"Yes," she continued, leaning back on her hands. "So I thought of getting real experience. Method acting. Living the life of a struggling mechanic to understand the grit. To feel the hunger."
Liar, I thought instantly.
But it was a good lie. It explained everything without revealing anything. It explained the money, the erratic behavior, the comfort in high society, and the reason she was slumming it in a garage. It was a perfect, bulletproof cover story.
"Method acting," I mused. "And the money? The millions you dropped at the gala?"
"I run a family business," she admitted, her gaze drifting to the window for a split second before returning to me. "It's... complicated. Like yours."
"Yeah," I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Whose family isn't complicated?"
She laughed too, and for the first time that night, the tension in her shoulders eased. She picked up her water bottle, unscrewing the cap with long, elegant fingers. She looked more relaxed than I had seen her all day—like a woman who had just taken off a heavy coat.
"No one proposes like that," she said softly, taking a sip. "In the rain. To a stranger. Unless they are running from something. Or running to something."
"Desperation makes people do crazy things," I countered.
"Maybe," she said. "But also... the thing about last night. We shared the same bed. We knew what we should and shouldn't do. We respected the lines."
She looked at me, her gaze softening from analytical to something almost... fond. "It's strange," she admitted. "I feel comfortable around you. Usually, I feel like I'm being hunted. Everyone wants something. A piece of the pie. A piece of me. With you... it's just quiet."
She said every piece with a smile, even the part about people wanting a piece of her. My heart gave a traitorous little flip at the word comfortable. My heart actually ached for her in that moment.
Comfort was a dangerous word. Comfort led to complacency. Complacency led to mistakes. But God, I felt it too. The silence between us wasn't heavy anymore; it was companionable.
"And so," she continued, placing the bottle down. "What about you? That is the brief about me. Struggling actress. Complicated family. Your turn, Mrs. Cross."
I smirked, picking up my chopsticks and twirling them in my fingers. "You must have searched me already, didn't you?"
She didn't flinch. She didn't apologize.
"I did," she stated calmly. "A background check was running before we even left City Hall. I had the file on my phone before we got in the taxi."
"Ruthless," I noted.
"Prudent," she corrected. "In my world, trust is a luxury I can't afford. But isn't it good to hear directly from you? The file gives me facts. It doesn't give me the truth."
I looked at her. The billionaire playing the mechanic. The Queen playing the pauper. She was offering me a level of honesty I hadn't received from my own family in years—or ever.
"Mm. Indeed," I said. "You are quite something, Sloane Cross."
She chuckled, a low, genuine sound that vibrated in the small space. "You too, Mrs. Cross."
"Fine," I said. I took a deep breath. "My brief. I am Sienna Vane."
I watched her face for a reaction to the name Vane. The media empire. The scandal. The money. She didn't even blink.
"Disowned heiress," I continued. "Black sheep. The failure of the family because I refused to be a pawn in my family's mergers." I paused, debating how much of Shadow to reveal. I decided to keep the name but reveal the nature. "...and I am currently unemployed. But I have a very expensive imagination."
Her eyes flicked to my laptop sitting on the coffee table. "I gathered," she said. "Twenty thousand words in a day. That's not a hobby, Sienna. That's a weapon."
"It pays the bills," I said, my voice hardening. "Or it will. Once I destroy a few people. Words are cheaper than lawyers, and they leave deeper scars."
She grinned. It wasn't a nice grin; it was a wolfish one. "Anyone I know?"
"Maybe," I said. "Depends on whose side you're on."
She reached across the table. For a second, I thought she was going to take my hand. Instead, she extended her chopsticks. I looked at her, surprised. She tapped her chopsticks against mine. A toast. A binding contract made of bamboo.
"I'm on the side of the outcasts," she said, her voice serious. "The ones who walk away from empires to build their own."
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the layers of lies and wealth, I saw a reflection of my own exhaustion. And my own ambition.
"Then we have a deal," I said. "No more dumb acts. You keep your secrets, I keep mine. We don't ask about the past. But we stop pretending we're idiots."
"Deal," she said.
We pulled our chopsticks back and went back to eating. We were silent, doing our work, in this massive place—two people who married on instinct, and yet, it wasn't too bad.
As I watched her eat—methodically, elegantly, like a princess in exile—I looked at my laptop screen, currently dark.
This book I was writing... The Billionaire's Secret... just got a hell of a lot more interesting. Because the lead wasn't just a mechanic anymore. She was a partner in crime.
And the villain? Well, the villain had no idea what was coming for him.