But unfortunately for the Screen. It died down just as he saw the screen.
Sebastian walked in.
He looked wrecked, which I now realized was likely an intentional aesthetic choice. His hair was damp from the New York humidity, sticking to his forehead in messy, dark waves. There was a smudge of grease on his cheek—placed a little too perfectly near his jawline, I noted. A prop. A costume choice for the role of the working-class hero.
He was carrying two plastic bags that smelled like a heavenly mix of peanut sauce and toasted garlic.
"I come bearing gifts," he announced, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud of his heel. "Pad Thai and Spring Rolls. And I hope you like heat, because the guy at the truck said this will burn your soul."
I spun the spaceship-style chair around, plastering on my best, brightest "disowned heiress" smile.
"My soul is already burnt," I said lightly, my voice airy and carefree. "But my stomach is empty. You're a lifesaver, husband."
He walked toward the desk, his eyes scanning my face with that same intense, protective gaze that had fooled me in the rain. He was checking for cracks. He wanted to see if I'd fallen apart in his "friend's" glass castle while he was out "changing oil."
"Writing going okay?" he asked, setting the containers down on the coffee table. He moved with a certain grace that didn't belong to a man who spent his days under a car. It was the movement of someone used to being watched.
"Productive," I lied, standing up and stretching my arms over my head, letting the oversized black shirt ride up just enough to catch his eyes. "I wrote twenty-five thousand words."
He paused, a noodle box halfway to the table. He actually looked stunned. "Twenty-five thousand? In one day? Is that even humanly possible?"
"For me? It's a slow Tuesday." I walked over to him, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete. "When the flow hits, I don't stop. It's a trance. I just... vomit words onto the page until the story is purged."
He blinked, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through his "exhausted mechanic" mask. "Charming image."
"I'm a charming girl," I said, flopping onto the matte black couch and pulling a container toward me. "How was the garage? Change a lot of filters? Save any damsels in car-related distress?"
He stiffened. It was a micro-movement, a slight tightening of the shoulders that I would have missed yesterday. But now that I knew he was a CEO dodging a hostile takeover and a tyrannical grandmother, I saw it for what it was: the physical manifestation of a lie.
"Yeah," he said, focusing with sudden, intense interest on opening a packet of soy sauce. "Greasy. Boring. My boss is a total tyrant."
Your boss is you, I thought, suppressed laughter bubbling in my throat. And you're right, Sebastian. He really is a tyrant.
"Speaking of bosses," I said, grabbing a golden-brown spring roll. "We had a visitor today."
Sebastian froze. His plastic fork stopped halfway to his mouth. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second.
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "A visitor?"
"Yeah. Blonde. Tall. Angry. She wore a white suit that cost more than your imaginary car." I took a bite of the roll. Crunch. The sound was deafening in the sudden silence.
"Did she... say a name?" His voice was controlled. Low. But I could hear the underlying frequency of a man who realized his cover was being shredded.
"Veronica," I said around a mouthful of cabbage and shrimp. "She was shouting about something called a 'Board.' I didn't really get it."
I tilted my head, widening my eyes into the perfect, innocent doe-eyed expression I'd spent years perfecting at Vane family galas.
"Do you surf, Sebastian? She seemed very insistent that the Board was waiting for you. I didn't know mechanics were so big into water sports."
Sebastian choked.
He actually choked on thin air. He grabbed a water bottle from the table, coughing harshly to clear his lungs. His face turned a slight shade of red—not from the "heat" of the food, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation.
"She... uh... she's the landlord's assistant," he lied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The owner. My friend. He's on the Condo Board. They're incredibly strict about noise complaints and guest policies."
"Right," I nodded slowly, mentally applauding his quick thinking. "That explains the merger talk. Is the Condo merging with another building? It sounds incredibly complex for a residential loft."
Sebastian looked like he wanted to jump off the balcony. He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely flustered for the first time since we met.
"It's... real estate jargon," he muttered, refusing to make eye contact. "She's dramatic. A total shark. Just ignore her. Did she leave anything else?"
"Just this."
I reached under the coffee table and pulled out the heavy, cream-colored envelope. I slid it across the glass toward him.
"She said to give you this. Something about a Gala tonight? And your grandmother cutting you off if you don't show?"
I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a whisper of mock concern. "Sebastian... does your grandmother own the garage? Is this like a family business thing?"
He stared at the envelope like it was a live grenade.
"Give me that," he said, snatching it off the table. He didn't open it. He just tossed it onto the kitchen counter behind him as if it were junk mail.
"My grandmother... she likes to help out," he said, his jaw tightening so hard I thought I heard a tooth crack. "She's old-fashioned. She wants me at some boring family dinner. She calls it a 'Gala' because she likes to feel important. It's all ego."
"I see," I said, picking up my chopsticks. "So you're not going? Even with the threat of being cut off? We really could use the cash, Sebastian. We have exactly twenty bucks and a very expensive dream."
He smirked, his mask sliding back into place. It was a practiced, charming look—the "Iron Heir" pretending to be a rebel.
"I'd rather eat Pad Thai with my wife than listen to my grandmother criticize my life choices for four hours," he said. "Besides, I have a sugar momma now. You're going to write that bestseller and keep me in the luxury I'm clearly not accustomed to, right?"
I laughed, a genuine sound this time. "Careful, Mr. Cross. If I get that rich, I might decide to trade you in for a younger, less greasy model."
"I'm irreplaceable," he said, handing me a fresh napkin. "Eat. You look pale. You spent too much time in front of that screen."
We ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the city traffic humming thirty stories below. But I watched him. I watched the way he pointedly ignored the envelope on the counter, even though his eyes kept flicking back to it like a magnetic pull.
He was skipping a multi-billion dollar corporate event—a night that could decide the fate of his trillion-dollar empire—to sit on a floor and eat twenty-dollar noodles with a woman he thought was a beggar.
Why? Was he that desperate to hide? Or did he just hate his gilded cage that much?