Lucas Vanderbilt followed me off the subway like he belonged there.
That alone felt illegal.
The doors screeched shut behind us, plunging the platform back into its usual chaos—sirens somewhere aboveground, a couple arguing in Spanish, the smell of oil and something fried that had been reheated too many times. Lucas stood out like a dropped diamond in a gutter. Expensive coat. Clean shoes. The kind of posture you get when you’ve never had to make yourself smaller.
“This is your stop?” he asked, glancing around.
“Yes,” I said. “You don’t have to walk me home.”
“I do,” he replied easily. “Part of the deal. I’m supposed to understand my fake girlfriend’s life, remember?”
I clenched my jaw and started walking.
The building was older than me and proud of it—cracked steps, flickering hallway light, the elevator permanently “under maintenance.” Lucas hesitated at the entrance, then followed me up three flights of stairs without complaining, though his breath hitched by the third.
“Cardio,” I muttered.
He laughed under his breath.
When I unlocked the door, the familiar sounds rushed out to meet me—my brother’s cartoon blaring too loud, my mother’s cough from the couch. Home. Fragile and loud and never enough.
“Emma?” my mom called. “You’re late.”
“I know,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “Sorry.”
Then she saw Lucas.
Her eyes widened, then softened instantly. “Oh,” she said. “You must be Lucas.”
I froze. “Mom—”
“So nice to finally meet you,” she continued, already smiling. “Emma never brings boys home.”
Lucas blinked. Once. Then he stepped forward and held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Carter.”
Traitor.
My brother peeked out from behind the couch. “Is he rich?”
“Josh!” I snapped.
Lucas grinned. “Probably.”
Dinner was beans and rice, stretched with whatever we had left in the fridge. I tried to insist Lucas didn’t have to stay, but my mother waved me off like I was being ridiculous.
“Anyone who walks a girl home eats,” she said firmly. “That’s manners.”
Lucas didn’t hesitate. He sat at our wobbly table like he’d been there before. He asked my brother about school. Complimented my mom’s cooking like it wasn’t the simplest meal in the world.
Halfway through, the sink started dripping again. I saw Lucas glance over.
“That been leaking long?” he asked.
“Only since the Bush administration,” I said.
He stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and crouched under the sink.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Fixing it.”
“You don’t know how to—”
Ten minutes later, the dripping stopped.
Lucas wiped his hands on a paper towel. “My grandfather believed in learning useful things,” he said casually. “He didn’t trust plumbers.”
I stared at him, something uncomfortable blooming in my chest. Gratitude. Or maybe disbelief.
The next night, I stood in front of a mirror that didn’t belong to me, wearing a dress I’d never afford.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
“You look incredible,” Lucas replied. “And terrifying. My parents love terrifying.”
The Vanderbilt dining room made my school lab look humble. Everything gleamed. Crystal glasses. Art that probably cost more than my entire building.
Lucas’s father started in almost immediately, questioning a proposed environmental initiative with thinly veiled disdain.
“It’s inefficient,” he said. “The numbers don’t justify it.”
I swallowed, then leaned forward. “Actually, they do.”
Everyone turned to me.
I explained. Reaction rates. Long-term cost reduction. I watched his expression shift—not impressed, but forced to concede.
When dessert arrived, Chloe did too.
She swept in like she owned the place, eyes locking onto me with delight. “I was just telling everyone how… inspiring Emma’s background is.”
My face burned.
Lucas’s mother studied me for a long moment. Then smiled.
“Intelligence is rare,” she said. “Resilience even more so.”
Chloe’s smile faltered.
Lucas reached for my hand under the table.
It was fake.
I told myself it was fake.
But my heart didn’t seem to listen.