Page 39 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

“Yes,” I whisper. “All three.”

He smiles—softer this time. Not that cocky grin that makes me want to bite him. This one? Ittouchesme.

In places I usually wall off. In places, I don’t let anyone in. But he’s already in my safe space.

And damn if that’s not more dangerous than anything else.

He leads me through the house like I’m something precious, his hand light on the small of my back. We pass through rooms too beautiful to exist outside of a magazine—vaulted ceilings, gold-framed art, chandeliers that hum softly.

Then we reach the kitchen.

It’s cathedral-big, with slate counters and pendant lights hanging like jewelry. Natural light bounces off the steel appliances. This place whispersmoneywith every polished surface. Nothing is out of place.

“I’ve never seen this much food outside a grocery store,” I murmur.

He grins and opens what I think is a pantry. Nope—it’s a fridge.Awhole roomof cold storage. Gourmet cheeses. Tiny gold-lidded jars. Edible confetti?

“This is... what is this?” I breathe.

He chuckles. “Cold storage heaven? It’s a sub-zero fridge.”

“You can have anything—everything,” he says, suddenly serious. “Anything you need—just tell me. It’s yours.”

His words hit me sideways. This jet-set life—the estate, the cameras,him—is overwhelming. I lean against the marble island, blinking too fast.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey.” His voice softens. “Kate. You okay?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. The words feel foreign. “This doesn’t feel like my life. I don’t even know what to do with a house like this. A fridge like this. A... you.”

Our eyes lock. Then he steps in, placing a hand on my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek. His other arm gently wraps around my waist.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “You’re already enough. You being here—that’s all I want.”

I look up at him. And for the first time, I let myself believe he might mean it.

Even if I don’t know what happens next, I know one thing: I’m not alone in this fake marriage.

We keep walking. I pass a baby grand piano and electric guitars mounted on the wall. A hallway lined with glass cases—helmets, hockey jerseys. A dining table big enough to seat the UN.

“Back home,” I say, trying to lighten the awe still stuck in my throat, “our double-wide was so small, you could watch TV, fry bacon, and brush your teeth all at once. I once set off the smoke alarm justthinkingabout toast.”

Finn laughs. “Then we’ll keep this place extra fire-safe. What happens if you think about me?”

“You don’t want to know,” I deadpan.

He likes that. I can tell by the way his hand moves to my back as he leads me down one more hallway. Then we reachthebedroom.

Our bedroom.

I stop short. A massive California king. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in soft linen. A fireplace with a giant TV over it. Everything about it feels intimate. Too intimate.

It’s perfect. He’s perfect, like living in a movie. And suddenly, I amveryaware I have no idea what happens next.

I turn slowly to him. “So... what exactly are the sleeping arrangements?”

Finn raises a brow. “That depends,” he says, voice low and effortless. “Do you want a separate room? Or are we sharing?”