you've been employed.

Damien's POV

The penthouse feels wrong with someone else in it. Not bad, exactly. Just... occupied and no room to do as I pleased. This is my sanctuary—the one place where I don't have to perform, strategize, or maintain the carefully constructed walls that keep everyone at arm's length.

The cleaning lady comes on Tuesdays. That's it. That's the full list of people allowed in this space. I don't even have a personal chef or a laundry lady that comes around.

I was at my going through the numerous files my secretary had emailed me but I was aware of Lyra upstairs. The shower was running and the faint sound of her moving around in what is technically now our bedroom, though I've been camping out on the couch like a college kid avoiding his roommate.

"Do you actually sleep, or do you just power down at your desk like a laptop?" Her scent announced her before she spoke.

She was in sleep shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, damp hair falling in waves past her shoulders, glasses slightly crooked on her nose.

"The work doesn't finish itself." I kept typing, though I'm not actually reading what's on the screen anymore.

She drops onto my couch, sorry our couch, apparently. "That's bleak." She expressed her displeasure. "Why would anyone derive pleasure from sitting in front of a computer?"

"Because some of us have responsibilities unlike others who would rather leech off someone than make a name for themselves."

"Ohhh," was all she said and I looked up, realizing that she'd thought I was referring to her when I was indeed talking in general.

My tone was a bit harsh so were my words and i didnt really blame her for picking offence.

"That's reality." I said in a more calm and subtle voice. "It's not as stressful as you think."

"That's a one-way ticket to a heart attack at forty-five." She adjusted her self on the couch to have a look at my screen. "Work, work, work."

I glanced up. "Was there something you needed, or are you just here to critique my life choices?"

"Oh, I've got a whole list. But let's start with your décor." She gestured around the penthouse with theatrical horror. "This whole vibe you've got going—it's very 'divorced dad meets witness protection.' Aggressively beige."

"It's minimalist." I pointed out. "I like my space simple."

"It's depressing." She retorted. "Even a blind person won't agree with the choice of your decor."

"I prefer functional." I leaned back in my seat, twirling my light pen in my hand. "It's my space and I get to do whatever I want."

"Off course , it's yours." She examined the space like she was mentally cataloging everything wrong with it. "Where's the personality? The color? Any evidence that an actual human lives here and not just a very organized ghost?"

"Interior design isn't exactly a priority."

"Clearly." She rose to her feet and moved to my bookshelf, which contains exactly twelve books, all business theory. "Okay, we need to fix this situation." She leaned on it with her arms crossed. "We can't keep living like this."

"We really don't." I finally went through the last file for the night and I turned off my computer. My eyes were hurting. Maybe I'd pay a visit to the optician tomorrow to have them checked out.

"Damien, we're supposedly married. Married people's homes look lived-in. This looks like a hotel suite where someone forgot to check out."

She was not wrong, but I'm not about to admit it. Even the cleaning lady had said so, and my secretary too. "It's my space and I love it very minimal."

"No, but basic believability does." She turned, arms crossed, and I recognized that stubborn set to her jaw. "What happens when someone visits? Your business partners, pack members, literally anyone? They'll take one look at this sterile nightmare and know something's off."

"No one's visiting me." I replied. "I don't like having anyone in my house."

She mouthed the word boring to me twice before she turned to pick up and book. When she glanced through it and found it boring, she kept it back.

We were locked in a staring contest now, neither willing to back down. This was absurd. We're arguing about throw pillows.

"Fine." The word costs me. "You can make... reasonable adjustments. Nothing excessive but add little things here and there."

Her smile was pure victory. "When you say I can change some things , what and what can I add?" She had this glint of mischief in her eyes.

"Lyra."

"I'm serious. I need parameters. Are we talking a succulent on the windowsill, or can I go full HGTV on this place?"

"One plant or maybe two. That's the limit."

"Boring, but okay. We'll start small." She settled back onto the couch, tucking her feet under her. "Oh, and speaking of making this believable—I need employment."

That caught me off guard. "You're unemployed?"

"Between opportunities, thank you very much."

"Doing what?"

"I was a legal assistant downtown. Got laid off two months back when my firm merged with some corporate monster." She shrugged, but there's something brittle in the gesture.

"Anyway, unless you want your brand-new wife looking suspicious by living off your money with zero income..."

The solution hit me immediately, which is probably a sign I should think it through more carefully.

"Work for me." I blurted out before realizing that I sounded a bit desperate.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"My secretary. My current one's transferring to a different department next week, and I need someone quick, organized, capable of handling pack business without flinching." I studied her. "You're smart. You're observant. And you've got a sharp mouth—that'll be useful."

"You're offering me a job right now? Just like that?" She asked. "Like, you don't even know my qualifications or work experience."

"I don't need to because if you're not good at me, I'll sack you immediately." And I meant it. I couldn't have a slacker even if she was my wife.

"Without an interview? Reference checks? A formal application process?"

"Would you prefer I ask where you see yourself in five years?" I asked. "or maybe ask you to work for months to prove your credibility?"

Lyra began to laugh, showing off dimples that I'd never noticed. She laughed—genuine and something in my chest does an uncomfortable flip. "God, no. I'll pass on the corporate interrogation."

"So?"

"So... yeah. Okay, I'll be your secretary." She paused. "This isn't some weird power dynamic thing, right? Where you're both my husband and my boss?"

"It's practical. We're already pretending to be married. Working together makes the whole story more cohesive." I ran my fingers through my hair. "Makes this charade more believable."

"And you're not worried I'll be terrible at it?" Typical Lyra. If you answered one question, she'll bombard you with fifty more until she was satisfied.

"Are you typically terrible at things?"

"Generally? No. But I've never worked for—" she waves vaguely "—whatever it is you do. Corporate finance? Business warfare? Capitalist warlord activities?"

"You'll learn quickly or you won't. Either way, we find out together." I turned back to my laptop. "We start at eight. Don't be late."