THE BILLIONAIRE’S TEMPORARY WIFE

Chapter 7: Noah's New Shoes

Zara's pov

Noah never lies to me well, which is why I noticed the new sneakers before he even said hello.

I'd come by his dorm on my one free afternoon that week, arms full of the leftovers Marta had insisted I take from the mansion kitchen.

He opened the door in sweatpants and those sneakers, box-fresh white, the kind with a logo I recognized from a window display I'd stood outside of a hundred times and never once gone in.

"Since when do you own four-hundred-dollar shoes?" I said, before I'd even gotten past the threshold.

"They're not four hundred dollars." He stepped back to let me in, not quite fast enough to hide the way his shoulders went stiff.

"Noah."

"They were on sale." He took the container of pasta out of my hands like that would end the conversation. "You didn't have to bring food, by the way. I'm not starving."

"You're always starving. It's biological." I set my bag down and looked around the room properly for the first time, and that was when I noticed the rest of it, a new laptop bag slung over his desk chair, tags still on it, and a pair of headphones I definitely hadn't paid for sitting charged on the nightstand. "Okay, what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

"Noah." I crossed my arms. "I know what your bank account looks like. I've watched it for three years. It does not have four-hundred-dollar-sneaker money in it."

"Maybe I got a job."

"Did you get a job?"

A pause, half a second too long. "Sort of."

"Sort of isn't an answer, it's a stall tactic." I sat down on the edge of his bed, watching him busy himself with the pasta container instead of looking at me. "You've used that exact phrase since you were nine years old, right before you told me you'd broken Mom's good vase and blamed it on the neighbor's cat."

That got a flicker of a smile out of him, "That cat had it coming eventually anyway."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject, I'm delaying it, there's a difference." He finally looked at me, and for one second I saw something underneath the joke, something tired, something guilty. "I picked up some freelance stuff. Tutoring, mostly. Some tech support gigs for people in my program. It adds up faster than you'd think."

"Tutoring paid for those shoes."

"Tutoring paid for a lot of things, actually. I've been saving for a while, you just haven't noticed because you're always working."

That one landed with a little more sting than I think he meant it to. "I notice plenty. I noticed the sneakers in about four seconds."

"Congratulations." He dropped into the desk chair, spinning it halfway toward me. "You want a medal?"

"I want you to stop being cute about this and tell me the truth."

"I am telling you the truth."

"You're telling me a version of the truth that's shaped like an answer but isn't actually one. I've been doing this with you since you were in diapers, Noah, I know the difference." I softened my voice, because going in hard had never worked on him, "I'm not mad. I just want to know where the money's coming from. That's all."

"Why does it matter where it's coming from, as long as it's not hurting anybody?"

My stomach dropped a little at that, "Is it hurting somebody?" I asked carefully.

"No." Too fast. "God, Zara, no. It's nothing like that."

"Then tell me what it's like."

He rubbed the back of his neck, "It's consulting work. Kind of. Someone reached out to me a few weeks ago, said they'd heard I was good with information systems, wanted some help with a project."

"What kind of project?"

"Research stuff. Organizing information. Nothing illegal, if that's what you're worried about." He said it like he'd rehearsed it.

"Who's 'someone'?"

"Just a guy. Works in finance. Older, connected, the kind of person who knows a lot of people." He shrugged, "He pays well and he doesn't ask a lot of questions. I figured that was a good trade."

"Noah, that's exactly the kind of arrangement that ends with someone in trouble, and it's usually the person who didn't ask enough questions."

"I'm not in trouble."

"Does this guy have a name?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, Noah, it matters. If a stranger is paying my little brother enough money for designer sneakers to organize 'information,' I'd like to know who that stranger is." I kept my voice even, even though my pulse had picked up somewhere around the word finance. "Is it a company? A person? What?"

"I don't know the whole org chart, Zara, I just do the work he sends me and he pays me for it. That's how freelance stuff works."

"Freelance work usually comes with an invoice. A business name. Something." I studied him. "Does this one?"

"It's… informal." He wouldn't look at me when he said it. "Cash, mostly. Sometimes a transfer from an account that isn't under his name, but he says that's just how people in his position handle things. Privacy stuff."

"That's not privacy, Noah, that's a warning sign with a bow on it."

"You're wearing new shoes you can't explain and telling me a stranger pays you not to ask questions. Forgive me if that doesn't exactly settle my nerves."

"It's not like that." His voice climbed half a note, defensive in a way that told me more than any of his words had. "You act like I can't handle taking care of myself for once. I've watched you carry everything for years, Zara. Every bill, every problem, always you. Maybe I wanted to be the one who fixes something for a change."

"I never asked you to fix anything. I just don't want you getting hurt trying to prove something to me."

"I'm not trying to prove anything to you."

"Then who?"

He didn't answer that one. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve instead.

"How much has he paid you so far?" I asked. "Total."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know how deep in you already are."

"I'm not 'in' anything. It's not a debt, Zara, it's income." He crossed his arms, "You're making this sound like I owe somebody my kidney."

"I'm making it sound like exactly what it is until you tell me otherwise."

"Does this have anything to do with Ethan?" I asked, quiet.

His head came up fast. Too fast. "Why would it have anything to do with him?"

"Because you asked me a hundred questions about the Vance family the week I signed that contract, and because you've hated the idea of me being anywhere near that mansion since day one, and because you're suddenly flush with cash right when things are getting complicated over there." I watched his face while I said it, and I saw something flicker behind his eyes that he couldn't quite smooth over fast enough. "That's not a coincidence I'm comfortable with, Noah."

"You're reaching."

"Am I?"

"Yes." He stood up, restless, crossing to the window like putting distance between us would end the conversation. "You always do this. You take one thing and build a whole story around it because you can't just let something be simple."

"Nothing about our life has ever been simple, so forgive me for not starting now."

He didn't answer right away. When he finally turned around, his jaw was tight, his eyes somewhere over my shoulder instead of on my face, and something about the set of his mouth made my chest go cold before he'd even said a word.

"It's nothing, Zara," he said, not meeting my eyes, and I realized my little brother had learned how to lie to me after all…