Terms & Conditions

House Rules

# Chapter Ten: House Rules

Moving in took less time than Ivy expected, mostly because she didn't own much worth moving. Two suitcases of clothes, a box of kitchen things she refused to leave behind even though the Tribeca kitchen was better equipped than most professional ones she'd worked in, and a milk crate of cookbooks with cracked spines and handwritten notes in the margins, inherited from a grandmother she barely remembered and a culinary program she'd dropped out of when the tuition bills stopped making sense.

Julian had cleared an entire closet for her without asking what she'd need, which turned out to be roughly a tenth of the space, and Ivy stood in the doorway of her new room that first evening surrounded by boxes that looked small and slightly embarrassed against the scale of everything around them.

"You can use more of the apartment than just this room," Julian said, appearing in the hallway with the particular awkwardness of a man who wasn't used to having anyone to check in with. "I meant that. It's not just a courtesy."

"I know. I believe you." Ivy set down the box of cookbooks on the bed. "I think I just need a minute to remember this is real and not, like, an extremely elaborate fever dream."

"That makes two of us."

They settled, over the following days, into something that resembled rules mostly because neither of them wanted to accidentally step on the other's life without meaning to. Julian left early most mornings, before Ivy was even up, which suited her fine, since her own hours ran late into the night at the restaurant. They crossed paths in the kitchen sometimes — him making coffee in a machine that looked like it required an engineering degree to operate, her raiding the enormous refrigerator that was, she discovered with some delight, stocked with almost nothing except sparkling water and a suspicious number of protein bars.

"This is a crime," she told him the third morning, staring into the fridge with real disappointment. "You have a kitchen island bigger than my childhood bedroom and you keep it full of protein bars."

"I don't cook."

"Clearly."

"I could learn," he offered, with the same dry, deadpan delivery she was slowly learning meant he was actually, quietly, testing the waters of a joke.

"Don't," Ivy said, already pulling ingredients out of her own grocery bags, unable to resist the opening even as some cautious part of her flagged how easily domestic this all felt, barely a week into a two-year contract. "I'll cook. You just have to promise not to complain if it's not fancy enough for whatever your usual restaurants charge for a plate of protein and sadness."

Julian actually laughed at that — a real one, short and surprised out of him, gone as quickly as it arrived, the way his rare unguarded moments always seemed to be.

It was on the fourth evening, looking for a mixing bowl in a lower cabinet she hadn't fully explored yet, that Ivy found it: a laminated sheet taped to the inside of the cabinet door, half-hidden behind a stack of serving trays that looked like they'd never once been used. A weekly schedule, printed in a clean, organized grid — pickup times, a school name, a phone number labeled *Renata (backup)*, and at the top, in bold, a name Ivy didn't recognize.

**SADIE — Tuesday/Thursday pickup 3:15pm, Wednesday half-day 12:30pm.**

Ivy stood very still, holding the mixing bowl she'd actually been looking for, staring at the schedule like it might rearrange itself into something that made more sense.

Julian came home twenty minutes later to find her still in the kitchen, dinner half-prepped and forgotten on the counter, the cabinet door standing open.

"Who's Sadie?" Ivy asked, before he'd even set his bag down.

Something crossed his face — not alarm exactly, but a kind of careful recalibration, the look of a man deciding, in real time, how much of himself to hand over.

"You found the schedule."

"I was looking for a mixing bowl. I wasn't snooping, I promise, it was just — taped right there." Ivy gestured at the cabinet, feeling suddenly like she'd trespassed somewhere she hadn't meant to go, the same instinct she'd felt reaching for the face-down photograph. "You don't have to tell me. I know there's a lot you're not ready to explain yet. I just — I didn't expect a kid's school schedule taped inside your kitchen cabinet, of all the places I thought I might find something surprising in this apartment."

Julian set his bag down slowly, and for a long moment he didn't say anything, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with an expression Ivy hadn't seen on him yet — something that looked almost like fear, which struck her as strange on a man who negotiated multimillion-dollar acquisitions without visibly flinching.

"Sadie is eight," he said finally. "She's the daughter of my best friend — my business partner, actually, before he died. Marcus. Car accident, three years ago." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture so unlike his usual stillness that Ivy found herself holding her breath without meaning to. "Her mother passed when she was a baby. Her aunt Renata has custody, officially, but Renata works two jobs and doesn't always have the flexibility the school needs, and I — " He stopped. Started again, quieter. "I'm listed as her emergency contact. Her legal godfather, technically, though that word makes it sound more official than it usually feels. I pick her up when Renata can't. I go to the school things. I'm not her father. I'm careful never to let anyone think I'm trying to be. But I'm — I'm there, as much as I can be."

Ivy set the mixing bowl down on the counter, very carefully, because her hands had started to feel unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the man's tone and everything to do with what he was actually telling her.

"You didn't mention her," she said, gently, not an accusation, just an observation. "In any of the terms we negotiated. Not once."

"No."

"Why not?"

Julian looked at her for a long moment, something raw and unguarded moving across his face before he answered, the same rawness she'd glimpsed by the face-down photograph, the same rawness underneath the story about his mother.

"Because almost no one knows how involved I actually am," he said. "Not the board. Not most people at the company. It's not a secret exactly — it's just not something I hand out easily, because the moment people know, they start having opinions about whether a man like me should be that important to a child who isn't his. And because — " he exhaled, and for once didn't finish the sentence with the careful precision she'd come to expect from him, just let it trail into something more honest, "— because she's the one part of my life that has nothing to do with Cade Capital, or my father's will, or anything transactional at all. I didn't want to introduce her into this contract like she was a line item to be managed. I wanted to see if I could trust you with her, first, before I handed you access to the one thing in my life I actually care about protecting."

The kitchen was very quiet. Ivy thought of the empty shelves in the living room, the apartment that looked like nobody actually lived in it, and understood, with a sudden ache she hadn't expected, that she'd had it slightly wrong — it wasn't that Julian Cade didn't let anyone in. It was that he'd built one small, fiercely guarded exception into an otherwise locked life, and hadn't yet decided whether Ivy belonged anywhere near it.

"I'd like to meet her," Ivy said, carefully. "Whenever you're ready for that. Not because it's part of the arrangement. Just — because she sounds important, and you sound like you love her, and I think that's the first thing you've told me about yourself that had nothing to do with a negotiation."

Something in Julian's shoulders eased, fractionally, the same way it had the day he signed the contract, the same slow unclenching she was starting to recognize as his particular version of relief.

"She'll like you," he said, quiet, something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "God help me, she'll probably like you more than she likes me, within about ten minutes. She has a talent for seeing through people. I have a feeling she's going to see through this whole arrangement faster than either of us is ready for."

"That's terrifying," Ivy said honestly.

"Yes," Julian agreed, and this time the almost-smile made it all the way through. "It usually is."