Page 159 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

This is our normal: school pickup. Homework. Negotiations over snacks and craft supplies. Dinner squeezed between my deadlines and Theo’s bedtime. Cardboard projects appearing on the dining table and tiny pieces of whatever he has decided to build turning up in places they absolutely do not belong.

It is quiet in a way I once thought quiet might be boring. I know better now.

Our townhouse sits on a tree-lined street several minutes from the school, close enough that I could walk the route if Los Angeles were not so deeply committed to turning every simple errand into a driving experience. The house is not enormous, but it is ours: three bedrooms, a small office overlooking the courtyard, a kitchen I renovated two years ago after finally admitting I had no intention of leaving, and a narrow patio where Theo has claimed one corner for his collection of boxes, toy parts, craft sticks, and things he insists he might need later.

California was supposed to be temporary. I stopped calling it that years ago. Theo leans forward slightly in the back seat.

“Can Aunt Emma come over tonight?”

“She has work.”

“She said she might be done early.”

I glance at him in the mirror.

“When did Aunt Emma tell you that?”

“Yesterday.”

“You two are discussing schedules without me now?”

“She called.”

“And you asked what time she was coming over?”

Theo shrugs. “Maybe.”

I laugh softly.

“That sounds more accurate.”

“She said she could maybe come after dinner.”

“We’ll ask her when we get home.”

Theo nods, apparently satisfied.

Emma lives less than fifteen minutes away, close enough that Theo considers her apartment another version of home and her refrigerator something he has unrestricted access to. Seven years ago, I arrived in California with two suitcases and no real plan beyond staying with my sister until I could figure out what came next.

Somehow that became work, then Theo, then a lease of my own, then this townhouse, school applications, pediatricians, birthday parties, soccer clinics he quit after three weeks, and an aunt who has been woven so tightly into his life that he has never known anything different.

I turn onto our street. Theo lifts the cardboard project again and looks at it for several seconds before speaking.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“If something doesn’t work, can you fix it?”

“Usually.”

“What if you already did it wrong?”

I glance at him through the mirror.

“Then you try again.”

He considers that answer.