From His Fake Wife to Billionaire Heiress Chapter 158: An Unwelcome Guest

Riley simply responded with a quiet "Mm-hmm."

Sophia pressed her red lips together in brief irritation, then forced them back into a relaxed line.

Not long after, a company-wide email popped up on everyone's screens.

It officially announced the launch of the deep collaboration on the project Aiden had introduced.

At the very bottom of the memo, one line stood out: Sophia was appointed the lead representative for the partnership, with full authority over all moving parts.

Sophia seemed to feel she'd won the upper hand. Even her walk took on a confident, almost swaggering rhythm.

Almost immediately, she called all the key department members into the conference room for an urgent strategy meeting—how to tackle this "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," as she put it.

Riley's name was noticeably absent from the invite list.

Everyone in the department noticed, but no one dared to comment.

Riley couldn't have cared less.

If anything, she found it a little amusing. Sophia's vision is so narrow, she thought. Getting put in charge of one project and she acts like she's won the lottery.

Riley finished organizing her files without hurry and packed up to leave at the end of the day.

But as she reached her parking spot in the garage, she was surprised to see Lucas already there.

He was leaning against the driver's side of his car, scrolling through his phone.

When he noticed Riley approaching, he straightened up.

"Let's go," he said, opening the passenger door for her. "We're heading to your place tonight."

He'd actually remembered their arrangement about him staying over—and even made a point to arrive early and wait for her downstairs.

Riley smiled faintly to herself, though her expression remained neutral.

She walked around and slid into the passenger seat.

Part of her was curious to see how long someone as accustomed to luxury as Lucas would last in her modest apartment.

When they arrived, Lucas glanced up at the building—well-kept and relatively new, but clearly not high-end—and his brow unconsciously furrowed.

Inside, following Riley down the hallway, his frown deepened.

"Riley, this place is... pretty basic," he remarked, unable to hide his distaste as he scanned the roughly thousand-square-foot, two-bedroom unit. To him, it still felt cramped.

No vaulted ceilings, no dining table that could seat twelve, no walk-in closet or home theater setup.

By his standards, this wasn't really living.

Riley went straight to the entryway closet, pulled out a pair of unused disposable guest slippers, and dropped them near his feet.

"And?" she said flatly. "When I was in grad school, I lived in a basement apartment with just a bed and a desk. If you can't handle this, you're welcome to go back to your penthouse. No one's keeping you here."

Lucas didn't want to give Riley the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate.

He bent down, struggled a bit with the plastic packaging, and slipped on the thin, flimsy slippers. Putting on a brave face, he said, "If you can live here, so can I."

But as he pushed through the discomfort and made his way into the living room, settling onto the reasonably cushioned sofa, he caught a faint scent in the air.

It was distinctly a men's cologne—woody, subtle, and lingering.

Lucas immediately tensed, his eyes darting toward Riley. "Has someone else been here?"

Riley noticed it too.

It was the scent Sebastian had left behind from the night before. He'd stayed long enough for it to settle into the upholstery.

"Lots of people come through here," Riley replied, answering his question with another. "The building super, food delivery, the guy who fixed the AC last week... which one are you asking about?"

Lucas felt like he'd stepped into another one of her verbal traps.

Right. Even if a man had been here, that didn't mean anything—handymen, delivery drivers, neighbors.

Bringing it up just made him sound insecure and petty.

"Never mind," he muttered, feeling like he'd just punched a wall with no effect. He clumsily changed the subject. "What's for dinner? There's no personal chef here. Maybe we should just go out?"

Riley's goal was to make him uneasy in every way possible here.

She sank lazily into the couch, rubbed her temples, and replied in a tired tone, "I'm too worn out to go anywhere. Let's just order in."

Lucas' expression stiffened again.

He hardly ever ate anything that didn't come from a sit-down restaurant or his own kitchen staff, aside from occasional business lunches.

But seeing Riley's don't-argue-with-me look, he somehow held back from protesting.

"Fine," he said tightly. Then, as if trying to reclaim some dignity, he glanced down at the flimsy slippers on his feet and added, somewhat meekly, "Can you at least order me some real slippers? I am staying here, after all."

The words "staying here" came out sounding more tentative than he intended, but they carried a certain weight—an unspoken claim to space.

Riley looked up at him briefly.

She opened a delivery app, picked the nearest convenience store, and added the cheapest pair of men's slippers to her cart.

"Done. They'll be here in thirty minutes."