Page 50 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I make a note. “Have them revert the patch and rerun the simulation from the original architecture. I want the output compared side by side before anyone touches this again.”

Jeffrey nods. “Done.”

Problem solved.

CHAPTER NINE

Addy

There arefew things more humbling than standing in a billionaire’s kitchen and realizing you still have no idea what this five-year-old will actually eat.

I mean, yes, technically Ethan explained things earlier. There was a schedule. A pantry tour. A very serious discussion about bedtime and routines and nutritional manipulation, or whatever polite phrase rich people use for “children are tiny tyrants with opinions about pasta shapes.”

But now it's just me, this absurdly beautiful kitchen, one very quiet child at the island with a toy plane, and the growing realization that every item in the fridge appears to have been selected by someone who’s never once had to negotiate with a stubborn kindergartener.

I stare into the refrigerator. There’s sparkling water, almond milk, and some kind of expensive yogurt. A drawer full of produce so pristine it looks decorative, leftover grilled chicken, and tiny glass jars of something green that I’m fairly sure cost more than my old electricity bill.

“Okay,” I mutter. “This isn't food. This is a wellness retreat.”

Behind me, Oliver looks up from his plane. “What?”

I close the fridge and turn. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dad does that too.”

That's somehow both comforting and concerning.

I lean against the counter and look at him properly.

He’s been quietly occupied for nearly fifteen minutes while I unpacked the most important parts of my life, got mildly emotionally attached to my new bedroom window, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that Ethan helped carry my suitcase like some kind of infuriatingly competent male lead.

Now it’s just us.

Which should feel normal, because this is the job. This is literally what I'm here for.

And yet I'm still deeply aware that I'm in a penthouse with a child I’ve only met twice, a dog who has already claimed me, and a boss who looks at me like he’s trying not to remember things.

Cool.

Very normal.

I cross to the island and sit opposite Oliver. “So. Important question.”

He looks instantly suspicious. “What?”

“What do you like to eat?”

He squints. “Food.”

I stare at him.

“Wow,” I say. “Specific. Helpful. Love that.”

He shrugs and returns to his plane.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” I say. “If you could eat literally anything for lunch, what would you choose?”

He thinks about it. “Pancakes.”