On the cracked linoleum floor of a public elementary school in Houston, Texas, a girl in a faded pink T-shirt sat cross-legged, drawing a skyscraper that didn’t exist yet.

The classroom buzzed with noise—pencils tapping, chairs scraping, the rustle of worksheets—but Clarice tuned it all out. On her paper, she sketched a glass tower stabbing into a blue sky, its logo shining at the top in elegant letters:

CLARICE LIN CREATIVE.

Not just her name. Her whole future.

“When I grow up,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone, “I’m going to be rich and successful. Just like the girl in my drawing.”

A shadow fell over her.

Ken Park, scuffed sneakers, buzz cut, hand-me-down backpack, leaned down to squint at her paper. The American flag flapped a little in the air conditioner’s breeze above the whiteboard behind them, the word “DREAM BIG” peeling off a poster in red, white, and blue letters.

“Yeah, keep dreaming, Clarice,” he said. “Your family’s broke. How you going to get from here to that?”

Clarice rolled her pencil between her fingers, refusing to flinch.

“My mom says if you’re a good person and work hard, you can be anything you want in life,” she replied. “Maybe I’ll be in marketing. Or a creative director. Someone who makes things look beautiful.”

Ken snorted. “Being successful isn’t about being good or working hard. It’s about what you’re born into. You were born poor. That won’t ever change.”

He walked away before she could answer, like the conversation was settled.

Clarice looked back down at her drawing.

She underlined her name twice.

“Watch me,” she whispered.

Years rolled over Houston in waves of heat and hurricanes. One by one, the kids from that classroom scattered—some to college, some to community jobs, some to nowhere in particular. Clarice never saw Ken again.

Not until the night her life slid completely off the rails in Los Angeles.

Fifteen years later, the dusty dream of that skyscraper had been replaced by the much more pressing reality of coffee refills and cracked vinyl booths in a diner off a busy LA boulevard. Truckers, nurses, students, the occasional Hollywood burnout—everyone came through at some point.

Clarice balanced a tray of orders on one hip, her black work shoes sticking slightly to the floor where a soda had exploded earlier. Grease hissed on the grill behind the counter. A TV in the corner muttered about traffic on the 405 and another heat wave baking southern California.

“Clarice,” her manager called. “Table six. They’ve been asking for the check.”

“I’m on it,” she said, dropping off pancakes at one table, picking up dirty plates at another.

It wasn’t much. Not what she’d dreamed about as a kid. But the diner kept the lights on. Barely.

“Hi, is this your seat?” a woman asked shyly, standing near the counter and gesturing to a stool.

Clarice had been about to slide onto it and rest her aching legs for a second.

“That’s okay,” Clarice said, stepping back. “Please, take it. I insist.”

The woman smiled gratefully and sank down. Clarice moved on. Her own comfort could wait.

An hour later, the owner cornered her near the register, beaming.

“There you are,” he said, slapping a printed page onto the counter. “Look at this. We’ve been getting compliments on this all day.” He lowered his voice. “I swear it looks like we spent ten grand.”

Clarice smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. On the paper was the diner’s new logo and homepage layout, sleek and modern, the kind of design bigger chains paid agencies for.

“I’m glad it helped,” she said. “It wasn’t that hard. I just sketched it up last weekend.”

“Not that hard?” he repeated. “You realize we didn’t have a dime for this. You did a whole new brand for free. Sometimes I think you’re wasting your time working here.”

“Trust me, I know,” she said under her breath.

The bell over the door jingled. Bri, another waitress, rushed in, ponytail lopsided, stress written all over her face.

“Clarice, thank you again for covering my shift,” Bri said. “My babysitter bailed and my little girl—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clarice interrupted. “Just make sure your kid’s okay.”

Bri nodded, then turned toward the owner. “I just came to pick up my check. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He handed her an envelope—and then, awkwardly, cleared his throat.

“Bri… while I have you here…” He shifted his weight. “This is going to be your last check. I have to let you go.”

Bri blinked. “What? No, please… I need this job. I have a kid—”

“Business has been slow,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ve got to let someone go. And I can’t rely on you to be here on time.”

“Cut my hours,” she begged. “Cut my pay. I’ll clean the bathrooms. Please, just let me work until I find something else.”

Clarice watched the scene unfold, something twisting inside her. Bri’s voice shook. She looked like she’d been punched.

Clarice stepped forward before she could talk herself out of it.

“Don’t fire her,” she said. “I was actually coming to tell you I have to quit.”

The owner turned, stunned. “What?”

“Some personal stuff came up. I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Clarice lied smoothly, pulse pounding. “Better to let me go. You’ll be short staffed if you fire her too.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Clarice nodded. “Yeah. I’ll still cover her shift today so she can take care of her daughter. After that… I’ll figure something out.”

Bri was crying now. “Clarice… thank you…”

“You’re a good person,” the owner said. “And a good worker. It’s a shame you’re leaving.”

“Hey,” he added, trying to lighten his tone, “we can still keep the website and logo, right?”

“Sure,” she said. “Keep it.”

She tied her apron a little tighter and went back to work, knowing that in a few hours, she’d have no job, no savings, and no plan.

By midnight, the streets outside the diner were quieter. The glow of Los Angeles still hummed in the distance—billboards, office towers, the silhouettes of palm trees against the sky.

Clarice stepped into the dark, hugging herself against the cool air, cardboard box of her few belongings tucked under one arm. The “Closed” sign flipped behind her, neon fizzing out.

Her phone buzzed.

Harrison.

She’d been waiting for this call all day.

“Hey,” she answered, trying to sound less tired than she felt. “Did you get it? The job in Oregon?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. They offered it.”

She smiled, then realized he didn’t sound happy. “That’s amazing. We can—”

“Clar,” he cut in. “Long distance isn’t going to work. I can’t do this. It’s not… it’s not you. I just… I have to focus. On my career. On my life.”

“So you’re breaking up with me,” she said flatly, standing under a flickering streetlight in a city three states away from the one she was born in, a cardboard box digging into her arm.

“Clar—”

The line went dead.

She stared at her screen, at the “Call ended” notification, and for a second the whole world blurred.

“I just lost my job,” she whispered. “And my boyfriend. In one night.”

Behind her, footsteps scraped.

“Hey,” a man’s voice said. “Got any cash?”

She turned, startled, to see a stranger stepping too close, shadows hiding half his face.

“I—I don’t have anything,” she started.

He reached toward her, and adrenaline shot through her veins.

“Hey!” another voice shouted sharply from across the lot. “Back off!”

A figure strode out from under a streetlamp—tall, black coat, shoulders confident.

The stranger hesitated, cursed under his breath, and shuffled away into the dark.

“Are you okay?” the newcomer asked, coming closer. “Did he hurt you?”

Clarice exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

“No,” she said shakily. “Just my pride.”

Then, as he stepped into the light, she saw his face.

Sharp jaw. Familiar eyes.

No way.

“Ken?” she breathed.

He frowned. “Do I know—”

“Houston,” she said. “Fifth grade. You told me I’d be poor forever.”

His eyes widened. “Clarice?”

She laughed once, a short, disbelieving sound. “Who knew my knight in shining armor would be Ken Park from grade school.”

The next hour blurred into steam and borrowed clothes and the strange intimacy of sitting in someone else’s apartment wearing their T-shirt.

Ken lived in a clean but small place in downtown LA, a skyline poster taped to one wall, architectural models on every shelf. His diploma from a prestigious California architecture school hung above his desk, next to framed certifications.

And on the coffee table between them lay a gold wedding band.

Clarice eyed it, then raised an eyebrow. “Your wife going to be cool with a stranger wearing your clothes and dripping on your floor?”

“My…” He followed her gaze and winced. “Oh. That. I, uh… I just wear it to work.”

She stared. “You wear a ring to work. But you’re not married.”

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“So un-complicate it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking less like a suave architect and more like the kid in Houston who’d been too blunt for his own good.

“My uncle owns an architecture firm,” Ken said. “Big one. Downtown. He’s old-school. Thinks a ‘single man’ can’t be trusted with a hundred-million-dollar development Project. The Getty Tower? That’s his client. He said once, ‘Marriage is stability. Architects like stability. Clients like stability.’ So…” He gestured helplessly at the ring. “I put this on.”

Clarice stared at him. “You lied to your boss so he’d take you seriously?”

He shrugged. “You said it yourself when we were kids. Hard work and being a good person don’t matter as much as what you’re born into. Or who you pretend to be.”

“I didn’t say that,” she shot back. “You did.”

He fell silent.

She took in the apartment again—the models, the rolled-up drawings, the carefully stacked books on design. “You said working hard doesn’t matter,” she corrected. “But it does. Look at this place. Look at you.”

He laughed without humor. “My uncle is the one who matters. He’s the one who decides whose designs get built and whose end up in a drawer. His daughter, Leanne, can hand in half-finished sketches and he acts like she’s Michelangelo. I bring in multiple big clients, stay up all night solving design problems, and he gives the lead on every project to her.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t born into the right family,” she said quietly. “It just means you were born into a complicated one.”

“What about you?” he asked, leaning back. “You said you lost your job tonight. And your boyfriend. And almost your wallet. Great Tuesday.”

She looked down at her hands. “My mom died right after high school,” she said. “No dad. No college. No safety net. I’ve been working whatever jobs I can to keep a roof over my head. Diners. Retail. A little freelance design on the side. I never had what you have. Connections. Degrees. People who can open doors for me.”

“I don’t really have—”

“You do,” she cut in. “Uncle or not, you have a shot at a career people kill for. You have a place to fall. And parents who call. Do you know what I would’ve given to have someone call me once a week just to ask if I’d eaten?”

He looked away.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” She gave him a small, tired smile. “Even though you may not have everything you want, you should be grateful for everything you have, Ken. Your parents. Your uncle. A job that actually matches your degree.”

“And you?” he asked. “What do you have?”

She thought for a moment. “I had a mom who told me that if I was a good person and worked hard, I could be anything I wanted. And I still have that. In here.” She tapped her chest. “That’s something.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, not uncomfortable.

Then Ken straightened suddenly, an idea sparking behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to say something crazy.”

“Oh boy,” she muttered. “Here we go.”

“How would you feel,” Ken asked slowly, “about being my wife… for six months?”

She stared.

“Not my real wife,” he added quickly. “My fake wife. I pay you. You get a job and a place to stay. I get my promotion, my big clients. Everyone wins.”

She blinked. “Ken. Are you serious?”

He held up his hands. “Hear me out. My uncle’s obsessed with ‘stability’ and ‘legacy.’ His words, not mine. He’s on the verge of giving the Getty Tower project to Leanne. But he’s hesitating because she doesn’t have a final design ready and she’s not… let’s say, focused. Meanwhile, I have a full proposal. If I show up with a stable home life? He might finally pick me.”

“And you need a prop wife to prove it,” she said slowly.

“A partner,” he corrected. “Just for show. You’d be living here anyway while you figure things out. I’d pay you for the trouble. And, selfishly, I wouldn’t look like a liar.”

She laughed dryly. “Ken, you already are one. With or without me.”

He winced. “Fair.”

She thought of the folded check from the diner in her bag. The landlord’s eyes when he said “rent was due last week.” The empty fridge. The weight of her mother’s voice saying, You’ll find a way, baby. I know you.

“Six months?” she confirmed.

“Six months,” he said. “You can use the time to look for something better. Or build your design portfolio. I’ve seen that diner website. It’s good.”

She stared at him a long moment.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll be your fake wife. But not because I believe your ridiculous theory about bloodlines. Because right now, this is the only job offer I’ve got.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

“And one more thing,” she added. “Try not to talk about how I’ll be poor forever. It’s getting old.”

He laughed. “No promises.”

The next day, Clarice moved into Ken’s spare bedroom, clutching a duffel bag of clothes and a box of notebooks. In the room, on the neatly made bed, lay a dress that looked like it belonged in a magazine—soft fabric, tasteful neckline, the kind of thing she’d stopped trying on years ago because she knew she’d never be able to afford it.

In the living room, Ken handed her a folder.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Checks,” he said. “Four, one for each month you’ll be ‘working’ for me. And some facts about our relationship. We need to get our story straight.”

“I’m not cashing these,” she said, pushing the checks back at him. “You’re letting me stay here. That’s already more than enough.”

“Keep them,” he insisted. “You’re helping me with something big.”

She tucked the checks into her journal, still undecided.

By the time dinner with his uncle rolled around, her stomach was in knots.

They met at a high-end Korean restaurant in downtown LA, the kind with clean lines and soft jazz and a bar full of people in suits.

Mr. Lee, Ken’s uncle, was already at the table when they arrived, posture perfect, hair meticulously styled, suit definitely tailored. Across from him sat Leanne, flawless makeup and a designer Chanel bag resting on the chair beside her.

“You’re punctual, as always,” Mr. Lee said, checking his watch. “So this is the mysterious wife.”

Clarice nearly tripped on her heels as she approached. Ken slipped a stabilizing hand to her back.

“Uncle,” Ken said. “This is Clarice.”

She bowed slightly. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lee. Ken’s told me how much you’ve done for him.”

Mr. Lee’s eyes swept over her, assessing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

“Polite,” he said. “Respectful. And beautiful. A rare combination these days.”

“Thank you,” she said. “My mom always taught me to be kind. She said if you’re a good person and work hard, you can be anything you want in life.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Mr. Lee said, sipping his tea. “The right bloodline. Legacy is everything. My grandfather started my company. My father grew it. I’m continuing to build it. One day my daughter will run it.”

Leanne tossed her hair, satisfied.

Clarice smiled thinly. “I suppose that helps too.”

“Babe,” Ken cut in quickly, “didn’t you want to show my uncle something?”

“Oh. Right.” He pulled out his tablet and slid it across to Mr. Lee. “I took the liberty of solving the design flaw in the Getty Tower proposal. The vertical circulation issue.”

Mr. Lee’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“I added skyline lobbies on intermediate floors,” Ken explained. “Transfers between express and local elevators. It reduces congestion. Increases efficiency. Adds amenity space with views of the city.”

Mr. Lee studied the renderings, nodded slowly. “Nicely done,” he murmured. “Ambitious. You took initiative. And you were able to do it quickly.”

He turned to Leanne. “Do you have your drawings yet?”

She stiffened. “They were due a month ago,” he reminded her.

“I’ve been busy,” Leanne said. “And I don’t want to rush perfection.”

“Well,” he said, placing the tablet down, “time is of the essence. The Gettys want their development to move forward. Ken’s proposal is strong. And now that I know he’s married, settled…” He smiled approvingly. “I’m inclined to consider him to lead this project.”

Leanne’s face darkened. “You can’t give it to him,” she snapped. “He’s just a design associate. How would it look if you promoted him over your own daughter? You can’t make the face of the firm some nephew who—”

“…has been quietly landing big clients for three years,” Mr. Lee said. “While you cancel meetings to go shopping.”

“But Daddy—”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Mr. Lee cut her off. “I’ll make my final choice soon.”

Leanne’s eyes burned holes through Ken. Her gaze slid to Clarice.

“And you,” she said lazily. “You’re the imaginary girl, right?”

Silence crashed over the table.

Clarice froze.

Mr. Lee’s eyes sharpened. “Imaginary?”

Leanne smirked. “I told you, Dad. He always said he had a girlfriend. A mystery wife no one ever saw. Now she just magically appears when the biggest project of his career is at stake. Don’t you think that’s… convenient?”

Mr. Lee turned to Clarice. “What’s your full name?”

“Clarice Lin Meers,” she said, throat dry.

“Where did you meet?”

“At a bar,” she said before Ken’s fingers squeezed her knee in warning.

“I mean,” she corrected quickly, “at a restaurant. At the bar there. We actually knew each other from middle school before that. In Texas. He transferred to a private school for high school.”

“How long did you date before he proposed?” Mr. Lee asked.

“About six months,” she said. “Then he proposed. We got married at the courthouse.”

“And your honeymoon? Where did you go?”

“Hong Kong,” she said, remembering one of the bullet points Ken had shoved into her hands. “We stayed at the… Ritz-Carlton.”

“Beautiful,” Mr. Lee said. “I’ve been a few times. Which beaches did you like best?”

Clarice’s mind went blank. “I… don’t remember the names. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“The beaches in Hong Kong are nice,” Mr. Lee said. “But I prefer Thailand. Phuket. The water’s clearer.”

“Oh, babe,” Ken cut in quickly, forcing a laugh. “You’re thinking of when we watched that travel show with Krabi and Koh Samui. That’s probably why you’re mixing up the names.”

Mr. Lee’s gaze narrowed, but he let it go… for the moment.

“We’ll have to visit your home together sometime,” he said. “It’s been too long since we saw where Ken lives.”

Leanne smiled, sharp and satisfied. “Yes. We’ll come by. Very soon.”

Two days later, their doorbell rang.

Ken panicked.

“Help me,” he hissed, shoving frames into Clarice’s hands. “We need photos. Evidence. Something.”

“Ken,” she said, watching him scatter fake prints across shelves. “This is out of control.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he muttered, hanging a picture of them outside the DMV. “I need this. I’ve waited my whole life for a chance like this.”

She grabbed his wrist. “You always have a choice. Lying isn’t the only way.”

He yanked back. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been overshadowed your whole life.”

And then, because everything with Ken’s life traced back to the same wound, the story came out in a rush.

His parents sending him from Korea to America so he’d “have a better future.”

His uncle opening his home, then his company, then his expectations.

Little Ken trying to earn that love—straight As, perfect attendance, trophies lined up on his shelf—only to watch Leanne get more praise for half the effort.

Adult Ken staying late at the firm, bringing in new clients, solving problems in his sleep, only to see Leanne’s name on every marquee.

“So you see,” he finished bitterly, as the doorbell chimed again, “success isn’t about being good or working hard. It’s about the family you’re born into. Or don’t.”

He grabbed the doorknob.

She stepped in front of it.

“That’s not the whole truth,” she said. “I’m sorry you went through that. But your uncle doesn’t control your whole life. Your last name doesn’t, either. You’re good at what you do. You know it. Those awards on your wall? You earned them. Those designs? You drew them. That means your destiny is in your hands. Not his.”

The bell rang again, louder this time.

“Just tell them the truth,” she said. “Before this blows up in your face.”

The anger in his eyes wasn’t really for her. It was for a lifetime of being second.

“If I tell the truth, I lose everything,” he said. “You of all people should understand how that feels.”

He pulled the door open.

Leanne swept in, Mr. Lee behind her.

The visit started politely enough. Compliments. Small talk. Tea.

Then Mr. Lee’s eyes fell on a framed photo on the coffee table—Ken and Clarice posed in front of a sleek skyline.

“Nice picture,” he said. “Hong Kong?”

“Yes,” Ken said. “On our honeymoon.”

Mr. Lee picked it up, his expression unreadable.

“You were there last month, right?”

“Yes,” Ken lied.

“That’s strange,” Mr. Lee said softly. “Because this is the old skyline. From before they built the new tower on the harbor. This view hasn’t existed in years.”

Ken’s lungs turned to stone.

“Care to explain,” Mr. Lee asked calmly, “how you took a honeymoon photo last month in a skyline that hasn’t existed for a decade?”

The room went silent.

Clarice’s heart hammered.

“Ken?” Mr. Lee said quietly.

Ken opened his mouth.

And nothing came out.

Clarice swallowed hard.

“It’s a lie,” she said.

Everyone turned to her.

“We’re not married,” she continued. “Ken wanted to impress you. He thought if you saw a ring, a wife, a stable home, you’d take him seriously. So he hired me to pretend. We’ve known each other since we were kids, but we’re not together. Not like that.”

Mr. Lee stared at his nephew, face flushing with a mix of anger and hurt.

“Is that true?” he asked.

Ken’s shoulders sagged. “Yes,” he whispered. “I lied. Because I knew you’d never give me a chance otherwise. You give Leanne everything. She doesn’t work half as hard. I land clients, I solve problems, and you still look right past me. I thought if I looked like the man you wanted me to be, you might finally see what I can do.”

“Shame on you,” Mr. Lee said quietly. “Not because you want success—but because you thought you had to build it on a lie.”

He put the photo down and stood. “I can’t trust you to lead a project if I can’t trust your word.”

Leanne folded her arms, triumphant.

“Come on, Daddy,” she said. “Let’s go. We’ll be late for the meeting with the Gettys. I’ll show them my designs.”

When the door shut behind them, the apartment was suddenly too quiet.

Ken rounded on Clarice. “What is wrong with you?” he exploded. “We had a deal. You just blew up the only chance I’ve ever had to step out of his shadow.”

“I couldn’t support a lie,” she said calmly, even though her hands shook. “I told you, working hard and being a good person will get you where you’re meant to be. Maybe not the way you planned. Maybe not as fast as you want. But lying? This isn’t the price of success, Ken. It’s the cost of losing yourself.”

“‘Be a good person, work hard…’” he mocked. “Where has that gotten you? You’re broke. Unemployed. You just got dumped. You’re sleeping in a man’s spare bedroom and pretending to be his wife for money. What kind of life is that?”

Her eyes flashed.

“You know nothing about my life,” she said. “You had parents who loved you enough to send you here. An uncle who, yes, is unfair—but still put a roof over your head and your name on his company’s door. I never knew my dad. My mom was everything. Then she died. I’ve been alone for seven years. No family. No legacy. Just me. And I still haven’t given up on myself. I still believe it’ll happen, someday, somehow. Because I won’t stop working. I won’t stop trying to be good. That’s my choice.”

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“Your excuse is what?” she asked. “That your uncle didn’t pat you on the head enough? That your cousin got more attention? You have talent. But you also have a choice. You can keep blaming him. Or you can build something that doesn’t require his permission.”

He had no answer.

Later, after she’d packed her duffel and left a note on the counter, Ken found the four checks he’d written her.

None of them had been cashed.

He tucked them back into the notebook she’d left behind. On the first page, in her neat handwriting, was a line he recognized:

If you’re a good person and work hard, you can be anything you want in life.

He closed the book slowly.

Weeks passed.

Clarice found a job at a grocery store, stacking apples, bagging purchases, learning all the different barcodes by heart. It wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t use her design skills. But it paid just enough to keep her alive in a city that didn’t care if she sank or swam.

One afternoon, as she rang up a customer’s cereal and milk, she noticed the total blink red on the screen.

The woman fumbled for cash, realized she was short, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clarice said quickly, sliding her own card. “I got it.”

“You don’t have to—” the woman protested.

“I insist,” Clarice said. “Have a nice day.”

The customer walked out, stunned. Clarice went back to her register, tired but oddly lighter.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said from the next aisle. “Do you have a greeting card section? I’m looking for something that says, ‘Sorry I was a jerk.’”

She looked up.

Ken stood there, hands in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or run.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, wary.

“I came to apologize,” he said. “For everything. For what I said. For using you. For acting like a victim when I have advantages you can only dream of. You were right. About all of it.”

She folded her arms. “Go on.”

“I talked to my uncle,” he said. “Told him I was leaving the firm. He was furious. But I realized… I’ve been living like my worth depended on his approval. It doesn’t. I took some savings, some contacts, and I opened my own firm. Small. Scrappy. Mine.”

He swallowed, and for the first time since she’d known him as an adult, he looked proud of himself in a way that had nothing to do with anyone else.

“Business is… better than I expected,” he admitted. “I signed a handful of clients. Then yesterday, the Gettys reached out. They’d heard I started my own firm. Saw the designs I’d pitched before. They asked me to lead their next project.”

Clarice’s eyes widened. “Wait. The same Gettys your uncle…?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He saw the headline this morning. ‘Local Architect Launches Independent Firm, Signs Major Los Angeles Client.’ He showed up at my office. Offered to make me lead architect at his company. Or even president. I said no.”

He smiled, a little painfully. “I told him it was time for me to build my own legacy. My own bloodline of buildings, I guess.”

“That’s… huge,” she said. “I’m proud of you, Ken.”

He took a breath. “I also realized something else. I’ve got this brand-new firm. And no creative director. No one to craft the story, the visuals, the pitch decks, the website. I know someone who redesigned a whole diner’s brand for free and made it look like a Manhattan agency did it.”

Her heart stuttered.

“Ken…”

“Come with me,” he said. “There’s something you need to see.”

She hesitated for half a second, then grabbed her bag and clocked out.

They drove across town to a converted warehouse with large windows and an industrial vibe. The sign above the door read:

PARK & LIN DESIGN
ARCHITECTURE + CREATIVE

She stopped dead.

“You put my name on the door,” she whispered.

“Couldn’t put ‘Fake Wife, Actual Genius’ up there,” he said. “Figured this worked better.”

Inside, the space was small but alive—model shelves along one wall, workstations along another, mood boards pinned up with photos of buildings and logos and color swatches. In the corner, a desk sat empty, a brand-new laptop waiting.

“That’s your spot,” Ken said. “If you want it. As creative director.”

She turned slowly, taking it all in—the sunlight on the floor, the faint smell of fresh paint, the buzz of possibility.

“This is all I’ve ever dreamed of,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “A place to build something that’s mine. To make things look beautiful and tell stories that matter.”

“Then say yes,” he said. “We believe in each other now. That’s more than either of us had when we were kids.”

She thought of the drawing in that Houston classroom. The skyscraper. Her name at the top.

She smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

He grinned, relief flooding his face. “Good. Because I already told the Gettys my creative director is a genius.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

He stepped a little closer.

“And… Clarice?” he added, suddenly nervous. “In case it’s not obvious… you’re not my fake wife anymore.”

She met his eyes and saw, for the first time, not a boy who believed success was determined by birth, but a man who had learned to build his own path—and invite her to walk beside him.

“Good,” she said softly. “Because I’d like to give the real thing a shot. No rings for your uncle. No lies. Just us.”

On a sunlit corner in Los Angeles, far from a faded classroom in Houston, two kids who’d once believed all the wrong things about money and fate and family finally stepped into the lives they’d dared to draw for themselves.

Not because of the families they were born into.

But because they chose, over and over, to be good people, to work hard, and to keep moving forward—together.