Lila nodded, though I could see the worry in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, Vance,” Mia said, hugging me suddenly. “You’ve got us to help.”
I met Lila’s eyes over the top of Mia’s head. She nodded. “That’s right. Whatever you need, we’re here.”
A peace settled over me. I did have them. Dorian too. And, of course, my mother. I could do this. I had to.
7
LILA
Iarrived at my studio early, before the camera crew was due. The sign above the window—Lila Morgan Interiors—caught the morning sun as I unlocked the door.
Inside, the space was quiet, filled with the organized chaos I loved. Swatches and paint chips covered my worktable. Wallpaper rolls leaned against one wall. Tile samples were stacked on the counter. This was my sanctuary—the place where I transformed ideas into reality.
Today, I was designing a room for a little girl I’d never met—but who, deep down, I knew would become important to me. My growing feelings for Vance all but guaranteed it.
Margot’s inspiration board was spread across the table—soft greens and creamy whites, natural wood tones, touches of blush pink. I’d printed out the Instagram photos Mia had shown us, studying Margot’s face in each one, looking for clues about who she was beneath her mother’s careful staging.
In the dance photo, despite the forced smile, I could see grace in the way she held her body—a quiet strength, maybe even pride. In the painting photo, her eyes lit up just slightly when she looked at her watercolor flowers. Real joy, breaking through. Shewas an artist. A dancer. A little girl trying to find herself despite a mother who treated her like a prop.
I sketched a window seat where she could paint while looking out at the ocean. A built-in bookshelf for art supplies. A gallery wall where she could display her work—not for Instagram likes, but for herself. An easel in the corner of the room.
“Lila, can we come in?”
I looked up to find Kenzie standing in the doorway, a camera operator behind her.
Right. The filming. I’d been so focused I’d lost track of time.
“Oh—hi. Yes, come in. I was in the zone.”
The camera operator, a woman named Sam I’d met at the house, began setting up while Kenzie wandered to the table, studying my boards.
“This is for Vance’s daughter?” Kenzie asked, leaning closer to the Instagram printouts. “Margot, right? She’s ten? Going into fifth grade?”
I hadn’t mentioned what grade Margot was in. “Fourth grade, actually.”
“Oh, right. Fourth.” Kenzie smiled, but something about it felt off. “I must’ve been thinking of someone else.”
Someone else? There was no one else.
“Tell me about your design process,” Kenzie said, settling onto a stool. “How do you create a space for someone you haven’t met?”
The camera light blinked red.
I took a breath and slipped into designer mode. “You look for clues—what they love, what makes them feel safe. In Margot’s case, I know she’s artistic. She paints, she dances. So I’m creating spaces that nurture those interests. A window seat with great light for painting. A gallery wall for her artwork. An easel in the corner.”
“It sounds very personal,” Kenzie said. “Vance must be so grateful. Especially with everything he’s been through—the custody battle, the years apart.” She paused. “His ex-wife sounds like a real piece of work.”
My stomach tightened. How did she know that? “I don’t think we should discuss that on camera.”
“Oh, of course not.” Kenzie’s smile didn’t falter. “I just meant—it’s wonderful that Margot’s finally coming home.” Her tone softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “When does she arrive? Tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure that’s relevant to the design,” I said carefully.
“Everything’s relevant,” Kenzie said lightly. “That’s what makes good television. The human story behind the renovation.”
“What else can you tell us about Margot?” she asked.
