The charade, Clara discovered, required a conspiracy. Before the perfume, before the dress that felt like a second skin borrowed from a more reckless version of herself, there was Maya. Maya, who swept into the apartment at seven o'clock sharp, smelling of coffee and ambition and radiating an energy that was both a comfort and a whirlwind.
"Right," she announced, depositing her laptop bag on the floor and immediately scooping a delighted Leo into her arms. "Operation: Rent-a-Boyfriend is a go. Auntie Maya is on duty. You have precisely four hours to go be charming, dismantle the patriarchy, and secure this ridiculous pact before the baby-wrangling meter starts running into overtime."
Clara felt a fresh wave of gratitude so intense it almost buckled her knees. "May, I can't thank you enough. Are you sure about this? I know you're swamped with the pitch for your new app."
Maya bounced Leo, who gurgled happily. "Babe, listen. For one night, for this insane, high-stakes, first-date-but-not-a-date mission, I can absolutely shuffle my own deadlines and work on the code after you get back. It's what caffeine and poor life choices are for." She fixed Clara with a serious look. "But don't get any ideas. I love this little nugget," she kissed Leo's chubby cheek, "but my investors would have my head on a platter if I tried to be a full-time nanny three days a week. My work hours are just as insane as yours, they're just more flexible in the evenings. This is a one-off special operation, you hear me? For all other times, you're on your own with… Mr. Darcy over there."
It was the perfect, unspoken clarification. The reason this pact with Ethan was so terribly necessary. Maya was her emergency lifeline, her sister-in-arms, but she wasn't, and couldn't be, the solution. The thought was both a comfort and a fresh spike of anxiety. The success of the next six weeks truly did rest on the broad, unsmiling shoulders of the man across the hall.
"Heard, loud and clear," Clara said, her voice thick with emotion. "Okay. Go get beautiful. Dazzle the architect. I've got this," Maya said, already expertly distracting Leo with a set of keys.
With her son secure in the most capable hands she knew, Clara retreated to her bedroom. Only then did she allow herself to transform. The scent of her pre-baby, "I still have a pulse" perfume felt like applying war paint. The deep teal slip dress was her armor. She was no longer just "Clara, Mum to Leo." Tonight, she was "Clara, The Glamorous Accomplice," a role made possible only by the fierce, unwavering support of the woman in her living room.
A knock at the door, as punctual as a death knell, announced Ethan's arrival. When she opened it, he stood there in a dark, impeccably tailored suit, his grey eyes sweeping over her in an appraisal that was so intense it felt like a physical touch. He held out a small, elegant box.
"A prop," he said, his voice low.
Inside was a delicate silver bracelet. Simple. Expensive.
"It's for the narrative," he added, as if sensing her protest. "A gift. From me to you. Something my colleagues might notice."
"The narrative," Clara repeated, her voice flat. "Right." She allowed him to fasten it around her wrist, his fingers brushing against her pulse point. The brief, cool touch sent another one of those unwelcome jolts through her system. The bracelet felt cold and heavy, like a beautiful, silver manacle.
"The objective tonight is simple," he began, his voice shifting into the familiar cadence of a project manager briefing his team. "We are attending a department social at 'The Alchemist.' It is informal, but observed. Our primary target is to be seen, to appear comfortable, and to successfully interact with my direct colleagues, most notably, David Cartwright."
"Your rival," Clara said. "The smug, married one."
"The same," Ethan confirmed. "Our agreed-upon backstory is that we met through a mutual acquaintance at a gallery opening six months ago. The details are intentionally vague to discourage further inquiry."
"Got it," Clara said, taking a deep breath. "Be vague, look comfortable, and try not to spill anything on the walking personification of nepotism. Anything else?"
Ethan's gaze softened for a fraction of a second. "Try to… have a tolerable evening."
It was the closest he'd ever come to expressing a genuine, human sentiment towards her, and it was so unexpected it threw her completely off-balance.
"The Alchemist" was exactly the kind of place Clara used to frequent and now actively avoided. It was a symphony of dark wood, low lighting, and the self-important murmur of people who used words like "synergy" without a trace of irony. Ethan's hand rested lightly on the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd, a gesture that was both a public claim and a private torment. Her skin burned where he touched her. Every nerve ending was on high alert, screaming at the proximity, at the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
They were immediately absorbed into a circle of his colleagues, all sharp suits and sharper smiles. Ethan introduced her, his voice smooth, and Clara found herself smiling, nodding, playing the part of the adoring partner with a surprising, almost frightening ease. She spoke of her design work, laughed at a joke that wasn't particularly funny, and allowed her hand to find Ethan's, lacing their fingers together. It felt both utterly fake and shockingly real.
Then, through the crowd, came David Cartwright, his wife clinging to his arm like a designer handbag. He was exactly as Clara had pictured: handsome in a bland, forgettable way, with a smile that was all teeth and condescension.
"Ethan! So glad you could make it," David boomed, his eyes immediately flicking to Clara, then to their joined hands. "And this must be the lovely lady we've heard so little about." He extended a hand to Clara. "David Cartwright."
"Clara," she said, her voice steady, taking his hand briefly while offering a polite smile. "A pleasure."
"Clara," David repeated, savoring the name. "So, where did Ethan find you? I thought his only long-term relationship was with his drafting table."
The jab was obvious, designed to put Ethan on the back foot. Clara felt Ethan's hand tense around hers. Before he could respond with one of his clipped, defensive retorts, she jumped in, her voice light and breezy.
"Oh, you know," she laughed, squeezing Ethan's hand and looking up at him with what she hoped was a look of pure adoration. "He was admiring the brutalist architecture at a gallery opening, and I was admiring his… structural integrity. It was a very high-minded meeting of souls." She gave Ethan a playful wink. "He's not nearly as serious as he pretends to be, you know. He has a surprisingly domestic side."
A stunned silence fell over their small group. David Cartwright looked utterly flummoxed, his condescending smirk faltering. Ethan was staring down at her, his grey eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and something else she couldn't quite decipher. Impressed, maybe?
"Domestic?" David sputtered.
"Oh, absolutely," Clara continued, warming to her theme. "He makes a surprisingly good cup of coffee. And he's a natural with… well, with everything, really." She let the sentence hang, full of suggestive, wifely implications.
She had done it. She had not only deflected the attack but had turned it back on David, painting Ethan as a man of hidden depths and quiet, masculine competence.
Later, after they had successfully extracted themselves, Ethan guided her to a quieter corner of the bar.
"'Structural integrity'?" he murmured, his voice low and close to her ear, sending another shiver down her spine.
"It was the first architectural term that came to mind," she whispered back. "You're welcome, by the way."
He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at her, his gaze intense, searching. The loud, corporate chatter of the bar seemed to fade away. He saw her now, she realized, not as the chaotic single mother, but as an ally. A surprisingly effective one.
"Your performance," he said finally, his voice a low rumble, "was… more than adequate."
For an architect who lived by the gospel of precision, it was the highest compliment he could possibly pay. And as he held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, his thumb stroking absently over the back of her hand, Clara felt a new, terrifying thought take root. This fake relationship… it felt dangerously, intoxicatingly like being part of a team. And that feeling, she knew with a sudden, chilling certainty, was not in the contract.