The Monday morning after the brunch felt like the dawn of a new era. The air in the hallway between their apartments was no longer fraught with the tension of strangers, but with the humming, conspiratorial energy of victorious allies. When Ethan knocked, Clara opened the door with a small, genuine smile that he, to his own profound surprise, returned.
"Morning," she said, her voice softer than usual.
"Morning," he replied. "I trust the... Supreme Overlord... recovered from his public engagement?"
"He's demanding a rider in his contract for all future appearances," Clara quipped, stepping aside to let him in. "Mostly involving organic biscuits and unlimited access to shiny things."
The handover was fluid, a dance they now knew by heart. He took Leo with a practiced ease, and Leo went to him without protest, patting his now-familiar shoulder. The anxiety that had once defined these mornings for Clara had been replaced by a strange, unnerving sense of peace. She trusted him. The realization was as terrifying as it was comforting. She retreated to her office, leaving the door slightly ajar, the gentle murmur of Ethan reading a story to Leo a soothing, domestic backdrop to the sharp, creative focus of her work.
The lie was becoming dangerously comfortable.
She was on a video call with her client from Aura Bloom in the early afternoon, finalizing the color palettes for the campaign launch. Mr. Henderson was a smooth, charming man in his late forties with an easy laugh and a habit of letting his professional compliments stray into more personal territory.
"The new mock-ups are brilliant, Clara. Truly," he said, his smile widening. "You have an intuition for this that's just... captivating. We should celebrate when this project is wrapped. I know a fantastic little wine bar…"
"That's very kind, but my schedule is a little complicated these days," Clara said, forcing a polite, noncommittal smile, hyper-aware of the man and baby in her living room.
"A beautiful, talented woman like you? I'm sure you have arrangements, but I'd love a chance to change them," he purred, his intent unmistakable.
From the living room, a sudden, sharp clatter broke the air as a tower of building blocks was knocked to the floor with more force than necessary. Clara's eyes flickered from her screen for a second.
"Everything okay there?" Henderson asked.
"Just my... cat," Clara lied, her cheeks flushing. "He's a bit of a brute. Now, about that font choice…"
She wrapped up the call as quickly as she could, her professional poise feeling like a thin, cracking veneer. The client's flirtations were nothing new, a tiresome part of her industry she usually brushed off with ease. But today, for some reason, it had made her feel cornered, her skin crawling.
She stepped out of her office. The living room was quiet. Ethan was standing by the window, his back to her, staring down at the bustling street below. His shoulders were rigid, the line of his back a study in contained tension.
"Everything okay?" she asked, her voice tentative. "I heard a crash."
"Leo expressed his architectural displeasure with my last design," Ethan said without turning around. His voice was clipped, cool. The warmth from the morning was gone, replaced by a familiar, formal chill. "It has been rectified."
Clara frowned. The shift in atmosphere was jarring. "Right. Well, Henderson loved the mock-ups. He's… enthusiastic."
"I gathered," Ethan said, his voice flat. He finally turned to face her, his grey eyes as cold and hard as granite. "He seems quite taken with your… captivating intuition."
The words, a near-perfect echo of her client's, hit Clara with a jolt of shock. Had he been listening? Of course he had, they were in a small apartment. But the tone… it wasn't just observational. It was laced with a strange, biting sarcasm. It was… accusatory.
"It's just client schmoozing, Ethan. It's part of the job."
"Is it?" he asked, taking a step towards her. "The wine bar? Is that also part of the job?"
Clara's bewilderment morphed into disbelief, then into a hot flash of anger. "Are you serious? What business is that of yours?"
"Our contract," he said, his voice dangerously low, "stipulates no dating other people during the six-week term. It compromises the integrity of the arrangement."
"That was a work call! I was handling a client, a client whose project is the entire reason this ridiculous arrangement exists!" she shot back, her voice rising. "And even if it wasn't, my personal life is none of your damn business!"
"When it has the potential to affect my career, it becomes my business," he countered, though his argument sounded hollow even to his own ears. This wasn't about the contract. This was about the image of her, smiling and laughing with another man, about the possessive, ugly feeling that had coiled in his gut when Henderson had called her 'beautiful.' It was an illogical, unsanctioned emotional attachment, and it was making him furious.
"You are unbelievable!" Clara whispered, staring at him, aghast. "You are standing here, in my home, taking care of my son, all so you can pretend I'm your girlfriend for your own selfish ambition, and you have the audacity to be jealous?"
The word hung in the air between them, stark and undeniable. Jealous.
Ethan froze, the accusation hitting him with the force of a physical blow because it was, to his absolute horror, true. He, Ethan, the master of logic and control, was feeling a primitive, irrational jealousy over a woman who was, by all contractual definitions, not his.
He had no right. No claim. And yet, the feeling was there, a green-eyed monster roaring in the pristine, quiet sanctuary of his mind.
He stared at her, at her flushed cheeks and her eyes blazing with righteous fury, and he had no logical response. He had breached the contract first, not with his actions, but with his feelings. The most important clause of all—the one that declared their arrangement strictly platonic—had been irrevocably broken. And by him.