The silence that followed Ethan's retreat into Leo's room was a tangible thing. It was heavier than any silence they had shared before, weighted with the devastation of acknowledgment. The polite fiction they had both clung to—that this was a business arrangement, a logical, albeit bizarre, solution to a problem—had been exposed as a laughable fallacy. The truth, raw and untamed, was now a third occupant in the room, pacing restlessly between them.
Clara stood frozen in the middle of her living room, her hand still pressed to her mouth as if to physically hold back the memory of his proximity. Her lips tingled. Her entire body felt like a plucked string, vibrating with a humiliating, undeniable want. He had almost kissed her. And she, God help her, had been ready to let him. More than ready. She had leaned into it, into him, into the promise of a glorious, ill-advised inferno.
The sound of his low, steady murmur drifting from Leo's room was a fresh form of torture. He was in there, being the calm, capable man from their contract, while she was out here, falling apart because of the raw, uncontrolled man from a moment ago. Who was he? The cool architect or the man with a storm in his eyes? The truth, she was beginning to suspect, was that he was both, a dichotomy that was proving to be devastatingly appealing to the most reckless parts of her soul.
She stumbled back to her office, sinking into her chair, but she didn't even attempt to work. The Aura Bloom campaign, her brilliant client, her entire professional world—it all felt distant and insignificant, viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. Her world had shrunk to the confines of this apartment, to the man in the other room and the unspoken, terrifying thing that had just erupted between them.
What now? How could he possibly come back here tomorrow? How could she look at him, knowing he knew? He knew she had been willing. He knew the anger had been a flimsy mask for a terrifying, insistent pull. And she knew that his jealousy, however misplaced, was real. It was a dark, possessive, and shockingly potent admission. It was the most honest thing that had passed between them.
An hour dragged by like a lifetime. She heard Leo fuss, then quiet down again. She heard the soft click of the door as Ethan presumably laid him in his crib for his afternoon nap. The next sequence of events was inevitable. He would emerge. He would have to walk past her office. They would have to speak before he left for the day. Her stomach twisted into a tight, anxious knot.
When he finally appeared in her doorway, he looked like a man who had been through a battle. His composure was back in place, but it was a fragile, shell-shocked version of it. His eyes, when they met hers, were guarded, his expression remote.
"He's asleep," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "The manual is on the kitchen counter. I've updated the log with his feeding and nap times."
He was hiding behind the contract. The safe, sterile language of their pact.
Clara swallowed, her own voice feeling foreign. "Thank you."
He nodded, a curt, dismissive gesture. He was already turning to leave, to escape the charged atmosphere of her apartment, of her presence. But Clara couldn't let him. They couldn't leave it like this, a gaping, unspoken wound between them.
"Ethan," she said, her voice stopping him at the front door.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, his back to her. "Yes?"
"What just happened…" she began, her words faltering. "We can't… We can't just pretend it didn't."
He was silent for a long moment, the tension stretching to a near-breaking point. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough with self-loathing. "It was a breach of contract," he said, still not looking at her. "A temporary lapse in judgment. It will not happen again."
A breach of contract. A temporary lapse. He was reducing that raw, incendiary moment to a line item in their ridiculous agreement. He was dismissing it. He was dismissing her reaction, her willing participation. A cold fury, sharp and clarifying, sliced through her confusion.
"A lapse in judgment?" she repeated, her voice dangerously quiet as she stood up and walked towards him. "Is that what it was? Because from where I was standing, it felt a little more significant than a miscalculation on a blueprint."
He finally turned to face her, his eyes blazing with a frustration that mirrored her own. "What would you have me call it, Clara? A grand romantic moment? We have a business arrangement. My behavior was unprofessional and unacceptable. It jeopardized the entire agreement."
"Our agreement was jeopardized the moment you started looking at me like that!" she shot back, taking another step closer. "Don't you dare hide behind the fine print of that ridiculous document. You were jealous. And I… I wasn't angry. Not really."
The admission hung between them, as raw and honest as his had been.
"So what now?" she whispered, searching his face. "We just go on? You come here every day, and we both pretend you don't feel that… possessiveness? We pretend I don't feel this… this…" She couldn't say it. This pull. This want.
He stared at her, his jaw working, the mask of control threatening to shatter again. He looked from her defiant eyes to her mouth, and she saw the hunger there, the same raw hunger from before the kiss that never was.
"I don't know," he said, his voice a raw exhale. It was the most honest thing he had ever said to her.
It was an admission of chaos from the man who worshipped order. It was a confession of powerlessness from a man who craved control. And it was, in its own way, more intimate than any kiss could ever be.
"Then I guess," Clara said softly, her anger deflating, leaving only a vast, uncertain space in its wake, "we'll have to figure it out."
He gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and left without another word, the click of the door final this time. Clara was left alone, her heart aching with a terrifying new truth. The pact wasn't the lie anymore. The lie, the real performance, was going to be pretending that their arrangement was still just business. And she had a sinking feeling it was a role neither of them was equipped to play.