Clara woke with a start, sunlight already bleeding through the gauzy curtains. Her head throbbed—a dull, rhythmic beat behind her eyes reminding her of the shots, the cigarette, the heat of his mouth—
She blinked.
Then turned.
Theo was still there. Naked. Asleep. One arm draped across the sheets like it belonged there, like he belonged there.
Panic lanced through her chest.
"Shit," Clara muttered, yanking the covers over herself as she stumbled out of bed. Her heart pounded like a snare drum. Memories—disjointed but vivid—flashed: his laugh, the feel of his skin, the way he looked at her like she wasn't broken.
She needed a wall. A shield.
Lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers, Clara walked to the window. The city sprawled out below her—Central Park glistening, Manhattan basking in that golden morning hush. Too calm for the chaos ricocheting inside her.
She took a long drag, her back bare to the room, smoke curling like armor.
Behind her, the sheets rustled.
A sleepy voice: "Clara…?"
She didn't turn.
Instead, she smirked. "Oh. You're awake, little chick."
Theo blinked groggily, rubbing his eyes like a confused anime protagonist. "I… I see. So we really did, huh?"
"You're taking it pretty lightly," she said without facing him.
"You are too," he retorted, but his ears betrayed him—glowing red like a siren.
Their eyes met in the mirror across the room.
Silence.
And then both of them flushed violently, yanking the sheets up to their chests and scrambling to opposite corners of the bed like two high schoolers who'd made one really bad prom decision.
"S-So," Theo stammered, tugging at a loose thread on the sheet, "what are we now? I mean… what do we call this?"
Clara didn't look at him. Her voice dropped just above a whisper, still sharp, but less armored. "Nothing's changed. We're still… fake boyfriend and girlfriend."
A pause.
"Just… two fake people who happened to have sex."
The air went stiff again. Like even the molecules in the room were holding their breath.
They both nodded, pretending to agree. Pretending it didn't mean anything. Pretending it wasn't already haunting them like the ghost of last night's heat.
They shoved it under the rug.
For now.
Clara stood and pulled on her shirt—oversized, crisp, possibly Theo's. She didn't ask. She never did. He watched her move around the room with this graceful defiance, like a queen in exile.
"Coffee?" she asked casually.
Theo nodded. "Gladly."
They moved through the penthouse like reluctant co-stars in a reality show no one had signed up for. In the kitchen, Clara poured two cups, unusually quiet. Her movements were fluid, precise. When she finally slid the cup across the marble island, she broke the silence.
"You know, Theo… you've changed a lot in the last week."
He looked up mid-sip.
"I don't even have to remind you to keep your back straight anymore."
He smiled, leaning on the counter. "That's all thanks to you. I live in constant fear."
She smirked. "Healthy fear builds character."
"Also ulcers."
Clara studied him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, abruptly: "You actually have a master's in mechanical, don't you?"
Theo blinked. "Yeah… Why?"
"One of the companies I'm consulting for has an opening. Mid-level. Full-time. They're solid."
"You serious?"
"No shit, dude."
His brows shot up. "If you don't mind, I'd—yeah—I'd love that."
"Well," she said, sipping her coffee, "fake boyfriend or not, I'm not letting your ass go unemployed."
He smiled—small, genuine. "Thanks, Clara."
"Don't get used to it. I'm still your nightmare."
And with that, she turned toward the living room, hair swaying like she was walking away from a romcom climax she refused to acknowledge.
Three Months Later
Living in a luxury penthouse in the clouds hadn't exactly been on Theo Finch's five-year plan. Then again, neither had pretending to be the boyfriend of Clara Vale—heiress, enigma, occasional war general in a pencil skirt.
They now lived together. Or coexisted. Theo in the guest room that used to house extra shoes. Clara in her sky-high master suite, with windows wide enough to look down on all of Manhattan—literally and emotionally.
Each morning followed a routine.
"Back straight, Finch," Clara would yell from her bedroom, eyes never leaving the mirror. "You walk like your spine owes someone rent."
"I think it does," he muttered once, earning a rare, delighted laugh.
He was starting to live for those laughs.
Still, their "relationship" remained officially fake. Even as the lines blurred.
He got a job—at Marris & Co., no less. Green tech. Innovation. Paychecks that finally didn't come with guilt. Only problem? His boss was Julian Marris. Wealthy. Slick. Boring. A man so smooth he probably had skin-care deals with the devil.
Also: Clara's father's top pick for her husband.
Yes, Theo's boss was trying to marry his fake girlfriend.
Life was a telenovela and Theo was the underpaid extra.
One evening, Theo came home to a strange smell. Something warm. Smoky. Dangerous.
He found Clara in the kitchen.
"You're cooking?" he asked cautiously, eyeing the oven like it was plotting against them.
"Don't flatter me. I'm reheating. The chef's off today. I'm not completely helpless."
"What's for dinner? Blackened disappointment?"
She narrowed her eyes. "One more joke and you're eating paper."
He stole a grape off the counter. "Bold of you to assume I print my résumé."
They bantered like this often now—casual, cutting, close. But beneath every jab was tension. Unspoken. Simmering.
They never brought up that night again.
But it lingered. In the space between glances. In every almost-touch. In the silence that followed their loudest laughs.
That night, over overpriced salad and slightly-abused lasagna, Clara finally spoke.
"My father's planning something."
Theo paused mid-bite. "Like… another family dinner? Because I'm still recovering from the last one."
"No." She swirled her wine. "He wants to marry me off."
Theo choked. "To—what?"
"Julian Marris."
He dropped his fork. "As in… my boss? The man who asked me to address him as 'Captain Efficiency' during a staff meeting?"
"That's the one."
Theo stared. "Does Julian know about us?"
Clara scoffed. "Julian doesn't believe in 'us.' He thinks I'm playing pretend with a charity case."
"I—excuse me?!"
"To be fair, you do have the tragic backstory. Crappy apartment, student debt, no car—"
"You forgot the emotionally constipated roommate who makes me practice 'walking with purpose' like it's a TED Talk."
She grinned, but her eyes were thoughtful. "I'm serious, Theo. He's making a move. And I need you Friday night."
He blinked. "What for?"
"Julian invited me to dinner. I need you to crash it."
"You want me to crash your arranged date?"
"Crash it. Flirt obnoxiously. Call me baby. Pretend you're madly in love and can't live without me."
He rubbed his face. "So… Tuesday."
Clara's smirk widened. "Exactly."