The evening settled over Manhattan like a silk glove—cool, decadent, and perfectly tailored for secrets.
High above the city, at The Aman New York, where reservations were whispered about like rare jewels and the chandeliers cost more than most apartments, Julian Marris waited.
He'd chosen the venue carefully. It wasn't just about exclusivity—it was about optics. Power recognized power, and tonight, he intended to remind Clara Vale exactly who he was.
Julian sat in a black tailored suit, legs crossed, glass of Burgundy in hand. His cufflinks gleamed like promises. To the servers, he was charm incarnate. To the city, he was ambition in Armani.
And then the elevator opened.
Every head turned.
Clara Vale didn't enter. She arrived.
Behold a vision of effortless elegance and metropolitan allure: she moved with the deliberate grace of a woman who knew the floor should feel honored to hold her. Wrapped in a long ivory double-breasted coat, cinched to perfection, she looked carved from a dream. The coat fell open just enough to reveal a sculpted black mini dress, daring yet composed. Her legs, wrapped in sheer tights, carried her forward in knee-high leather boots that clicked like punctuation marks on marble.
Power. Precision. Perfection.
Julian rose, unable to hide the flicker of awe that passed through him before his practiced smile returned.
"Clara," he said, offering a hand that she shook—formally, like they were at a board meeting.
"Julian," she replied with a cool smile. "Quite the setting."
"Only the best," he said. "For the best."
She didn't respond to the compliment. Just sat, legs crossed, eyes alert.
He ordered wine without consulting her—an expensive Bordeaux with a name that belonged in a museum—and followed with a dish that sounded more spell than entrée. Clara raised a brow but said nothing.
Behind them, at a discreet table tucked near the terrace, Theo Finch fiddled with his tie.
He wasn't sure if he was sweating from nerves or the fact that the wine list had three commas. His rented blazer felt too tight, his confidence even tighter. He was beginning to question the entire mission.
Why am I here again?
Oh right. Clara's plan. Their stupid, brilliant, reckless plan.
And yet… watching her now—poised, untouchable—he couldn't help but feel a little out of place. A little too soft for the cutthroat glamour of her world.
Then, she laughed. Not at Julian's joke. At something private—something real, tucked behind her mask.
Theo remembered that laugh.
The one from that stupid rainy afternoon where she wore his hoodie and made pancakes from boxed mix and told him he was "unreasonably charming for a man who couldn't scramble eggs."
And just like that, Theo stood.
Legs stiff, confidence shaky. But he moved.
Across the glittering room, past cold-eyed diners and candlelit tables, he marched like a man who had nothing to lose and a woman to win.
He stopped by their table.
Eyes wide, voice full of performative surprise:
"Oh my God—darling! What are you doing here?"
Clara blinked once.
Then smiled like a fox handed the keys to the henhouse.
"Theo? Baby!"
Julian turned slowly, jaw tightening.
"Finch?"
Theo saluted awkwardly. "Sir! I didn't know this was—Wait—is this a business dinner I wasn't supposed to crash? I-I can go. Totally."
Clara reached up, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him into a kiss that felt like fireworks dressed in Chanel.
There was a clatter of silverware behind them. Someone gasped.
She pulled away just enough to murmur, "There is nothing more important than you."
Theo blinked, dazed. "Babe, I—I mean, we shouldn't do this in public, maybe save it for the bedroom?"
"There's no place I wouldn't show off my man," she said, resting a possessive hand on his thigh.
Julian cleared his throat. Loudly.
Theo stood abruptly, bowing a little too low. "Right! Sorry, sorry. I'll leave you two to your... meeting."
He stumbled back toward his table, trying not to trip over the marble floor or his own pride.
Clara turned back to Julian, as if nothing had happened.
"So," she said sweetly, sipping her wine, "this appointment... what was it about again?"
Julian fumbled. "Oh, uh. Expansion projections. Global reach. Synergy—" He launched into a ten-minute monologue on strategic development and market saturation, words spinning out like fishing line without bait.
Then, mercifully, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen like it had just summoned God himself.
"Apologies. Emergency at the office. I have to run."
Clara smiled like she'd already won.
"Of course. You were... delightful."
Julian left, shoulders stiff, pace quick.
From across the room, Theo watched her. The woman in white who outplayed a corporate titan with a kiss and a wink.
She glanced back once. Winked.
And Theo knew, in that breathless little beat of silence—
This wasn't pretend anymore.
Outside the grand doors of Aman New York, the night was cool, the kind that smelled faintly of pavement and possibility. Clara and Theo stood beneath the golden lights of the hotel's awning, letting the city buzz around them.
For a beat, they said nothing.
Then Clara doubled over, laughter bursting from her like a dam finally cracked. She held onto a nearby lamp post for balance, her perfectly curated poise shattered by pure, unfiltered joy.
Theo followed with a nervous chuckle, the kind that starts in the throat—but then her laugh caught him, pulled him in. And suddenly, he was laughing too. Really laughing. The kind that made his cheeks hurt and his lungs wheeze.
"God," Clara said between gasps, "you should've seen his face. That little bitch actually thought he could win over me?! Me?The Clara Vale?"
"Ha!" Theo barked, wiping a tear from his eye. "He really thought he stood a chance."
Clara's laughter softened, and something flickered in her expression. "Well… some did, actually."
Theo tilted his head. "Wait—did you say something?"
She turned quickly. "N-no. Nothing."
They slid into a waiting taxi, still grinning, still riding the high.
"Man," Clara muttered in her huskiest, most scandalous voice, "I was not satisfied with that wine."
Theo leaned forward like a conspirator. "What is the best drink in the world, then?"
Clara looked him dead in the eye. "A can of beer."
Theo threw his fist in the air. "YAHOO! And I want a bag of salted peanuts to go with it!"
"God, you're such a peasant," Clara said with mock disgust.
"A classy peasant," he corrected, raising an eyebrow. "Now hurry up, let's get home and drink like royalty."
Back in the penthouse, beer cans popped open like fireworks.
"Okay," Theo said, flopping onto the bean bag, "TV time."
"What are we watching?" Clara asked, settling beside him.
"Something dramatic. Like Game of Moans."
Clara snorted. "Please. I'd rather watch Breaking Bread. It's just bakers being petty and emotional."
"Oh, I love that one. Right after Better Call Fall, the one where everyone trips over their own egos."
Clara laughed, kicking her boots off. "Or Stranger Strings, where a group of musicians discover their instruments are cursed."
Theo took a long swig of beer. "You forgot Fleabagel. That's just… New York brunch, but sad."
Clara cackled, clutching her stomach. "God, stop. I'm dying."
"I'm not done," Theo said, completely serious. "There's The Crownies—where British royalty opens a cupcake shop."
She threw a pillow at him. "Okay, that I would watch."
They eventually wandered off to change, Clara disappearing into her room.
When she returned, Theo was mid-sip—and nearly choked.
She stood in the doorway wearing his gray hoodie and his oversized cargo pants, sleeves pushed up, hair messily tied. She looked like chaos and comfort wrapped into one dangerously pretty package.
"You—" he stammered. "Is this what you call 'boyfriend clothes'?"
Clara frowned. "Why? Too much?"
"Hot. Damn."
She turned crimson. "Don't stare at me like that, you idiot."
But she didn't look away.
Theo didn't either.