The next morning, Clara moved through the 9 AM handover in a daze. The air between her and Ethan was thick with a new, fragile kind of tension. It wasn't the sharp, brittle awkwardness of their first week, nor the simmering, unspoken heat of the last. It was the heavy, careful silence of two people who had seen something real and vulnerable in each other and were now terrified of breaking it. He was polite, remote. She was quiet, watchful. He took Leo, their hands did not touch, and she fled to her office, the door closing on a world of unspoken complexities.
She couldn't work. The Aura Bloom campaign felt a million miles away. Her mind was a chaotic loop of the conservatory, of Ethan's haunted eyes, of his raw admission: I wasn't playing.
She lasted until ten o'clock before she cracked. She sent a single, desperate text to Maya.
CLARA: Emergency session at The Daily Grind. Now. I'm buying. It's a five-alarm emotional fire.
MAYA: On my way. Bringing metaphorical marshmallows to roast on the flames of your disaster.
Leaving Ethan in charge was different now. It was no longer just a contractual convenience; it was a profound act of trust that felt heavier, more significant. She scribbled a hasty note—"Running out for a quick meeting. My phone is on."—and left it on the counter, not daring to speak to him directly.
When she slid into their usual booth at "The Daily Grind," Maya already had a large coffee waiting for her.
"Okay," Maya said, skipping all pleasantries, her eyes sharp with concern and a healthy dose of gossip-fueled curiosity. "You look like you've seen a ghost. A very handsome, architecturally sound ghost, perhaps?"
Clara took a long, scalding sip of her coffee. "Worse," she said, her voice shaky. "I think I've seen a real person."
And then, just as she had a week ago, she let it all spill out. But this time, it wasn't a story of anxiety and performance. It was a story of unnerving success. She recounted the entire brunch, from the flawless teamwork to their unified front against the Sterlings' gentle probing. She described the quiet, sun-drenched conservatory, the way they had moved as one to soothe their son—their son, the word echoed unnaturally in her mind.
"He was… incredible, May," she confessed, staring into her cup. "He was everything you'd ever want a partner to be. Attentive, supportive, gentle with Leo… It was the most beautiful, convincing performance I've ever seen."
"But?" Maya prompted, sensing the inevitable turn.
"But he said it wasn't a performance," Clara whispered, the words feeling dangerous even in the noisy café. She told Maya about his confession, about the raw, unguarded look in his eyes. "He said, 'I wasn't playing.' And I saw it. He meant it."
Maya was silent for a long moment, processing. "Holy shit," she finally breathed. "So, the robot has a heart."
"I think so," Clara said, misery and a strange, wild hope warring within her. "And that's not even the worst part."
"What's the worst part?"
Clara finally looked up, her eyes meeting her friend's. "The worst part is that when he was playing the part of the devoted partner who was falling in love with me… I think I was playing the exact same part. And I don't think I was playing either."
The confession hung in the air, as stark and terrifying as Ethan's had been.
Maya reached across the table, covering Clara's hand with her own. "Oh, honey," she said softly. "You are so spectacularly screwed."
"Tell me about it," Clara groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "What do I do? This was supposed to be a business deal. A simple, insane, but ultimately simple transaction. Now… now it's this… this thing. This feeling. We still have weeks left on the contract! He's in my apartment right now, with my son, and all I can think about is the fact that he almost kissed me and I wanted him to!"
"Okay, deep breaths," Maya said, her voice shifting into its familiar, pragmatic gear. "Let's audit this counterfeit heart of yours. Fact: The man is gorgeous."
"That's not a fact, that's a subjective liability," Clara mumbled into her hands.
"Fact," Maya continued, ignoring her. "He is surprisingly, devastatingly competent with your child. Fact: He stood up for you, and you for him, and you discovered you make a killer team. Fact: He is jealous, possessive, and just admitted he has real feelings for you under the guise of not-playing-a-part. These are not the actions of a man fulfilling a contract, Clara. These are the actions of a man who is, for all intents and purposes, courting you in the most backward, ass-nine, high-stakes way possible."
"But it's all built on a lie, Maya! His entire future, my entire ability to work right now, it's all propped up by this insane charade."
"So what?" Maya challenged, her gaze fierce. "Every relationship starts with a little bit of a performance, doesn't it? You put on your best clothes, you laugh a little louder at their jokes. You're just doing a more… contractually obligated version of it. The lie was the circumstance, Clara. The question is whether the feelings that grew out of it are real."
Her words cut through the chaos of Clara's mind, a sharp, clarifying truth. The circumstance was a lie. But the grudging respect? The shared laughter? The look in his eyes in the conservatory? That had felt real. Terrifyingly real.
"I don't know how to do this," Clara whispered. "I don't know how to be in my home with him every day, knowing this, feeling this."
"Yes, you do," Maya said with unwavering certainty. "You do exactly what you've been doing. You be a mother. You be a brilliant designer. And you be a woman who is smart enough to see what's right in front of her. The pact is your shield for now. Use it. Hide behind the rules and the clauses while you figure out what you actually feel, and what he actually feels. The lie gives you cover to discover the truth."
Clara looked at her friend, a slow, dawning sense of clarity washing over her. Maya was right. The panic wasn't helping. The pact, as complicated as it had become, was also a safe space. It gave them a reason to be in each other's lives, a structure to cling to while the emotional chaos swirled around them. It was a cage, yes, but for now, maybe it was also a cocoon.
"A cocoon," Clara said aloud, testing the word.
"Exactly," Maya said, squeezing her hand. "Now, finish your coffee. You've got a ridiculously handsome, emotionally constipated man to go home to, and a life to figure out. It's terrifying. It's messy. And it is, my friend, the most interesting thing that has happened to you in years."