The days following Ethan's announcement of the brunch passed in a state of suspended animation. A fragile, unspoken truce settled over their shared hours. Ethan would arrive at 0900, his competence with Leo now a quiet, established fact. He no longer needed the manual; he knew that the blue giraffe was for chewing and the yellow one was for cuddling. He knew that Leo's pre-nap fussiness could be quelled by a low, steady hum and a walk around the living room. He performed his duties with a focused efficiency that was both a profound relief and a constant, low-grade torment for Clara.
She managed to make incredible progress on the Aura Bloom campaign, her creativity unleashed by the sheer, unadulterated luxury of uninterrupted time. Yet, her focus was always split. She was hyper-aware of his presence on the other side of her office door, of the low murmur of his voice, of the scent of his subtle, clean cologne that now seemed to permanently linger in her hallway. Their pact had a gravitational pull, and it was warping the very atmosphere of her home.
It was on Wednesday, during Leo's nap, that Ethan shattered the quiet routine. Clara was in the kitchen, staring blankly at her coffee machine, when he emerged from the living room.
"We need to synchronize our narratives," he said without preamble.
Clara turned, leaning back against the counter. "Synchronize our narratives," she repeated dryly. "You make it sound like we're preparing for a covert military operation."
"Given the stakes," Ethan replied, his expression serious as he took a position opposite her, "it's not an inaccurate comparison. Katherine Sterling will not be as easily diverted as David Cartwright."
He was right, of course. She sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Okay, operative. What's the first point of order in our mission of lies?"
"Our first date," he said immediately. "After the gallery. She will ask. We need a specific, plausible event."
Clara's mind went blank. A first date. With Ethan. The idea was so foreign, so utterly devoid of reality, that she couldn't conjure a single image. "And what did we do on this phantom date? Negotiate the terms of our mutual assistance pact over lukewarm tap water?"
"I was thinking the small Italian place in the West End," he said, his voice even. "Donatello's. It's authentic, a little noisy, not overtly romantic. It suggests a relationship built on conversation, not just sentiment."
Clara stared at him. He had already scouted locations. Of course he had. "And what did we talk about?"
"The intersection of art and commerce," he said smoothly. "Your passion for design, my pragmatic views on architecture. We would have found common ground in our differing philosophies. It's a compelling narrative."
"A compelling narrative," she echoed softly. He was building their story like one of his structures, with logic and purpose, and it was disturbingly convincing. "Okay. Donatello's it is."
"Next," he continued, ticking off a mental list. "The moment I met Leo. It needs to feel significant."
This time, Clara was the one to answer. "It was about a month after we started seeing each other," she heard herself say, the lie flowing with terrifying ease. "I was nervous. You were… surprisingly patient. You didn't try too hard. You just sat on the floor with him and let him get used to you. You talked to him about… I don't know, the structural integrity of his building blocks."
She had, she realized with a jolt, just described the scene she'd witnessed in her own living room only a week ago.
Ethan's gaze locked with hers, a flicker of surprise in their grey depths. He recognized the moment, too. The air between them grew thick, charged with the memory. They were no longer just building a lie; they were retroactively populating it with real, shared moments, giving their counterfeit history the warm, breathing pulse of truth.
"That sounds…" Ethan said, his voice a little rough, "…plausible."
"And then there's the matter of Leo's presentation at the brunch," he said, shifting gears, the moment of connection broken. He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen. "I've taken the liberty of mapping the grounds of the Sterling estate via satellite imagery. There is a conservatory on the west side of the main house. It appears to be quiet, low-traffic. It would be a suitable location for a tactical retreat should Leo require a nap or become… overstimulated."
He had run reconnaissance. On his boss's house. For her son's nap. The sheer, obsessive detail of his planning was both appalling and profoundly, achingly touching.
"You Googled my son's nap-time escape route?" she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and something else, something warm and treacherous.
"A successful outcome requires minimizing unpredictable variables," he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
A laugh escaped her, a real one this time. "You are truly unbelievable, you know that?"
"So I've been told," he said, and for the first time, she saw a genuine, unguarded smile touch his lips. It transformed his entire face, erasing the stern architect and revealing a flash of the man beneath. It was devastating. Her heart did a stupid, clumsy flip.
The smile faded as quickly as it appeared, but the warmth of it lingered.
"We are a good team, Clara," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, a dangerous admission that hung between them.
Yes, she thought, her own smile faltering. That's what I'm afraid of.
The brunch was two days away. They had a story. They had a strategy. They had blueprints for a counterfeit life that felt more thought-out than her real one. All that was left was the performance. As Ethan finally left for the day, and Clara stood in the doorway watching him go, she looked from his retreating back to her sleeping son. For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, looking at the scene through the imaginary eyes of Katherine Sterling, she saw it. The perfect family. The fairytale.
And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that the person she needed to convince the most on Sunday wasn't Ethan's boss. It was herself.