The moment Ethan stepped across the threshold, it was as if a different law of physics had taken hold. In his own apartment, he was the master of a silent, orderly universe. Here, in Clara's world, he was an alien element, a shard of cool grey slate dropped into a vibrant, chaotic terrarium. The air itself felt different – warm, smelling faintly of baby powder, lingering coffee, and something else… something uniquely Clara. An unsettling, organic scent that was the polar opposite of his own sterile, curated atmosphere.
His architect's eye, usually a source of comfort and control, was now a liability, cataloging the scene with a kind of horrified fascination. The leaning tower of board books on the coffee table. The vibrant, abstract rug that looked soft enough to swallow a man whole. The sheer, overwhelming presence of baby paraphernalia – a bouncy chair, a play mat that was a veritable explosion of primary colours, a half-eaten banana slowly browning on a highchair tray. It was a beautiful, lived-in, terrifying mess. And he had just offered to become a part of it. The thought was so staggering he almost turned and walked straight back out. But the ghost of David Cartwright's smug, married face and the echo of Mr. Sterling's voice kept him rooted to the spot. Desperation, he reminded himself, was a powerful anesthetic to good sense.
Clara watched him, her arms crossed, her expression a battleground of skepticism and raw-nerved exhaustion. She looked like a cornered queen assessing a foreign envoy who might be offering either a peace treaty or a vial of poison.
"Well," she said, her voice sharp, breaking the silence. "You're in. Don't touch anything, you might disrupt the delicate ecosystem of organized chaos." She gestured towards her small, round dining table, which was currently serving as her secondary office. "Have a seat. Let's discuss the terms of this… temporary insanity."
He sat, his movements stiff, placing his hands on the table and resisting the urge to straighten the stack of her design sketches. She sat opposite him, her proximity in the cozy space more potent than it had been in the hallway.
"I'll begin," Ethan said, defaulting to the structure of a business meeting. It was the only way he knew how to process this. "The primary objective from my perspective is the successful navigation of several key professional events, culminating in the Sterling & Finch Partnership Gala in two weeks' time."
"Right," Clara cut in, leaning forward. "And my primary, secondary, and tertiary objective is that my son remains alive, unharmed, and not psychologically scarred by having a man who emotes like a tax auditor as his temporary caregiver. So, let's start with your duties before we get to my star turn as your adoring arm candy."
Ethan blinked, taken aback by her directness. "Of course. I am proposing my services for three full weekdays. Say, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Nine a.m. to six p.m." 1
"Here?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "In my apartment?"
"It would seem the most logical course of action," he said. "To keep the child… Leo… in his familiar environment." 2 He did not add that the thought of her baby's chaotic implements invading his pristine sanctuary was something he could not yet countenance.
"Fine," she conceded, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "But we're going to need rules. A manual. A bible. On Leo's naps, his food, what shows he's allowed to watch – no, he doesn't watch shows, I was testing you. The exact, scientifically proven method of jiggling him when he's teething. Everything."
"A 'Leo Manual'," Ethan repeated, the phrase absurd on his tongue. "Acceptable." 3
"And my duties?" she asked, a dangerous glint in her eye. "What exactly does playing your 'partner' entail? Do I have to laugh at your jokes? Assuming you have any?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Your primary function will be to accompany me to the Gala, and two smaller, preceding work functions. A department drinks thing, and a weekend brunch hosted by a senior partner." 4 He paused. "As for humor, I'll be sure to provide you with a list of pre-approved topics you might find amusing."
She stared at him, then let out a short, sharp laugh. He found, to his profound annoyance, that he liked the sound.
"You're unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. "Okay, what about… displays of affection?"
The air in the room suddenly crackled, the temperature rising by several degrees. This was uncharted territory, a variable he hadn't fully calculated.
"I would anticipate that polite hand-holding at the events would be sufficient to maintain the illusion," he said, his voice a touch too formal. "Nothing more would be required." 5
"Good," she said quickly, her gaze dropping to the table. "Because my fee for anything more would be… astronomical."
Their eyes met then, across the table cluttered with her life and his proposition. And in that shared glance, the business transaction faltered, replaced by a raw, humming awareness of what they were actually discussing: a counterfeit intimacy, a performance of affection between two strangers who barely tolerated each other. It was perverse. It was thrilling.
"And of course," Ethan said, clearing his throat, desperate to get back on solid, contractual ground, "this would be a strictly platonic arrangement. No… fraternization." 6
"Wouldn't dream of it," Clara shot back, her cheeks a shade pinker than before.
"And no dating other people during the six-week term," he added, the words feeling strangely significant. "It would compromise the integrity of the arrangement."
"Wouldn't have the time even if I wanted to," she muttered. "Fine."
"So," Ethan said, feeling a strange sense of vertigo, as if he'd just designed a building that defied gravity and was somehow still standing. "Do we have an agreement in principle?"
Clara looked at him, her gaze searching, her initial fiery defiance now tempered by the cold, hard weight of her desperation. She looked at her laptop, at the Aura Bloom brief. She looked in the direction of Leo's room. She was signing a deal with a devil she didn't know to save an angel she knew all too well.
"We should… write this down," she said finally, her voice faint. "So neither of us can claim temporary insanity later."
"I agree," Ethan nodded, relieved. "A formal document."
Clara smirked, a flash of her earlier fire returning. "I'll create a shared Google Doc," she said. "We'll call it… 'Project Co-Habitation & Career Advancement Mutual Assistance Pact.' How does that sound for your corporate sensibilities?" 7
He almost smiled. He almost fucking smiled. "Adequate," he managed.
He stood up to leave, the meeting, for all intents and purposes, concluded. He was at her door, about to step back into the safety of his own world, when she spoke again.
"Ethan."
He turned.
"Don't screw this up," she said, and her voice was no longer sharp or sarcastic. It was low, and fierce, and utterly serious. "Don't you dare screw this up."
He met her gaze, and in that moment, he understood the true weight of the contract he was entering into. It wasn't about a gala or a partnership. It was about the tiny human sleeping in the other room. It was about her.
"I won't," he said. And he was terrified to realize he meant it.
He left, the door clicking shut between their two worlds, leaving Clara alone in the sudden, ringing silence of her apartment, the echo of his promise hanging in the air. She sank into a chair, the full, monumental, terrifying weight of her decision crashing down upon her.
"What…", she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs, "…have I just done?"