The contract had been signed, emailed, and silently acknowledged. Elio and Aurélie were now, by legal fiction, a couple—bound by mutual convenience and guarded distance. It was supposed to be easy. Predictable. Professional.
But nothing in Paris ever stayed that way.
It was a cloudy Wednesday when Elio first came knocking—quite literally—at the Fontaine estate, holding a bouquet of peonies in one hand and a bottle of Merlot in the other.
Geneviève answered the door, her face lighting up like she'd won the lottery.
"Elio, mon cher!" Geneviève beamed. "What a surprise!"
Elio smiled, just shy of charming. "Is Aurélie home? I thought I'd take her out to dinner."
"Of course. Come in, come in!"
Aurélie, who had just come down the stairs in an oversized sweater and ballet flats, froze halfway on the landing.
"You're early," Aurélie said, eyeing the flowers suspiciously.
"You're underdressed," Elio replied, handing her the bouquet.
"But no matter. I booked a table for two at Maison Troisgros."
Aurélie blinked. "That's one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris."
"Exactly. We have to sell the illusion, remember?" Elio whispered, smiling like a secret agent.
"You should change. Unless you want to scandalize the entire seventh arrondissement."
---
Forty minutes later, Aurélie reappeared in a simple black dress that whispered elegance. Her hair was pinned loosely at the back, and the only makeup she wore was a red lipstick that, despite her resistance, made her look devastatingly French.
Elio looked her up and down.
"You clean up well."
"Don't get used to it," Aurélie replied, walking past him.
---
Maison Troisgros shimmered with candlelight and murmured conversations. Every table seemed to hold a couple: some genuinely in love, others clearly in negotiations of divorce or power. And now—one pair, faking both.
They sat by the window, with a view of the Seine glittering like spilled jewels.
A waiter poured wine. Dishes arrived like edible art.
They ate mostly in silence, until halfway through the main course.
"You're not like other girls I've met," Elio said suddenly, cutting into his duck confit.
Aurélie raised an eyebrow. "Because I didn't fall at your feet the moment you walked in?"
"Because you see through people."
Aurélie looked at him. "That's not always a good thing."
Elio leaned back, wine glass in hand. "It is when you live in a world full of masks."
There was something in his voice that sounded tired. Not bored—just worn.
"You don't like this life, do you?" Aurélie asked, softer now.
"I was born into it. Doesn't mean I chose it."
They sat for a moment in that silence—the kind that feels like both understanding and resistance.
Then, as if remembering their mission, Elio suddenly reached across the table and took her hand.
"Smile," Elio said, eyes on a corner table. "There's a journalist from Paris Éclair watching us."
Aurélie plastered on a smile. "Do I look madly in love yet?"
"A little too convincing, actually," Elio murmured.
She kicked him gently under the table.
---
Two days later, the story broke:
> "Elio Marchand and Aurélie Fontaine: Paris's Newest Power Couple?"
By Camille Durand, Paris Éclair
> The city's most eligible bachelor has finally been caught—and not by just anyone. Aurélie Fontaine, daughter of publishing tycoon Laurent Fontaine, was seen dining intimately with Elio Marchand at Maison Troisgros, with witnesses reporting "undeniable chemistry." Is this the love story we've been waiting for, or just another high-society spectacle?
Aurélie stared at the article in her phone, stunned.
Then her phone rang.
"You read it?" Elio's voice came through, laced with amusement.
"You set that up, didn't you?" Aurélie accused.
"I told you a journalist was watching."
"You didn't say you invited her."
"I didn't. She follows me like a bloodhound."
Aurélie sighed. "This is getting out of hand."
"It's working, isn't it?" Elio replied.
She hated that he was right.
---
That weekend, they attended their first charity event together—an outdoor art auction held in Montmartre. The weather was indecisive: sun peeking, clouds hovering, wind teasing dresses and updos alike.
Aurélie wore a cream-colored jumpsuit with gold earrings that sparkled every time she turned. Elio, in his navy suit, stood beside her like the image of Parisian perfection.
They posed for cameras. Smiled. Clinked glasses.
But backstage, behind the garden hedge, the masks dropped.
"This is exhausting," Aurélie muttered, slipping out of her heels to rub her feet.
"You're telling me," Elio said, loosening his tie.
"I've smiled more this week than I have in five years."
"Maybe you should try smiling for real next time."
"And maybe you should try relaxing for once."
They looked at each other, almost challenging, but there was a spark of laughter underneath.
"We should go back out before someone thinks we eloped behind the roses," Elio said.
"Tempting," Aurélie replied dryly, slipping her shoes back on.
---
By the time they returned to the party, their parents had found each other.
Laurent and Geneviève were chatting animatedly with Monsieur and Madame Marchand. All smiles. All champagne.
"Darling!" Geneviève called, waving Aurélie over. "Your father just told the Marchands that you two are thinking of vacationing together this summer!"
Aurélie nearly choked. "We—what?"
"Italy!" Laurent chimed in. "A romantic week in Tuscany. We thought it would do you two some good. Privacy, olive groves, no press."
Elio blinked. "Sounds... lovely."
Later, in the car, Aurélie turned to him.
"Italy? Really?"
"We'll make it part of the contract. Add a travel clause."
She rolled her eyes. "You're enjoying this too much."
"A little," Elio admitted.
"But not because of the cameras."
She glanced at him, uncertain.
He didn't elaborate.
---
That night, Aurélie sat in her room, staring at her reflection. She was no longer sure where the performance ended and where real feeling began. Elio had been nothing but respectful, even thoughtful at times. He noticed small things. He asked questions no one else ever had.
But she couldn't let herself believe any of it.
She reached for the contract again, flipping to the final clause:
> Absolutely no falling in love.
She traced the words with her finger.
And for the first time, they felt like a dare.