The next morning, Paris resumed its usual rhythm—fast, chaotic, and unapologetically indifferent to anyone struggling with love... or trying desperately not to fall into it.
Aurélie stared at her phone for what felt like an eternity.
One message from Elio:
"I know a place that might help you forget you're pretending."
No period. No emoji. Just a line that felt too casual for something so dangerously real.
She didn't reply. Instead, she tossed the phone onto the sofa and walked into the kitchen.
Opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened it again.
Then finally sank down to the floor, sitting with her back against the cold refrigerator door.
Aurélie (murmuring):
"You can't keep doing this..."
But the feelings—they were growing. Slowly, subtly. And the worst part? She could no longer convince herself it was just part of the act.
---
That afternoon, they met by the river—at a quiet little stall selling lemon and honey crêpes. No paparazzi. No cameras. Just the two of them and the soft murmur of the Seine.
Elio arrived first, sitting with a book in hand. When Aurélie appeared, he closed it slowly.
Elio:
"You came."
Aurélie (dryly):
"I was hungry."
They sat in silence for a while. Just the sound of plates, clinking cutlery, and an old man humming a vintage French melody from behind the counter.
Elio (gently):
"You look tired."
Aurélie (without looking at him):
"Maybe because I am. Tired of acting. Tired of guessing. Tired of pretending I don't care."
Elio didn't speak immediately.
Instead, he studied her quietly, like someone measuring whether he had the right to say what he wanted to say.
Elio:
"Then stop pretending."
Aurélie (turning to face him sharply):
"What do you mean?"
Elio:
"I don't know where this is going. But I know one thing—I don't want to go there alone."
Her heart skipped.
Aurélie (coldly):
"Did you forget clause five of our contract?"
Elio:
"Emotional detachment. No real feelings involved."
He paused, his tone steady.
"But who can really control feelings?"
Aurélie:
"We can. We have to."
Elio:
"Or maybe we just keep saying that so we don't feel guilty."
She looked down, focusing on the golden honey dripping from her crêpe.
She couldn't argue with him. Not honestly.
Aurélie (softly):
"I don't know, Elio. I don't know what's real anymore."
Elio:
"Believe whatever feels real."
Aurélie:
"And what if the realest thing is the one thing we're not allowed to feel?"
Elio:
"Then maybe... it's time we stop following rules we didn't write."m
---
That night, Aurélie couldn't sleep.
Even with the lights off and the curtains drawn, her mind stayed lit—haunted by possibilities and impossible rules.
The contract sat neatly folded in her bedside drawer.
She didn't open it. But she could almost hear it whispering. Reminding her of boundaries she was starting to ignore.
And worse—she wasn't sure she wanted to go back.
---
Two days later, they attended a birthday party for Elio's cousin at the garden behind Hôtel Le Meurice.
The place sparkled with fairy lights and soft jazz. Elegant guests floated by with flutes of champagne and delicate pastries.
Aurélie arrived early, wearing a simple black dress. Her hair was pinned up neatly.
She stood by the corner, watching people laugh too easily, move too perfectly.
Elio (appearing beside her):
"You came."
Aurélie:
"It's part of the job, isn't it?"
He smiled faintly, about to say something, when a tall blonde woman approached them. Her lipstick was scarlet, her heels too high for cobblestone.
Woman:
"Elio! Mon amour! You made it!"
She kissed him on both cheeks, then turned to Aurélie with a curious tilt of her head.
"And this is?"
Elio (without hesitation):
"Aurélie. My partner."
The woman raised an eyebrow, giving Aurélie a slow once-over.
Woman:
"Charming. I thought you were still with—what was her name? Clara?"
Elio (evenly):
"That's old news."
Woman:
"Hmm. Well. Best of luck, then."
And with that, she vanished back into the crowd, leaving behind a sugary cloud of perfume.
Aurélie (turning to him):
"Clara?"
Elio:
"It was nothing serious."
Aurélie:
"You didn't mention her."
Elio:
"Because she doesn't matter anymore."
Aurélie (looking away):
"You're getting good at saying the right thing at the right time."
Elio:
"I mean it."
But she didn't answer. Instead, she walked away, weaving through the crowd toward the drink table, leaving him standing there—hands in his pockets, lips tight.
---
Later that evening, as the party thinned out and jazz softened into piano, they found themselves on the rooftop, overlooking the glittering lights of Paris.
The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance, golden and too perfect.
Elio (quietly):
"You were jealous."
Aurélie (rolling her eyes):
"Don't flatter yourself."
Elio (grinning):
"I'm not. I'm just... noticing."
She didn't answer right away.
Aurélie:
"I wasn't jealous. I was just... reminded."
Elio:
"Of what?"
Aurélie:
"That I'm not the first. And I won't be the last. Because this is fake. And one day, it ends."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Elio stepped closer, just enough for her to feel his presence—warm and infuriating.
Elio:
"What if I don't want it to end?"
Aurélie (softly):
"Then we're in trouble."