The sky over Paris was a soft gray, cloaking the city in a gentle drizzle that made the cobblestone streets glisten like scattered diamonds. Aurélie stood at the window of Elio's penthouse, her fingers delicately curled around a cup of steaming coffee. The silence between them had been steady since their return from the awkward dinner with Elio's mother two nights ago.
Elio entered the room, buttoning his navy coat. He paused when he saw her by the window.
Elio: "You're up early."
Aurélie: without turning her head "Didn't sleep much."
He nodded quietly. For once, he didn't press her for more.
Elio: "I have a meeting in the Marais this morning. Should be back around noon."
She finally turned to him, her eyes carrying something unreadable.
Aurélie: "Do you always keep your thoughts locked up so tightly, Elio?"
The question stopped him in his tracks. He looked at her, his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly.
Elio: "Only the ones that matter."
Aurélie: "You think pretending not to care makes it easier?"
Elio: "No. I think caring makes it harder."
His words lingered in the air like fog on glass. He turned toward the door again, but paused before leaving.
Elio: "Don't wait up."
And then he was gone.
---
Aurélie sat on the couch a few minutes later, replaying their conversation over and over. Since their fake relationship started, she had convinced herself it was just business. Yet, moments like this—his honesty, the restraint in his eyes—kept unraveling the safe distance she had built.
Later that morning, she wandered out of the penthouse. The rain had stopped, leaving the sidewalks damp and the air crisp. Her steps brought her, unknowingly, to the narrow alley where her father once took her to buy pastries every Sunday.
She stood in front of the now-abandoned bakery, memories pressing against her chest like forgotten letters. A man with kind wrinkles and flour-dusted sleeves used to greet them at the counter, always giving her an extra macaron. The scent of almond and vanilla was long gone, but the ache it left behind remained vivid.
Aurélie (to herself): "What am I doing, really?"
Her voice was barely audible over the distant rumble of traffic. She took out her phone and stared at it. For a brief moment, she considered calling Elio. But she put it back.
---
Meanwhile, Elio sat in a sleek café in the Marais district, across from a woman in her mid-thirties. Her name was Clara, an old friend and former colleague who knew him long before he became a cold businessman.
Clara: "So, this contract marriage. It's really happening?"
Elio: calmly sipping his espresso "It already happened."
Clara: "And you think this will keep your mother from interfering?"
Elio: "For now. She respects appearances."
Clara tilted her head and studied him.
Clara: "You've always been good at faking detachment. But I can tell this woman's different."
Elio didn't respond immediately. He glanced out the window, watching a couple share an umbrella as they hurried across the street.
Elio: "Aurélie is... unpredictable."
Clara: "Unpredictable is usually code for dangerous."
Elio: "Or honest."
Clara smiled knowingly.
Clara: "Be careful, Elio. Pretending not to feel doesn't mean you won't."
---
Back at the penthouse, Aurélie returned just before noon. She found an envelope on the kitchen counter, unsealed. Inside was a note in Elio's handwriting:
> "If you need to get away for a day or two, the house in Normandy is yours. No questions asked. — E."
She stared at the note, her heart conflicted. Why was he offering her space if he didn't care? Or did he care too much to let it show?
---
That night, Elio returned, expecting the penthouse to be quiet. But he found Aurélie sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by sketchbooks and colored pencils.
Elio: "You draw?"
Aurélie: without looking up "Only when I can't sleep."
He crouched beside her, picking up one of the sketches. It was a pencil drawing of a garden bench under a tree—simple, peaceful.
Elio: "This... it feels like memory."
Aurélie: "It was. From when I was ten. My father used to read to me there."
Elio didn't speak. For once, he just listened.
Aurélie: "Why did you offer the house in Normandy?"
Elio: "Because sometimes Paris gets too loud."
Aurélie: "And you thought I needed silence?"
Elio: "I thought you might need to hear your own voice again."
She looked up, their eyes meeting in rare stillness. The emotional barrier between them trembled—but didn't fall.
Aurélie: "Thank you."
Elio: "Don't thank me. Just use it, if you need it."
He stood up and started toward his room, then turned around.
Elio: "I'll be gone for two days. Business in Lyon."
Aurélie: "Have a safe trip."
A part of her wanted to ask him to stay. But she didn't. And a part of him hoped she would—but she didn't.
---
That night, Aurélie stood alone on the balcony, watching the Eiffel Tower shimmer at a distance. Her fingers clutched the edge of the railing as thoughts collided in her mind.
This was supposed to be fake. This was supposed to be control. But somewhere along the way, the silence between them had started to speak louder than words. And in those silences, she found herself wondering if perhaps Elio wasn't the only one pretending not to feel.