The evening breeze drifted through the open window of Elio's apartment, carrying with it the soft scent of rain and city lights. Aurélie stood by the window, her arms crossed, her eyes locked onto the glimmering Eiffel Tower in the distance. It flickered against the dusky sky like a watchful guardian.
"Did you ever wonder," Aurélie began, her voice quiet, "if life would've turned out differently if we hadn't signed that contract?"
Elio, who had been pouring two cups of tea in the small kitchenette, paused. He looked up, his brows furrowed slightly. "Differently how?"
She shrugged. "Maybe quieter. Simpler. Less… confusing."
Elio walked over, handing her a warm cup. "Or maybe less real."
Aurélie turned to face him, surprised. "Real?"
"Yeah," he said, settling onto the couch, "This whole situation might've started as a game, or... an arrangement. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being pretend."
Aurélie didn't respond immediately. Instead, she sipped her tea slowly, eyes still on the tower. "Sometimes I don't know what's real and what's not anymore."
"Do you want it to be real?" Elio asked softly.
She looked at him now. Really looked. The kind of gaze that makes silence feel like a conversation. "I don't know," she whispered. "I'm scared of what that means."
Elio leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You're not the only one scared, Aurélie."
Their eyes locked, and the quiet tension in the room thickened. Outside, the night moved on, indifferent to the hearts tangled within its shadows.
---
The next morning, the air was heavy with anticipation. Today was the final day of Elio's photography exhibition at the Montmartre gallery, and critics were already calling it the "most emotionally intimate" collection of the season.
Aurélie arrived early, her heels clicking softly on the gallery's marble floor. She wore a navy blue trench coat over a fitted dress, her hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She wasn't sure why she had put in the extra effort — or maybe she was.
"Wow," she muttered under her breath as she stared at the centerpiece photograph — a candid shot of her from the balcony of Elio's apartment, wind in her hair, a rare unguarded smile on her face.
She hadn't known he had taken it.
"You like it?" came Elio's voice from behind.
Aurélie turned, startled. "You—when did you take this?"
"That morning you thought I was still asleep," he said, standing beside her. "I woke up early, and… there you were. Just being you."
She flushed, torn between flattery and a touch of embarrassment. "You shouldn't have."
"But I wanted to remember that version of you. Free. Unaware. Beautiful."
She looked at the photo again, and something shifted inside her. "It's strange… seeing myself through your lens."
"I've always seen you like this," Elio said gently.
---
As guests began to arrive, the gallery filled with soft chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses. Elio was swept into conversations with critics and collectors, but his eyes kept drifting toward Aurélie across the room.
She, meanwhile, found herself cornered by Margaux, a journalist from a Parisian culture magazine.
"So, mademoiselle," Margaux purred, "how does it feel to be the muse of Paris's most elusive photographer?"
Aurélie laughed awkwardly. "I'm not sure I'd call myself his muse."
"But you live with him, yes? Isn't it a little more than professional?" Margaux's eyebrows arched mischievously.
Aurélie hesitated. The contract flashed in her mind. The lines she wasn't supposed to cross. The lies they'd told. And yet… something had shifted.
"We're close," she answered finally. "But some stories take time to understand."
Margaux smirked, jotting something down. "Well, I'll be watching how yours unfolds."
---
Later, Elio found Aurélie outside the gallery, standing alone in the courtyard. The moonlight bathed her face in silver.
"You looked like you were holding your breath in there," he said, approaching her.
"Maybe I was," she replied, not turning. "Do you ever wish we could just pause everything for a while? No pretending, no expectations… just silence."
"I think that's what we're doing now," Elio said, stepping beside her.
Aurélie chuckled softly. "You're not what I expected, Elio."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone colder. Detached. A playboy maybe. You looked like one."
Elio smirked. "I still can be if the situation calls for it."
She gave him a side glance. "But you're not. You're… complicated. And kind. And sometimes so quiet that it feels like you're listening to thoughts I haven't even said out loud."
They stood there for a moment. Close. Comfortable. And yet the air still buzzed with things unsaid.
"Aurélie," Elio began, his voice low, "what happens after the contract ends?"
She turned to face him. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I'm starting to care about the answer."
Aurélie opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've been afraid to think that far."
Elio's eyes didn't leave hers. "Maybe it's time we start."
---
That night, as Aurélie lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the questions returned like waves. What did she want? What was this becoming? Could something that started as a lie truly become something real?
She turned and looked at the corner of her room, where a photograph Elio had taken of the Seine River rested on her desk. It wasn't just a river in that picture. Somehow, it held longing. Stillness. A quiet ache. It was, in some way, a mirror of everything she felt.
She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over Elio's name.
But she didn't call.
Instead, she placed the phone down and whispered to the darkness, "Not yet."