Chapter 4

By Friday morning — Day 3, eight nights remaining — I’d learned this much about Caelum Vance:

He woke before six without an alarm, had done so long enough that it felt less like discipline and more like breath. He drank his coffee black and scalding, and made it himself every morning despite having staff who’d happily step in — because, as he’d put it Thursday with the kind of honesty he didn’t seem to notice was honesty: “It’s the only thing in the morning that’s just mine.”

He read physical documents even when the same file was open on his laptop three feet away. He kept his father’s watch wound and set perfectly but never checked it for the actual time — that’s what his phone was for. The watch wasn’t about telling time at all.

He didn’t know his own favorite food. I was fixing that. Thursday night I’d made a simple roast chicken — just herbs, heat, and patience — and he’d eaten more than I expected, then said, sounding genuinely surprised: “That was good.” I mentally ticked roast chicken onto the list.

He was terrible at receiving small kindnesses — never ungrateful, always sincere, but visibly unsure what to do next. Like warmth was something he’d learned to accept formally, not naturally.

And he kept almost laughing. That was the thing I noticed most — and probably shouldn’t have. He’d catch himself, pull back, and I was starting to find the restraint funnier than anything I’d actually said.

“You know you can just laugh, right?” I told him over coffee Friday morning.

He looked up from his phone. “I laugh.”

“You almost laugh. Different thing.”

“I laugh,” he repeated — but he was doing it again, that half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes brightening like he couldn’t quite help it.

“There,” I pointed. “That right there. You’re doing it now.”

He looked back at his screen, pretending focus. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

The review was scheduled for Day 9. We had six days to become convincing.

We were trying — but was it enough?

Friday turned harder, because Friday was the day Soren called. The audacity.

I saw his name, stared three full seconds, then sent it to voicemail. He called again immediately — persistence that once felt like devotion now just felt like intrusion.

I stepped onto the balcony and answered.

“Zara.” Same warm, familiar tone — one I was starting to realize he’d used on everyone. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know. I was busy.”

“Are you okay? I heard —” pause, perfectly timed — “I heard you got married.”

“Yes.”

“Zara, what happened? You just left —”

“What happened,” I said, steady as I could, “is I opened our bedroom door at six in the morning and found you and my stepsister in my bed. That’s what happened. We don’t need to go further back.”

Silence.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just need to explain —”

“You don’t, actually.” I leaned on the railing, watching the city stretch out below — towers of glass and light that somehow already felt more mine than anywhere ever had. “I’m not angry anymore. I’m just done.”

“Who is he?” His voice shifted, sharp with something that wasn’t concern. “This Vance —”

“None of your business.”

“Zara, you married someone you don’t even —”

“Goodbye, Soren.” I ended it, breathed deep, and stood there a moment letting the quiet settle back in.

When I turned around, Caelum stood in the doorway.

I had no idea how long he’d been there.

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “I wasn’t listening. I came to tell you the review committee confirmed.” He stepped back. “Come in whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” I said — and meant it.

He let me through, and as I passed I caught that faint, familiar scent — coffee and something warm and woodsy — and thought: this is the strangest situation I’ve ever been in, and somehow it feels more real than anything I’ve known.

“Your ex?” he asked once we were inside.

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“To explain.” I sat. “Funny — I don’t actually need one. I saw what I saw.”

Caelum nodded slowly. “People always think the explanation matters.”

“What matters then?”

“The choice.” He leaned against the counter, voice quiet but sure. “The explanation is just how they justify it after they’ve already decided.”

I studied him. “Is that what your fiancée did? Chose someone else and then called it something else?”

He paused. “She said she never loved the life — the company, the scrutiny, the expectations. Said Diana’s offer was an escape, not a replacement.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I believe she believes it.” He looked away. “Whether it’s true… I stopped trying to untangle it.”

That was either wisdom or survival — learning to stand apart from your own hurt so it couldn’t pull you under.

“The review,” I said, bringing us back. “What will they actually ask?”

“Everything. Habits. Memories. How we met. Why we chose each other. Things that take time to build.”

“We’ve had three days.”

“I know.”

“Not enough.”

“No.” He met my gaze. “So we make every moment count.”

“Ask me something then,” I said. “Something they’d ask.”

He considered. “What’s one thing I do that annoys you?”

Not the question I expected.

“You almost laugh,” I said. “And then you don’t. It’s maddening. Like watching someone reach for something and then put it back.”

“That bothers you?”

“Yes.”

He paused. Then — quiet, brief, genuine — he laughed. A real one. Short, low, warm, and it changed his whole face in a way I was going to have to work very hard not to think about.

“Your turn,” he said, recovering. “What do I say when they ask why you?”

“What’s the honest answer?”

“Your name came back clean. And then you walked into my building.”

“Not very convincing.”

“No.” He tilted his head. “What would you say?”

I thought about it. “I’d say you got on your knees on your own lobby floor and picked up papers for a stranger. That you waited instead of pushing. That when I gave you conditions, you just said agreed — like respecting me was the obvious thing to do.” My voice softened. “It’s not romance. But it’s a reason.”

He held my gaze a long time.

“That’s better than mine,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

Sunlight poured through the windows, golden and warm, and for a moment it felt like we were actually building something — not just performing.

Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Again.

The message I sent you wasn’t the first. There was one before — sent to him. Ask Caelum if he’s received strange messages lately. The answer will tell you everything.

I read it twice. Set the phone face down slow. Looked at him across the table — the man who’d just laughed, who’d listened, who’d said my name like it mattered.

Someone had warned him first. Before me.

He hadn’t mentioned it.

Either he didn’t know… or he’d chosen not to tell me.

And both possibilities mattered equally.