Chapter 5: The Shape Of A Smile

Morning arrived without warning.

The lights brightened gradually, programmed to simulate dawn, but the effect was clinical rather than gentle illumination without warmth. Charlie woke with a sharp inhale, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling, the quiet hum of systems breathing where birdsong should have been.

He didn’t sleep much last night. His eyes were still tired.

He lay still, listening.

No voices. No footsteps.

The house felt suspended, as if waiting.

His phone chimed softly on the nightstand. A message from Emily , precise to the minute.

8am– Styling.

9:30am– Media briefing.

11am – Departure.

No greeting. No questions.

Charlie sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His body felt heavy, weighted by the kind of exhaustion that sleep didn’t cure. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and winced as his feet touched the cool floor.

For a split second, he expected to be late.

Panic spiked before he remembered there was nowhere else to be. His time was no longer his to mismanage.

The wardrobe doors slid open at a touch. Inside, clothes hung in orderly rows, arranged by shade rather than style. Cream to charcoal. Soft fabrics, tailored cuts. All chosen for him. Emily must have brought them all in when he was asleep, “how did she know my exact size?” He whispered to himself.

He reached for a sweater out of habit something oversized, something that would let him disappear.

It wasn’t there.

Instead, he selected a pale gray shirt and dark trousers, fingers clumsy with unfamiliar buttons. He studied himself in the mirror afterward, barely recognizing the person staring back.

Too clean. Too composed.

Like a version of himself that had been edited.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Charlie said quickly.

Emily entered with a stylist in tow, already speaking. “We’re going for understated today. No visible branding. Minimal jewelry.”

“Thank you for the clothes Emily but how did you know my size?” He said looking at Emily.

She did not respond and didn’t even bother looking at him.

The stylist approached Charlie without introduction, fingers light but efficient as she adjusted his collar, smoothed his hair back from his face.

“Don’t touch him,” Dexter said from the doorway.

Charlie startled.

Dexter stepped inside, gaze sharp as it swept the room. He hadn’t changed much from the night before, dark suit, immaculate lines but his eyes looked more alert, the tiredness buried beneath intent.

The stylist froze.

“I can manage my own appearance,” Dexter continued coolly. “Thank you.”

She withdrew immediately, murmuring an apology as she left. Emily lingered, jaw tight.

“You’re late,” she said to Dexter.

“I’m on time,” he replied. “He’s early.”

He turned to Charlie. “Did you sleep?”

Charlie hesitated. Honesty felt dangerous. “Yes.”

Dexter studied him, clearly unconvinced, but let it go.

“Briefing,” Dexter said, nodding toward the door.

The media room was smaller than the rest of the house, deliberately so. A table, four chairs, screens lining one wall. No windows. Charlie’s chest tightened as they entered.

Emily began immediately. “We’re framing this as a long standing private relationship. You met through philanthropic work. Keep details vague. Mystery reads as authenticity.”

She tapped the screen. Headlines flashed by speculation already building, Dexter’s name paired with words like elusive and untouchable.

Charlie’s tomach churned.

“You’ll smile when asked about him,” Emily continued, glancing at Charlie. “Softly. Not defensive. You admire his dedication. His discipline.”

Dexter watched Charlie instead of the screen.

“Practice,” he said.

Charlie blinked. “Practice?”

“Smile,” Dexter repeated.

Heat crawled up Charlie’s neck. He tried lips lifting hesitantly, expression unsure. It felt wrong on his face, stretched and borrowed.

Dexter shook his head, looking at Charlie with dissatisfaction. “No. That looks like fear.”

“I…” Charlie swallowed. “I am afraid.”

“I know,” Dexter said. “That’s why it doesn’t work.”

He stepped closer, invading Charlie’s space without touching him. “Think of something you care about,” Dexter instructed. “Something safe.”

Charlie’s thoughts went, traitorously, to his mother. To the way her hand felt warm in his when she slept.

His expression softened without his permission.

“There,” Dexter said quietly. “That.”

Emily watched, something conflicted flickering across her face.

“Good,” she said briskly. “Hold that. That’s your baseline.” They left shortly after.

The coffee shop was carefully chosen quiet but visible, frequented by journalists who pretended not to be. Cameras appeared within minutes. Charlie felt them like a physical weight, each lens a narrow eye dissecting him.

Dexter led the way, hand hovering near Charlie’s back but never touching. The absence was deliberate, a reminder of restraint rather than affection. They sat.

Questions followed, shouted softly from nearby tables.

“How long have you been together?” One of the journalists asked.

“When did you decide to go public?” Another asked.

Dexter answered smoothly, practiced warmth coating every word. When it was Charlie’s turn, he remembered the instruction.

Smile. Soft. Relief.

“ what drew you to him?” One of the journalists asked Charlie.

“He’s… steady,” Charlie said, voice barely above a murmur. “He makes things feel… manageable.”

Dexter’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and assessing. Then he nodded, approving. The cameras ate it up.

By the time they returned to the car, Charlie’s head ached, the muscles of his face sore from holding an expression that wasn’t his. He was already exhausted.

“You did well,” Dexter said once they were moving.

Charlie nodded. Praise felt strange. Unsettling.

Back at the house, Dexter disappeared into meetings. Emily left with a list of follow ups. Jonah resumed his quiet watch.

Charlie drifted.

He wandered the garden, tracing paths with his feet, memorizing the placement of stones and lights. He sketched absentmindedly on the notepad in his room lines and shapes that didn’t resolve into anything coherent. When he stopped, he didn’t remember starting.

Dissociation, a distant voice in his head supplied. A coping mechanism.

Dinner passed much like the night before.

Later, Charlie retreated to his room, curling on the bed with his phone clutched to his chest. He scrolled through old photos him and his father at a construction site, his mother smiling weakly in the kitchen. How simple his life had been before it all went to shit. He missed his Mom and Dad so much. His vision blurred but he still refused to let the tears fall.

A knock came. Dexter entered without waiting. “This man has no respect for privacy.” Charlie whispered so Dexter couldn’t hear.

“You handled the press better than expected,” he said, loosening his tie. “I’ll adjust the schedule accordingly.”

“Okay,” Charlie replied.

Dexter lingered. His gaze moved over the room, then back to Charlie.

“Why architecture?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught Charlie off guard. “What?”

“You studied it,” Dexter said. “Why?”

Charlie hesitated. No one had asked him that in a long time.

“My father used to say buildings were promises,” he said slowly. “That if you did your job right, people trusted you without thinking about it.”

Dexter considered that. “Trust is inefficient,” he said. “But useful.”

Charlie flinched. He knew what Dexter meant. The sentence hurt like hell but he shoved his emotions back down.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Dexter interrupted. He rubbed at his temple, a flicker of something like frustration crossing his face. “You should rest. Tomorrow will be worse.” With that, he left.

The door closed.

Charlie stared after him, heart heavy with a confusing mix of relief and loss.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the day replaying in fragments smiles, flashes, Dexter’s voice telling him how to exist.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, a thought settled in his chest, quiet and terrifying.

He was learning how to disappear without leaving.

And Dominic Ashcroft was teaching him exactly how to do it.