The moment her front door clicked shut, sealing Ethan in his world and her in the deafening silence of her own monumental decision, Clara felt a wave of nausea so profound she had to grip the back of a dining chair. Air. She needed air. But her lungs felt like two useless, shriveled sacs.
What have I done? The question, a silent scream from the last sane corner of her mind, ricocheted off the walls of her apartment. She had just verbally agreed to hand her son, her heart walking around outside her body, over to a man who analyzed infant crying patterns like an audio engineer, a man whose apartment likely had less personality than a high-end morgue. A man whose cool grey eyes had, for one terrifying second, made her feel… something. Something she refused to name.
This was not a solution. This was a diagnosis of her own insanity.
She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over Maya's name. You are not going to believe what your crazy-ass idea just wrought. But she couldn't send it. Saying it, typing it out, would make it irrevocably real. It was still a phantom, a surreal conversation that might have been a stress-induced hallucination.
She needed to control it. To cage it in logic before it devoured her.
With trembling fingers, she opened her laptop, the Aura Bloom brief still glowing accusingly. She ignored it, opening a new Google Doc instead. The blank white page stared back at her, a pristine canvas for her terrible, brilliant, life-altering mistake.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, giving the document its name, a small act of defiance, a sarcastic flag planted in the heart of her desperation: Project Co-Habitation & Career Advancement Mutual Assistance Pact (Working Title). 1
Then, she began to type, not with the sterile language of a contract, but with the fierce, detailed precision of a mother bear drafting a treaty for the care of her cub.
Section 1: The Asset (Leo)
Clause 1.1: The Asset, hereafter referred to as 'Leo', shall be treated with the reverence and adoration befitting his station as Supreme Overlord of This Apartment.
Clause 1.2: Dietary needs are non-negotiable. A full, laminated schedule of approved organic sustenance will be provided. Any deviation (e.g., introduction of non-approved, peasant-grade rusks) will be considered a breach of contract.
Across the hall, Ethan stood in the center of his living room, the perfect geometry of his surroundings feeling strangely… inadequate. The silence that was usually his balm now felt accusatory. He could still smell the ghost of her apartment on his clothes – that faint, warm scent of baby and coffee and… Clara.
His mind, a fortress of logic, was in revolt. He had just proposed a pact that violated every one of his own carefully constructed principles. He was introducing chaos – a literal, gurgling, diaper-wearing agent of chaos – into his life. All for a partnership. Was any promotion worth this level of strategic madness?
He thought of Sterling's thin smile, of David Cartwright's smug face. Yes. It was. This was a calculated risk. A temporary, six-week variable he would manage, control, and then eliminate. He was an architect. He designed systems. This was just another system, albeit one with… unpredictable outputs.
A notification chimed on his laptop. Clara has shared a document with you: "Project Co-Habitation & Career Advancement Mutual Assistance Pact (Working Title)."
He sat down, a strange tension coiling in his gut. He opened the link. And then he saw her words. The Asset. Supreme Overlord.
A sound escaped his lips, one he didn't recognize. It took him a moment to realize it was a short, sharp, incredulous laugh. She was ridiculous. She was infuriating.
His cursor began to move, his own profile icon appearing on her screen. He highlighted "Supreme Overlord." A comment box appeared. He typed: Is this clause legally binding?
Clara saw his icon pop up, his tiny, anonymous grey circle a sudden, invasive presence in her document. Then, the comment. She snorted, a genuine laugh this time. The absolute audacity. She typed back immediately: Only if you wish to see your own assets liquidated, counsellor.
And so it began. Not a conversation, but a silent, rapid-fire negotiation played out in tracked changes and sarcastic comments. It was the most bizarrely intimate exchange of her life.
He added a section: Section 2: The Associate (Clara).
She immediately renamed it: Section 2: The Glamorous Accomplice (Clara).
He wrote: Clause 2.1: The Glamorous Accomplice will maintain a demeanor of pleasant affection towards The Beneficiary (Ethan) during all public-facing engagements.
She commented: Define 'pleasant affection.' Is there a metric? A scale of 1-10? Will I be graded?
He added Clause 4.2: The Beneficiary will not be held liable for minor, non-injurious emotional outbursts from The Asset.
She replied with a new sub-clause, 4.2a: Re: Emotional Outbursts. The 'Pat-pat-shush' method must be executed at a rhythm of approximately 70 bpm. A metronome can be provided. This is non-negotiable.
He ignored that, moving to the most delicate section. He typed: Clause 5: Inter-Party Relations.
Clause 5.1: The arrangement is to be considered strictly platonic. No fraternization or development of unsanctioned emotional attachments shall be permitted.
Clara stared at the words. Unsanctioned emotional attachments. As if her heart were a construction site requiring a permit. She highlighted the entire clause. Her comment was a single, curt word: Obviously.
He saw it. He hovered over her comment, his cursor blinking, blinking, blinking. For a long, charged moment, neither of them typed. They were just two anonymous icons, staring at a clause about not falling for each other, the digital silence screaming with everything they weren't saying.
Finally, he deleted her comment and resolved the suggestion, locking the words in place. The boundary was set. The line drawn in the sand of their shared document.
An hour later, it was done. A six-page document of clauses, sub-clauses, and a running commentary of their clashing personalities. It was absurd. It was terrifying. It was a contract.
Ethan typed one final comment at the bottom of the page. The terms, as outlined, are acceptable. We begin Monday at 0900 hours.
Clara read it. Her heart hammered. This was it. No turning back. She took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Acknowledged, she typed back.
Then she closed the laptop, plunging her apartment into semidarkness. She had done it. She had formalized her deal with the devil across the hall. A devil who, she was beginning to suspect with a dawning, unwelcome sense of dread, might just have a sense of humor.