Alfred believed his methodology was foolproof because it relied on the most reliable resource on Earth: human vanity. People want to believe they are part of a grand romance. They don't want to believe they were tricked by a man who uses "Bartholomew" as an alias and buys Dijon mustard as a prop.
But then came Maya.
Maya was a graphic designer with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes and a skepticism that should have been a red flag. They met at a gallery opening where the art was mostly blank canvases titled things like Entropy and Silence.
"It looks like a whiteboard after a corporate retreat," Maya whispered, standing next to Alfred.
Alfred, sensing a challenge, didn't use his "destiny" line. He pivoted. "I think the artist is actually commenting on the emptiness of the appetizers. Have you seen the shrimp? It's tragic."
She laughed. And for the first time in three years, Alfred felt a genuine spark that wasn't just the thrill of the hunt.
The Three-Night Rule
Usually, Alfred was a one-hit wonder. He was the musical equivalent of "Macarena"fun at a wedding, but you don't want the whole album. With Maya, however, he broke his own golden rule. He saw her three times over two weeks.
Night One: They stayed up until 4:00 AM talking about 90s cartoons and the best way to survive a zombie apocalypse. There was no penthouse trickery yet. He actually took her to a late-night diner.
Night Two: A week later. He brought her back to the "Stage 2" apartment (a rental he kept under a shell company for mid-term illusions). They shared a bottle of wine that cost more than Marcus's car. Alfred was, as always, a legend in the sheets, but he found himself actually listening to her stories about her grandmother in Lisbon.
Night Three: This was the mistake. By the third night, the "temporary soulmate" mask was starting to itch. Maya wasn't just playing her part as the Queen; she was starting to act like a partner. She brought him a succulent as a "housewarming" gift for the apartment he didn't actually live in.
"It's an Aloe Vera," she said, placing it on the marble counter. "Hard to kill. Just like me."
Alfred smiled, but internally, he was screaming. A plant? A plant was an anchor. A plant required water, sunlight, and worst of all a future.
The Shift
The fallout began forty-eight hours after Night Three. Alfred had retreated to his actual home a modest, minimalist condo that smelled of nothing and contained no evidence of his existence. He was back in "Ghost Mode," recharging his batteries.
Then, his phone buzzed.
Maya: "Hey! Found this cool jazz spot for Thursday. You in?"
Alfred ignored it. He was busy watching a documentary on deep-sea squids. Squids were his idols; they could change color and disappear in a cloud of ink at a moment's notice.
Maya (Friday): "Everything okay? Haven't heard from you. Give me a call."
Maya (Saturday, 11:00 PM): "Are you alive? Or did you get eaten by a giant shrimp?"
Alfred felt a twinge of guilt, which he promptly suppressed with a shot of tequila. He only called her when the squid-documentary ended and the loneliness of his sterile apartment started to feel like a cold draft.
"Hey, sorry," he whispered into the phone at midnight. "Work has been... insane. I need to see you. Can you come over?"
She came over, but the vibe had curdled. After the fireworks died down, Maya didn't drift off into a "sparkling memory" sleep. She sat up, wrapped in the duvet, and looked at him with the eyes of a woman who had spent the last three hours reading "Signs He's Just Not That Into You" articles.
"You only call when you're bored or horny, Alfred," she said, her voice flat. "I call you during the day, you're a ghost. I ask you to dinner, you're 'busy.' But at midnight on a Saturday? Suddenly you have all the time in the world."
Alfred reached for his "Bartholomew" persona, but it felt heavy. "Maya, I'm a deep person. I process things... slowly."
"You process things like a dial-up modem," she snapped. "I'm not a subscription service, Alfred. I'm a human being. I want a relationship. I want to know your middle name. I want to know why you don't have any photos of your parents in this 'home' of yours."
Alfred realized the "Logistics Queen" approach wouldn't work here. Maya was too smart. She was poking at the drywall of his reality and finding the hollow spots.
The next morning, while she was in the shower, Alfred did the only thing a "considerate" man could do. He blocked her number, deleted his Tinder profile, and called Marcus.
The Marcus Maneuver: Part II
"Again?" Marcus groaned, standing in the middle of the Stage 2 apartment. He was wearing a shirt that said I'm Only Here for the Cake. "Alfred, this is the third time this month. I'm not a real estate agent for the damned."
"This is the last time, I swear," Alfred said, franticly packing his "man of mystery" props the vintage typewriter, the leather-bound books he'd never read, and the godforsaken Aloe Vera plant. "She's coming here. I know it. She has that 'I'm going to confront you' energy. Just tell her I moved to Singapore."
"Singapore? Why Singapore?"
"Because it's far! You can't just Uber to Singapore!"
Alfred retreated to his car, parked three blocks away, and watched the apartment through binoculars like a low-rent private eye. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Maya's red Mini Cooper screeched to a halt in front of the building.
He watched her storm inside. He imagined the scene: Marcus, holding a pizza box, looking confused, claiming Alfred had vanished into the international banking sector.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Suddenly, his passenger door opened. Alfred jumped so hard he hit his head on the sun visor.
It wasn't Maya. It was Marcus. He looked terrified.
"She's not buying it, man," Marcus hissed. "She told me if I didn't tell her where you were, she was going to call the cops and report a missing person. She thinks you've been kidnapped because 'no one leaves a succulent behind.'"
"The plant!" Alfred cursed. "I forgot the plant!"
"She's coming out now. Go! Drive!"
Alfred peeled away, sweat slicking his palms. For the next week, he lived like a fugitive. He took different routes to the grocery store. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, even when it was raining. He felt like a celebrity, but without the fame or the money just the crushing paranoia.
The Mustard Trap
The universe, however, has a sick sense of humor. It likes to reuse its best material.
Alfred was at the same high-end grocery store. He wasn't even buying mustard this time; he was just trying to get some artisanal sourdough. He felt safe. He hadn't seen the red Mini Cooper in days.
He was reaching for a loaf of rosemary focaccia when a hand clamped onto his wrist. Not a soft, romantic grasp. This was the grip of a woman who had practiced Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
"Bartholomew, I presume?"
Alfred froze. He didn't turn around immediately. He tried to lower his voice an octave. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong"
Maya spun him around. She didn't look frantic like Clara had. She looked calm. Cold. Lethal.
"Save it, Alfred. Or Bartholomew. Or whatever name you're using to ruin people's weeks."
Alfred looked around. The deli counter was crowded. A tactical retreat was impossible. He tried the "Polite Stranger" routine one last time. "Ma'am, please, you're making a scene. I truly don't know who you are."
Maya pulled out her phone and hit 'Play' on a voice memo.
"You have this energy... it's like you're the only person in this room who knows a secret..."
It was his own voice. The "Queen" speech.
"I recorded you on Night Two because I thought it was sweet," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "But then I ran the audio through a search. You've used that exact line on at least four other women who have posted about their 'disappearing soulmate' on Reddit. There's a whole thread about you, Alfred. They call you 'The Cedarwood Ghost.'"
Alfred felt the blood drain from his face. The internet. His one true enemy.
"Maya, listen"
"No, you listen," she stepped closer, the smell of her perfume something citrusy and sharp filling his senses. "The penthouse? Rented. The 'Singapore' move? A lie. The friend with the pizza? A bad actor. Why? Why all the theater? Is it because you're a sociopath, or are you just that much of a coward?"
Alfred looked at her, and for the first time in his career as a "Temporary Soulmate," the mask shattered. He couldn't play Bartholomew. He couldn't play the Monk of Mustard. He was just a man in a grocery store holding a loaf of focaccia he no longer wanted.
"I'm not a sociopath," he said, his real voice finally appearing thin and tired.
"Then what are you?"
Alfred sighed, leaning against a display of expensive olive oil. "I'm just... not the relationship type, Maya. I like the beginning. I like the part where everything is perfect and we're the best versions of ourselves. But the middle? The part where we fight about laundry or your grandmother's cat? I'm bad at that. I'm really, really bad at that."
Maya stared at him, her grip on his wrist loosening. "So you fake your own death essentially because you're afraid of a conversation about laundry?"
"It's more than that," Alfred said, gaining a bit of his old rhythm. "I want to leave you with a masterpiece. If I stay, I become a mundane disappointment. If I vanish, I'm a legend. I was doing it for you."
Maya burst out laughing. It wasn't the wind-chime laugh. It was a harsh, barking sound.
"You think you're a gift? Alfred, you're not a legend. You're a chore. I didn't spend the last week pining for a 'masterpiece.' I spent it wondering if I needed to get an STD test and if I should call the landlord about the weirdo living in your 'apartment.'"
She let go of his arm and wiped her hand on her jeans as if she'd touched something greasy.
"You're not a mystery, Alfred. You're just a guy who's too weak to say, 'I just want to get laid.' You wrap it in cedarwood and 'destiny' because you can't handle being the bad guy. But guess what? You're still the bad guy. You're just the bad guy with a lot of unnecessary overhead costs."
She turned to walk away, then stopped.
"Oh, and the Aloe Vera? I took it back. It deserved better company."
Alfred stood in the bread aisle, watching her go. He felt a strange mix of emotions: a stinging bruise to his ego, a lingering sense of shame, and somewhere deep down a terrifying spark of genuine admiration.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He unblocked her number, then paused. He looked at the screen for a long time.
Then, he went to the "Mustard" contact in his phone a girl named Sophie he was supposed to meet for "destiny" drinks on Tuesday.
He typed: Hey Sophie, I can't make it. Honestly, I'm not the relationship type, and I think I'm just going to stay home and eat bread.
He hit send.
He felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He felt honest. He felt... real.
Then, his phone buzzed.
Sophie: "OMG no worries! I actually just got back with my ex lol. Thanks for being honest though! You're a rare breed!"
Alfred stared at the screen. "A rare breed," he muttered. He looked at the artisanal sourdough in his hand.
He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to call Marcus and ask if he wanted to go get a burger as himself. But as he walked toward the checkout, he caught his reflection in the glass of the frozen food section. He adjusted his hair, straightened his collar, and practiced a look of profound, soulful consideration.
"I'm Bartholomew," he whispered to the frozen peas. "And I've just arrived from Toronto."
Old habits didn't just die hard. For Alfred, they were the only things that kept him alive.