CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER TEN: TERMS OF ENDEARMENT

AVA MONROE'S POV

The morning after Ethan kissed me lingered in the air like perfume, faint, unshakable, and suspiciously sweet.

I told myself it was nothing.

A slip. A show for the audience. A distraction from the rumors threatening to eat us alive.

But it stayed with me, like his cologne, like his eyes, like the strange tightness in my chest I hadn't felt since I was seventeen and naïve enough to think kisses meant something.

I woke to the sound of glass clinking. Not in the hallway, but in my room.

My door creaked open, and there he was.

Ethan.

Holding a silver tray with two espresso cups and a plate of

croissants.

"I made breakfast," he said simply.

I blinked at him. "You made breakfast?"

"I supervised."

"That sounds more believable."

He stepped inside, completely ignoring the fact that I was still in a robe, hair a mess, sleep in my eyes.

"Is this part of the contract?" I asked, suspicious.

"No." He placed the tray on the table. "This is part of the apology."

I raised a brow. "For what?"

"For kissing you like that."

"So you admit it meant something?."

"No," he said calmly, pouring us both coffee. "I admit it may have meant something to you."

"You're such a jerk."

"And you're welcome to amend the contract. Clause 17. Emotional clarity."

"There is no Clause 17."

"There is now."

We sipped in silence for a while, the tension from last night thick between us. The world outside our suite continued turning,

oblivious to the silent war between two people who shared a bed only in theory.

"What are you doing today?" I finally asked.

"Board meeting. Then dinner with an investor."

"Public dinner?"

He nodded.

"So I'll need to come?"

"Yes."

"Will there be cameras?"

"Definitely."

Great. Another performance. Another costume. Another fake

smile while my insides twisted like tangled wires.

The dinner was at The Vesper, a rooftop restaurant famous for its city views and scandalous clientele.

Ethan's investor turned out to be a forty-something oil mogul with a penchant for underage dates and vintage cigars.

His wife was present too, glued to her phone, her diamond necklace worth more than the car I used to drive.

"You make a lovely couple," the investor said with a grin. "Though you look too sweet for him, Ava."

I laughed politely. "He's sweeter than he looks."

Ethan raised a brow but said nothing.

Later, as the evening dragged on, the wife leaned toward me and whispered, "You can always tell the ones who marry for love.

They hold hands under the table. The ones who don't?" She glanced at her husband. "They just hold grudges."

I didn't respond.

But I looked under the table.

Our hands weren't touching.

Ethan noticed. He reached for his glass.

I reached for nothing.

That night, I went to the balcony to clear my head.

The city stretched out below me, glittering and chaotic.

Somewhere out there were real couples, people fighting over

dishes or rent or who forgot the anniversary.

People who held hands under tables.

Ethan stepped outside a moment later, two fingers loosening his tie.

"You were quiet tonight," he said.

"I was watching."

"What did you see?"

"Everyone pretending. Especially us."

He looked at me then. Really looked. "It doesn't have to be

all pretend."

I snorted. "You don't do real, remember?"

He stepped closer. "Neither do you."

We were inches apart now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to break something invisible.

"I used to," I whispered.

"What changed?"

"Life. People. You."

His jaw clenched. "You blame me?"

"No. I blame me. For thinking I could survive this without

getting bruised."

And then I did something reckless.

I kissed him.

Not a show. Not a weapon. Just a kiss.

He froze.

Then kissed me back.

It was slower than the last. Softer. Like we were testing a theory neither of us wanted to prove.

When we pulled apart, neither of us spoke. We just stared. Dazed. Confused.

"Clause 17," I said softly. "Emotional clarity."

He nodded. "We'll need to revise the whole contract."

Maybe we would.

But first, we'd have to stop lying to ourselves.

And that might be the hardest clause of all.