The following week, Paris decided to be kind.
Skies opened into gentle blues, and the Seine sparkled under soft summer light. It was the kind of weather that made people fall in love—if not with a person, then at least with the idea of love.
Elio arrived at the Fontaine estate just after lunch, unannounced again.
Aurélie was in the backyard, barefoot on the grass, sketching quietly under the shade of an old willow tree. She wore loose linen pants, a tucked-in white shirt, and had a pencil behind her ear. The moment felt private—almost sacred.
Elio stood silently at the back door for a second, watching her.
Then he knocked on the glass.
Aurélie turned. Her expression shifted instantly from calm to cautious.
"What now?"
"Good afternoon to you, too," Elio smirked, stepping onto the grass.
"I come bearing peace."
"Is it in the form of paperwork or paparazzi?" she asked, standing and dusting her palms.
"Neither. I thought we'd take a walk."
She raised an eyebrow. "A walk?"
"No cameras, no audience. Just a normal, boring walk. I swear."
Aurélie eyed him for a second, as if scanning for hidden microphones. Then she sighed.
"Fine. But only because I'm tired of staring at trees."
---
They walked side by side through the narrow streets of the Marais district. Tourists passed them with gelato and cameras, but no one seemed to notice them as anything other than two young people enjoying a summer stroll.
And for a moment, it was easy to pretend.
"You always draw?" Elio asked, glancing at her sketchpad peeking from her tote.
"Since I was seven. It helps me think."
"Think about what?"
"Everything. Nothing. Depends on the day."
They turned into a quieter alley, where ivy climbed over sandstone walls and cafés whispered with soft jazz.
"You ever think about just... disappearing?" Elio said, almost too casually.
Aurélie frowned.
"Running away from your perfect little life?"
"Running away from a life that was picked for me before I could choose."
"You think you're the only one who didn't get a choice?" she snapped, stopping in her tracks.
"My whole existence has been a chess piece on my parents' board. You think I want to smile for cameras and attend dinners I didn't ask for?"
Elio looked surprised. Not by her anger, but by how much truth was behind it.
"You're right," he said finally.
"I'm sorry."
She didn't expect him to say that.
They started walking again, more quietly this time. Paris breathed around them. A dog barked from a nearby window. Wind rustled a row of lavender pots.
"You want gelato?" Elio asked suddenly.
"You just want an excuse to stop talking."
"That too."
---
They sat on the stone steps of the Pont Neuf, feet dangling above the water, gelato melting faster than they could eat it.
Aurélie had pistachio. Elio chose coffee.
"We're supposed to go to Tuscany next month," Aurélie said, licking her spoon.
"Still want to keep up the act that far?"
"We'll write it into the story," Elio shrugged.
"Chapter Seven: Fake Lovers in Italy."
She chuckled. A real one.
He turned toward her.
"You laugh differently when it's real."
Aurélie looked at him.
"You notice too much."
"It's not a crime."
"It's dangerous."
He didn't answer that. Instead, he offered her the last bite of his gelato.
She refused at first. Then gave in.
And for the first time in weeks, neither of them felt like they were pretending.
---
That night, Elio invited her to his family's summer house outside of Paris—just for dinner, he claimed.
Geneviève was delighted.
Laurent raised an eyebrow but didn't object.
When they arrived, the sky was a canvas of pink and orange. The Marchand estate was all white stone and modern glass, surrounded by acres of vineyards.
"It's beautiful," Aurélie murmured.
"It's empty most of the year," Elio replied.
"My parents prefer New York. I come here when I want to feel invisible."
Inside, a private chef had already prepared everything—sea bass, fresh bread, a salad with fig and goat cheese.
But it was the backyard that stole her breath.
There, under hanging string lights and the faint sound of old records playing, was a small outdoor table for two. A bottle of wine waited on ice.
"You really go all in with this fake boyfriend thing," Aurélie said, trying to hide the way her heart did something weird in her chest.
"I'm nothing if not committed," Elio grinned.
They ate. Talked about useless things. Books. Music. The absurdity of social events. At one point, they played a game—Tell the Truth or Pour Another Glass.
"First kiss?" Elio asked.
"Sixteen. Art camp. His breath smelled like pickles."
"Charming."
"Your turn. First time you got in real trouble?"
Elio smirked.
"Age twelve. I hacked into the school's grading system to switch my math score with the kid who always beat me."
"You're kidding."
"Got caught the next day. My father made me apologize in Latin."
Aurélie laughed so hard, she nearly dropped her glass.
The sun had long set by the time they moved to the patio couch, wrapped in throw blankets, watching stars blink awake.
"This is the most relaxed I've felt in years," Elio admitted.
"That's sad," Aurélie replied softly.
He looked at her.
"What about you? When was the last time you felt like this?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then whispered,
"Maybe tonight."
Silence.
Then a wind passed between them, carrying a tension that hadn't been there before.
He didn't touch her.
But he looked at her like he might.
And she didn't look away.
---
Later, back at home, Aurélie stood in front of her mirror.
Same face. Same features. Same girl.
But something had shifted.
She reached into the drawer, pulled out the contract again.
Clause Five:
> "No real feelings shall develop. Any emotional entanglements will be considered a breach."
She stared at the line for a long time.
Then, without a word, she folded the contract in half—slowly, neatly—and slid it back into the drawer.
For the first time since this charade began, she wasn't sure if she wanted to obey the rules anymore.