JAY'S POV
The café is quieter than I expect.
Not empty—but calm enough that the noise doesn't reach us, doesn't interrupt the storm sitting between us as we take our seats across from each other. For a second, neither of us speaks. A waiter comes, places two coffees we didn't even order properly, and leaves—and the moment he's gone, I don't wait.
"Keifer," I say, leaning forward slightly, my voice steady but firm, "I'm only doing this for Lola."
There's no hesitation. No softness. Just truth.
"And I know you are too," I add, holding his gaze. "So let's not pretend this is anything else."
He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't argue. Just watches me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"So," I continue, exhaling lightly as I organize the chaos in my head into something structured, something manageable, "we need to be practical about this."
His jaw tightens slightly—but he nods once.
"Lola's announcing it tomorrow," I say. "Which means—there's no backing out publicly. No pretending we don't know each other. No distance at events, at work, anywhere."
A pause.
"This becomes real for everyone else."
Silence stretches for half a second.
"Except us," I finish quietly.
Something shifts in his expression at that.
Small. Almost invisible.
But I see it.
"So we set rules," I say, more firmly now. "Clear ones. No confusion later."
He leans back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against the table, eyes still locked on mine. "Go on."
I inhale.
"We get legally married," I say, each word precise. "We play the part. Publicly. For the families. For the company."
"And privately?" he asks.
My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table.
"Nothing changes."
The words land heavier than I expect.
"There's no… relationship," I clarify. "No expectations. No obligations beyond what we agree to."
Another pause.
Then—
"Between us," I add, softer now, "this stays exactly what it is."
He looks at me for a long second.
Then nods once.
"I know."
Something about the way he says it—quiet, almost too controlled—makes my chest tighten slightly, but I ignore it.
Focus.
"We won't live at the Watson mansion," I continue. "That would make everything harder."
"I've already arranged something," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"A penthouse," he replies calmly. "Two-storey. Separate spaces. You won't feel… confined."
Of course he has.
I let out a small breath, nodding slowly. "Okay. Good."
Practical. Efficient.
Like a business deal.
Which is exactly what this is.
"Then rules," I say again, straighter now.
He leans forward slightly this time, mirroring my earlier position.
"Rule one," I start. "No one finds out."
His expression hardens immediately. "Obviously."
"This stays between us," I continue. "No slipping. No hints. Nothing."
"Agreed."
"Rule two," I say, my voice more deliberate now, "no unnecessary physical contact."
A flicker passes through his eyes—but it's gone before I can place it.
"Only when required," I clarify. "Public situations. Family settings."
He nods once. "Understood."
"Rule three," I continue, forcing myself to keep going without thinking too much, "we act like a couple when we're supposed to."
"How convincing?" he asks quietly.
I meet his gaze.
"Convincing enough that no one questions it."
A beat.
"And that includes—" I hesitate for half a second, then push through it, "basic affection. Hand holding. Close proximity. Whatever's necessary."
His jaw tightens slightly—but he nods.
"And kissing?" he asks.
The word hangs heavier than it should.
I look away for a fraction of a second before answering.
"Only if absolutely necessary," I say. "Like… a do-or-die situation."
A faint, almost humorless breath leaves him. "Right."
"Rule four," I say quickly, moving past that, "no interference in each other's personal space."
"No checking phones. No questioning whereabouts. No control."
"Good," he says. "Same applies both ways."
"Obviously."
"Rule five," I add, leaning back slightly now, exhaustion starting to creep in, "office stays professional."
"No special treatment. No public disagreements either."
He nods. "We maintain balance."
"Exactly."
A pause settles between us.
Not hostile.
Not comfortable either.
Just… final.
"And at home?" he asks after a moment.
I exhale slowly.
"We live like housemates."
The word feels strange.
Foreign.
"Separate lives. Separate routines," I continue. "No crossing lines."
His eyes stay on mine.
"Outside," he says quietly, "we're a married couple."
"Inside," I finish, "we're nothing."
Silence.
This time—it lingers.
Because the plan is done.
Set.
Locked in.
There's nothing left to discuss.
Nothing left to soften it.
I pick up my coffee, taking a small sip even though I don't taste it.
Across from me, he does the same—but his gaze doesn't leave me.
And for a second—just a second—it feels like something unspoken is trying to break through everything we just built.
But neither of us lets it.
Because this?
This is easier.
Cleaner.
Safer.
"Then it's decided," I say finally, placing the cup down.
He nods once.
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"It's decided."
And just like that—
We didn't just agree to a marriage.
We built a boundary around it.