Chapter 13

       It wasn’t a fancy restaurant, nor a lavish café with chandeliers or polished floors. Just a quiet, modest coffee shop tucked between towering skyscrapers and flanked by small flower boutiques. The scent of freshly brewed coffee floated in the air—warm, comforting, familiar.

       Lorcan took a slow sip, his fingers curled around the ceramic cup. His eyes hadn’t strayed from Seranna—not once. She sat across from him in composed silence, her fingers delicately wrapped around her steaming cup of lemon tea. The navy dress she wore hugged her frame with effortless grace, matching the cool sophistication of his midnight-blue tuxedo. For fifteen minutes, they’d said nothing. Just sat in the presence of each other, allowing the weight of what they were doing to settle in.

       Finally, he broke the quiet.

       “I thought you’d prefer a restaurant.”

       Seranna looked up, her gaze calm but sharp. “This place suits a morning date,” she said. Her voice was smooth, decisive.

       He nodded once. She was right. It wasn’t even close to brunch yet, and here they were—beginning a performance that neither of them could afford to mess up. This place, understated and grounded, was a perfect setting for something so fragile and deliberate.

        People passed by outside—some slowing down to snap photos, others recording short videos. Of course. That was expected. Being watched had always been part of their lives. It didn’t faze them. Not anymore.

       Because for people like Lorcan and Seranna, even silence had an audience.

       Lorcan set his cup down quietly, the gentle clink of ceramic the only sound between them for a few seconds. His tone, when he spoke, was neutral, measured. “I assume your visit went as expected.”

       Seranna didn’t look up immediately. She stirred her tea once, twice. Then, in a voice just as calm, she replied, “Not exactly. But it served the purpose.”

       His eyes narrowed slightly. “You told them about us.”

       “I did,” She finally met his gaze. “They were less concerned about us and more concerned about how fast this followed the divorce.”

       Lorcan leaned back slightly in his chair, not relaxed—only calculating. “That was predictable.”

       Seranna nodded. “Yes. But I didn’t go there to seek approval. I went to inform.”

       A waiter approached to refill their drinks, offering them both the kind of polished politeness that came from knowing exactly who they were. Neither Lorcan nor Seranna acknowledged the gesture with anything more than a nod. They were used to service without conversation.

       As the waiter walked away, Lorcan leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the table. “So... what now?”

       Seranna mirrored his movement. She looked around the shop once—registering the flowers on the counter, the couple whispering at the table by the window, the muted hum of early city life—then brought her eyes back to his.

       “We give them a show,” she said. “The kind they won’t forget.”

       “And when the curtains fall?”

       She didn’t blink. “We bow. Then decide if we want to keep pretending... or not.”

       Lorcan could see it—clear as day—the flicker of anger laced with sorrow behind her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything. He hadn’t witnessed the argument with her mother, hadn’t heard a single word exchanged, but the weight of it lingered around her like smoke. Something from that confrontation had cut deeper than she let on. And now, it was bleeding into her silence.

       “You can fool the cameras, the crowd... even yourself,” Lorcan said, voice low, “but not me, Seranna.”

       She stilled, her hand tightening slightly around the teacup. “What are you implying?”

       He didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on hers—steady, unreadable, but piercing. The kind of gaze that stripped down walls without needing to raise a voice.

       “You think you know me?”

       “No. I know what pain looks like when someone’s trying too hard to hide it,” he said simply. A beat of silence. The kind that throbbed between two people who both knew how to bury things.

       “It was just something between me and my mother,” she finally muttered. “Not important.”

       “Then why did it follow you here?”

       Her throat tightened. She hated how easily he saw it—the crack in her armor, the tremble beneath all the poise.

       Suddenly aware of a phone lifted across the café, without breaking eye contact, Lorcan leaned forward slightly. His hand reached across the small table—not rushed, not tentative, but firm with intention. He took her hand, cool and still in his grasp, and raised it slowly.

       Seranna blinked, startled, but didn’t pull away.

       He didn’t kiss it like a prince playing pretend. No, he lowered his lips just enough to let them linger against her knuckles—not for show, not entirely. It was the kind of kiss that made a point: gentle, yet possessive; formal, yet personal.

       Her fingers tensed almost imperceptibly, caught between instinct and confusion.

       “I know you’re breaking inside,” he murmured against her skin, voice quiet enough to get lost beneath the clinking cups and murmuring crowd. “But don’t think for a second I’ll let you face that alone.”

       And then, his lips withdrew.

       Not dramatically. Not romantically. Just enough to let her breathe again—though she wasn’t sure she remembered how to in that moment.

       The cameras kept flashing in the distance. But now, she barely noticed.

       Seranna swallowed hard, blinking once—twice—like she could clear the warmth that had risen unexpectedly in her chest. The air between them felt heavier now, not with discomfort, but with something unnamed. Unsettling. Unfamiliar.

       She pulled her hand back slowly, fingers brushing his as she did—too slow to be accidental, too fast to be deliberate.

       “I didn’t ask for your help,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual blade. It was softer now, and perhaps more telling than she intended.

       Lorcan leaned back in his seat, not offended, not shaken. He took another sip of his coffee, calm as ever. But his eyes—those damn steady eyes—never left her.

       “You didn’t need to.”

       The words landed somewhere in her ribs.

       Seranna looked away. Out the window, toward the sunlight glinting off passing cars, toward anything that wasn’t him. But nothing out there could match the gravity of what just passed between them.

       She hated that he saw through her. Hated it, because a part of her wanted to stay hidden. But another part—one she barely acknowledged—was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending she didn’t feel the exhaustion settle in her bones when no one was looking.

       “I don’t need saving,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

       “I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

       Congratulation to Lorcan for ruining her mood.

       She didn’t say it aloud, of course—but the glare she sent him, sharp and short, did the job.

       He simply sat there, unchanged. Typical Lorcan Millesernan.

       Seranna reached for her lemon tea, needing something—anything—to cool the heat coiling beneath her skin. The ceramic was warm in her hands, but it didn’t help. Her insides still simmered, not with rage, not quite. More like… unrest. The kind that came from being understood too quickly by someone you weren’t ready to let in.

       “Do you always make it your business to show up and complicate people’s lives?” she muttered.

       “Only yours.”

       “Lucky me,” she said under her breath, looking away again.

       For a moment, the café hummed back into existence around them—murmured conversations, steaming cups, the flutter of laughter from a nearby table. But the world felt quieter at their corner. Dimmed. Like the rest of it couldn’t quite reach where they sat.

       Seranna cleared her throat. “So this is our first date, huh?”

       “If you want to call it that.”

       She tilted her head slightly. “What do you call it?”

       He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table. “A chance to learn your tells.”

       “My what?”

       “Your habits. How you lie with your eyes. The way your hands fidget when you’re holding back something you don’t want to say.” He gestured loosely. “All the little things I’ll need to memorize if I’m going to be your boyfriend perfectly.”

       She didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. Her expression remained calm—measured, like someone reviewing the terms of an agreement she had no intention of letting slip from her control.

       “How thorough,” Seranna said, her tone neutral, almost bored. “Memorizing someone for the sake of a convincing act. You sound like someone preparing for litigation.”

       Lorcan didn’t react. “Preparation ensures clarity.”

       “Is that what this is?” she asked. “Clarity?”

       He met her gaze without hesitation. “I know what you let people see. I paid attention to what they don’t.”

       Her fingers tapped once against the porcelain cup. Not nervously—deliberately. “And that makes you qualified to interpret me?”

       “It makes me accurate.”

       She didn’t respond immediately. She studied him, not with softness, but scrutiny. Like she would study a file she hadn’t decided whether to sign or shred.

       “Convincing lies take effort,” she said coolly. “I’m glad you’re putting yours in.”

       “I don’t believe in half-measures,” Lorcan answered. “If we’re going to do this, it won’t look like a pretense.”

       Seranna leaned slightly forward—not emotionally, but as though placing a final piece on a chessboard. “You’re really committed to this performance, Lorcan.”

       His tone didn’t shift. “I don’t view this as performance.”

       A pause. Sharp. Clean.

       Then he added, just loud enough for her alone, “And I never mentioned love.”

       Her jaw didn’t tighten. Her spine didn’t stiffen. But the silence that followed felt sharper than steel. And Seranna, always unreadable, let it stay that way.

       The silence stretched, but not aimlessly. It was the kind of pause that invited calculation, not reflection.

       Seranna didn’t look away. “You’ve made your point,” she said. “But don’t mistake precision for intimacy.”

       “I don’t,” Lorcan said. “Though I imagine the two are often mistaken for each other.”

       A passing waiter placed a plate on the table, briefly breaking the tension like a gust of wind slicing through smoke. Neither of them acknowledged it.

       Seranna reached for her tea again, her grip elegant, her movement without haste. “If you plan to blur lines, be careful which ones. We have terms, and I expect them to remain intact.”

       “So do I,” Lorcan said. “That’s why I watch so closely.”

       She met that again without blinking. “Then watch. Just don’t assume you understand.”

       “I never assume,” he returned.

       For a moment, it felt like the world around them—voices, footsteps, camera shutters—dulled. The coffee shop might as well have been empty. It was just the two of them, two minds moving in circles, testing for cracks in the other’s armor.

       Seranna set her cup down quietly, eyes steady. “This arrangement only works if we stay sharp. I don’t need confusion.”

       “Then let’s not pretend it’s confusing,” Lorcan replied. “We both know what we’re doing.”

       She leaned back once again, unreadable. “For now.” And that—just that—was permission. A warning. A checkmate. Seranna took a deep breath, but no matter what her mood kept getting worse each second.

       It wasn’t Lorcan, not entirely. Not the carefully chosen words or the eyes that watched too closely. It was everything. The conversation with her mother still lingered like smoke on her skin. The memory of harsh words unspoken in public but never forgotten behind closed doors. The familiar ache of being measured—and still found lacking.

       Her fingers curled loosely on her lap beneath the table. Invisible tension, cloaked in stillness. Lorcan watched, as always, but said nothing. Maybe he sensed it. Maybe he didn’t need to.

       “I shouldn’t have come,” she murmured—not to him, not really. The words were addressed to the silence.

       But Lorcan took them anyway. “You did.”

       Seranna tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “That’s your idea of comfort?”

       “It’s not comfort I’m offering.”

      She let out a short breath through her nose, almost a laugh, but too dry to earn the name. “Of course it isn’t.”

         Another pause. Measured. Contained.

       She stood slowly, gathering her purse and gloves with the precision of someone trained not to drop anything—not even her control. “This isn’t the time,” she said. “Not for your observations. Not for this... idea of intimacy.”

       “I didn’t ask for intimacy.”

       “No,” she said coolly, “you asked for access.”

       And with that, she turned toward the exit—heels clicking like punctuation marks on marble—leaving him there in the soft buzz of morning and cooling coffee.

       But as she reached the door, she paused. Just for a breath.

       “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for the next scene.”

***