The flight had landed at dawn, but Zurich didn’t seem to care. The city moved with its quiet precision—trams gliding through fog, pedestrians unbothered by jet lag, and Evan Reid trying to remember how to look like someone who belonged in an international delegation.

He and Clara stepped out of the taxi in front of the glass-and-stone façade of the Voss International European headquarters. She didn’t wait for the driver to unload the bags; her stride was already calculated, the kind that said *I built this, or I’m about to buy it*. Evan followed, clutching the presentation folder that had felt lighter yesterday and heavier with every kilometer of flight.

Inside, the lobby smelled of coffee and ambition. The receptionist greeted Clara in German; Clara responded fluently. Evan tried not to look impressed—but he was. She turned to him only once, saying, “We have three hours until the prep session. Use one of them to pretend you’ve slept.”

“I’ll need two,” he said, yawning. “One to pretend, one to regret.”

Her mouth twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

The hotel was a five-minute walk from the office, which, in Clara’s world, counted as generosity. Evan unpacked, showered, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like someone playing at competence—shirt crisp, tie straight, but eyes betraying curiosity he couldn’t repress. Zurich was supposed to be about business expansion, but it already felt like something more intimate—like the city was watching him learn his own boundaries.

When he arrived at the conference floor, Clara was standing by the window, backlit by pale winter light. Her jacket was off; her hair, less immaculate than usual. She didn’t turn when he entered.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re earlier.”

She half-smiled at the reflection of him in the glass. “I didn’t trust the sunrise to get it right.”

Evan walked to the table, spreading the notes. “You think it’ll mess up the lighting for your presentation?”

“For ours,” she corrected. The word lingered between them longer than she meant it to.

The prep session began with Mira’s video call. Her face appeared sharp and efficient on the big screen. “Zurich board’s expecting the new pitch deck by tonight. Evan, you’re presenting section three—‘Human Connection as Market Logic.’”

“Catchy,” Evan said. “Very punk rock.”

Mira ignored the comment. “Clara, they’ll probe the internal restructuring leaks. Be ready.”

Clara’s posture stiffened. “They can probe all they want. The numbers will speak.”

“They will,” Mira said, eyes sliding toward Evan. “But people don’t. That’s where he helps.”

When the call ended, Clara let out a breath. “She enjoys implying I need translation.”

“You do,” Evan said lightly. “Just not for language.”

Her gaze cut to him—sharp, assessing. “You’re in a dangerous mood.”

“Jet lag,” he said. “Or honesty.”

They rehearsed until the daylight dimmed into a steel-blue dusk. Clara’s precision was relentless, but there was something off in her rhythm—hesitations she tried to mask as focus. At one point, she paused over a slide showing the campaign motto *Truth = Respect*.  

Her voice softened. “They’ll call it naïve.”

“They already do,” Evan replied. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”

She turned, studying him like she was trying to decide whether that was courage or stupidity. “You don’t know what it costs to defend an idea like that.”

He smiled faintly. “You keep saying that like you’re the only one paying.”

Something flickered in her eyes—acknowledgment, maybe, or warning. Then she picked up the remote again. “Next slide.”

Later, at the hotel bar, Evan ordered mineral water and realized how absurdly adult that sounded. The place was empty except for a few exhausted travelers and the faint jazz from the speakers. He thought about texting Lena a joke about corporate purgatory but stopped. The silence of the city felt different—clean, watchful, expectant.

He looked up when Clara appeared. She wasn’t in business armor anymore—dark sweater, hair loosely tied. Still precise, but human.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

“Couldn’t stop rehearsing,” she said, sitting beside him. “In my head.”

“I thought you didn’t make mistakes.”

“I don’t,” she said automatically, then smiled at her own lie. “At least not on stage.”

There was a pause. Evan wanted to fill it with something witty but couldn’t. Zurich’s quiet made every word feel expensive.

She finally spoke. “You don’t have to stay after tomorrow. If the presentation lands, you’ve done enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For me to stop needing you.”

He looked at her, unsure if she realized what she’d said—or how much truth was hiding in it. “You sure that’s what you want?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Wanting isn’t efficient.”

“Neither is sleeping,” he said. “Still helps.”

For a second, Clara looked like she might laugh—or confess—but instead, she raised her glass, the ice clinking like punctuation. “To efficiency, then.”

Evan clinked his glass lightly against hers. “And to pretending we’re fine.”

They drank to both. The night pressed gently against the windows, and Zurich—calm, old, indifferent—kept its secrets for now.