Page 49 of The Love Clause

"Fine," I say automatically, the word hollow. "Could you reschedule my afternoon? I'm not feeling well."

She nods, studying me with the quiet assessment of someone who's worked with me long enough to know when something is fundamentally wrong. "Of course."

When she's gone, I sink into my chair, staring at the space where Josie stood. My hands are numb, my chest tight with an emotion I refuse to name. I tell myself it's for the best. That we were always headed for this outcome. That someone like Josie—vibrant, unfiltered, alive—could never truly fit into my carefully controlled existence.

The arguments sound hollow even to my own ears. But I cling to them anyway, because the alternative—acknowledging that I've destroyed something precious out of fear—is too painful to contemplate.

The silence in my office feels absolute. Clean. Controlled.Empty.

NINETEEN

Josie

My new artstudio costs nearly as much as my share of the apartment, but the north-facing windows bathe the space in perfect light that makes even my idle brushstrokes look semi-professional. I've arranged everything with unusual precision—paints organized by color, brushes by size, canvases stacked against the wall like well-behaved children. The space is exactly what I've always dreamed of. Perfect. Pristine. Completely uninspiring. I've been staring at the same blank canvas for three hours, my mind replaying Elliot's voice saying "This was never real" on an endless, torturous loop. For someone who supposedly never experienced anything genuine with me, he delivered that final lie with devastating conviction.

Two weeks since our confrontation in his office. Two weeks of responsible adult behavior—paying off debts, catching up on student loans, putting down deposits on this studio—and I should be ecstatic. Finally, after years of financial tightrope-walking, I have breathing room. Security. The ability to focus onmy art without panicking about rent or dog food or whether the electricity might get shut off mid-project.

Instead, I'm sitting here in paint-splattered overalls, surrounded by more art supplies than I've ever owned at once, completely unable to create anything beyond aggressive scribbles that I immediately trash.

"This was never real."

The memory of his face when he said it—controlled, distant, deliberately cruel—makes me want to throw something. Preferably at his perfectly symmetrical head. I'd gone to his office expecting…what? An explanation? An apology? Some acknowledgment that whatever he'd overheard had been taken out of context?

Instead, I got Lawyer Elliot at his coldest, reducing everything we'd shared to a business transaction completed to mutual satisfaction. As if he hadn't held me through the night. As if he hadn't whispered that I was his, hadn't touched me like I was something precious, hadn't admitted his feelings were real even if he couldn't articulate them properly.

"Liar," I mutter to the empty studio, finally putting down the brush I've been strangling for the past twenty minutes. "Coward."

The problem is, calling him names doesn't help. Neither does buying expensive art supplies or paying off my credit cards or finally having a proper bed frame instead of a mattress on the floor. None of it fills the Elliot-shaped hole that somehow formed in my life after just a few days together.

Which is ridiculous. We barely knew each other. The entire basis of our relationship was fake. I should be laughing about it by now—the bizarre weekend that got me out of debt and gave me some entertaining stories about rich people and their weird retreats.

Instead, I find myself wondering what he's doing. If he's working late at his desk, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed the way it gets when he runs his fingers through it in frustration. If he's thinking about me at all, or if he's successfully compartmentalized our entire relationship into a file labeled "Concluded Business" in that meticulous brain of his.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mandy:

Dinner at 7? Marco's making his famous pasta. We need to celebrate your first week as a proper artist with a studio and everything!

I text back a thumbs up, grateful for the distraction. My roommates have been walking a careful line since everything imploded with Elliot—supportive without being pushy, curious without interrogating. They've also been suspiciously well-behaved, as if worried that adding their usual chaos to my emotional state might cause some kind of explosion.

Packing up my unused supplies, I try to summon enthusiasm for the evening ahead. Marco's pasta is legitimately amazing, and for the first time, I can contribute expensive wine instead of the bargain basement swill we usually drink. Small victories.

The apartment, when I return, is strangely tidy. Marco's actually set the table—our wobbly dining furniture now enhanced with a proper tablecloth and mismatched-but-charming dinnerware I don't recognize.

"Are we expecting the Queen?" I ask, dropping my bag by the door. "Or did someone die and leave us a Martha Stewart inheritance?"

Mandy emerges from the kitchen, her hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook's Ass" in faded letters. "We're celebrating! You're a real artist now, with a studioand everything. No more painting in the bathroom while we yell at you to hurry up."

"I'm pretty sure having a studio doesn't automatically make me a 'real artist,'" I correct her, but I'm smiling despite myself. "Real artists probably produce actual art, not just stare at blank canvases while having existential crises."

"Blank canvas syndrome is totally a real artist thing," Marco calls from the kitchen, where something smells impossibly good. "Very tortured creator. Very on-brand."

"See? You're nailing it." Mandy loops her arm through mine, leading me to our secondhand couch—now adorned with new throw pillows that don't smell like dog. "Now sit. I made cocktails. Actual cocktails with ingredients and everything, not just vodka and whatever juice isn't growing mold."

"Fancy," I observe, accepting a startlingly blue concoction in what appears to be a real glass, not the plastic cups we usually use. "What's the occasion? Because this feels like more than 'Josie has a studio' celebrations."

Mandy and Marco exchange a look that immediately raises my suspicion.

"What?" I demand. "Did you guys win the lottery? Are you moving out? Is one of you pregnant because that would be biologically fascinating in your case, Marco."

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