Terms of the Heart
1101 Words
The rain had cleared by morning, leaving Bath washed clean the cobblestones gleaming, the air sharp with promise. In the quiet of her flat, Dr. Clara Morgan sat at her kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling beside her, the contract spread out in front of her like an accusation.
Her laptop hummed softly. The document’s title read:
PUBLIC RELATIONS AGREEMENT BETWEEN LIAM HART AND DR. CLARA MORGAN
Each line was precise, professional, absurdly cold. Dates. Obligations. Terms of confidentiality. “Appearances together,” “statements approved by management,” and “termination clause: mutual agreement or expiration of campaign.”
She’d read it three times, and still, it felt like fiction a chapter from someone else’s life.
Her pen hovered over the signature line.
One stroke of ink, and she’d step into a lie that could either protect her peace or destroy it entirely.
She sighed, pressing the pen to paper.
Her handwriting curved neatly across the bottom.
Dr. Clara Morgan.
Somewhere in another part of the city, Liam Hart was doing the same.
Later that afternoon, the world felt slightly tilted too bright, too loud as Clara walked into the marble lobby of Everest Media Group.
Every step echoed, her nerves wrapped in calm professionalism.
Liam was already there, dressed in dark blue, leaning against the reception desk with that effortless kind of charm that seemed to bend attention toward him.
When he saw her, he smiled not the public smile, but something softer. Real.
“You came.”
“You made it a legal obligation,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “Still, I wasn’t sure you’d actually go through with it.”
She handed him a folder. “Signed. Dated. Now it’s official.”
Marcus appeared from his office, clapping his hands together. “Fantastic! Now that that’s done, let’s talk about optics.”
“Optics?” Clara repeated, brow raised.
“Yes,” Marcus said, grinning. “Public appearances. A quiet dinner this weekend, maybe a walk by the river. Just a few photographs to make the relationship ‘believable.’”
Liam frowned. “Marcus, let’s not turn this into theatre.”
“It is theatre,” Marcus replied. “Only this time, your co-star’s a doctor, not an actress. The public’s already invested, Liam give them what they want.”
Clara crossed her arms. “And what exactly do they want?”
Marcus’s grin widened. “Love. Or at least, the illusion of it.”
Their first “appearance” came two nights later a charity gala in London, glittering with chandeliers and the hum of polite conversation.
Liam’s hand found Clara’s as they stepped onto the carpet, cameras flashing like tiny storms of light.
She felt the world tilt again, a thousand lenses turned toward them, capturing a story that wasn’t theirs.
He leaned closer, voice low and warm against her ear. “Just smile. We’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t smile for cameras,” she murmured.
“Then smile for me,” he said.
The words shouldn’t have meant anything. But somehow, under the hum of flashbulbs and soft jazz, they did.
Inside, the ballroom was a world of glass and gold. Clara’s gown was simple emerald silk, her hair pinned loosely, her jewelry understated. She didn’t look like she belonged among celebrities and executives, yet somehow she outshone them.
Liam never left her side.
When people approached, he introduced her with quiet pride.
“Dr. Clara Morgan,” he said, his voice steady. “She’s remarkable.”
Each time he said it, she felt something in her chest shift.
Later, as the night thinned and they slipped out through a side exit, the air outside was cool and fragrant with rain.
Clara exhaled. “That was… exhausting.”
“You did well,” Liam said, hands in his pockets. “Better than most people who live for that kind of thing.”
She gave a small smile. “If this is what you do for a living, I’m not sure how you’re still sane.”
“I’m not,” he said lightly. “You might be the only thing keeping me close to it.”
The honesty in his tone caught her off guard. For a moment, she didn’t look away. The streetlights painted him in soft amber, rain catching in his hair like silver.
“Don’t say things like that,” she said quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too good at making lies sound true.”
He smiled faintly. “Then maybe some of them aren’t lies.”
Her pulse stumbled, just for a heartbeat. She turned away. “Goodnight, Mr. Hart.”
“Goodnight, Dr. Morgan.”
The next morning, her phone buzzed before sunrise.
A headline glared across the screen:
“HEARTTHROB HEALED: LIAM HART AND HIS DOCTOR CONFIRM ROMANCE.”
Exclusive photos from last night’s charity gala suggest the rumors are true.
Below it was a picture of them his hand resting gently against her back, their faces turned toward each other mid-laugh.
It looked genuine. Intimate. Beautiful.
And entirely real.
At the hospital, the whispers followed her down every corridor.
Some were curious, others envious. A few judgmental.
Tessa cornered her at the nurses’ desk, grinning. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing him!”
“I’m not,” Clara said, voice calm but weary.
“Could’ve fooled the world,” Tessa said, winking. “You two look like a movie.”
Clara forced a small smile and walked away. But inside, something unsteady had begun to bloom not quite guilt, not quite thrill, just a quiet ache she couldn’t name.
That evening, Liam called.
“Rough day?” he asked.
“Your PR fairytale made me a celebrity,” she said flatly.
“Sorry.”
There was a pause the kind that felt like the edge of something fragile.
“I owe you dinner,” he said finally. “A real one this time. No cameras. No Marcus. Just you and me.”
“Dinner isn’t in the contract.”
“Maybe we can amend it.”
She hesitated. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re curious,” he said softly.
Her silence was answer enough.
Outside, the city glowed like a constellation lights reflected in the Avon, laughter drifting from late cafés. Somewhere in the midst of it, two hearts that had agreed to pretend were beginning to forget how to keep pretending.
The contract had been signed.
The terms were clear.
But feelings, as both would soon learn, were never part of the plan.
- Writer
