The Art of Pretending

Collateral

Clara

It was the kind of email you had to read three times before the meaning fully landed.

The first time, I skimmed it — half-asleep, hair still damp, coffee cooling on my nightstand beside a chipped mug I hadn’t washed in three days. The second time, my stomach dropped. The third time, I read it slowly, methodically, because I needed to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Dear Clara,

Following an internal review, your employment contract with the Musée Moderne is hereby terminated, effective immediately, due to a breach of conduct during a private tour. Please return your badge and any issued materials by Friday. Further inquiries can be directed to HR.

Breach of conduct.

I stared at the screen, then scrolled down, searching for an attachment, an explanation, anything. There was nothing. Just those cold, brutal lines — dressed in professional formatting like it wasn’t a hit to the ribs.

The job hadn’t paid much. Barely enough to cover groceries, never mind rent. My parents were still helping with that, wiring money each month with careful encouragement that felt more like guilt. But I loved the work — guiding people through art, standing in front of masterpieces and reminding them they were human.

Now I was being thrown out like I was dangerous. Like I’d done something grossly unprofessional.

Because I’d told the truth?

I pressed my forehead against the refrigerator door, the cool steel grounding me for a second. My uniform from the museum was still hanging over the back of the chair. I hadn’t even had a chance to wash it.

I grabbed my phone and opened my texts, then closed them. There was no one to ask for clarification. No appeal. My manager, who’d gushed about my “instinctive poise” two weeks ago, hadn’t even bothered to call.

I could still hear the words I’d said to Julian Carlyle. Low. Careful. Professional.

“I think your fiancée is on a call with someone she doesn’t want you to know about.”

I didn’t accuse her. I didn’t raise my voice or cause a scene. I just… pointed something out.

And now I was out of a job.

I dropped the phone on the counter, the echo snapping in the quiet.

Rent was due in twelve days. My last paycheck barely scratched the surface. I had forty-seven dollars in my checking account, a half-loaf of bread, and a sinking feeling that I’d just been erased.

It started with a ping.

Then another.

By the third, I knew something was wrong.

Lucie’s text came first.

Ummm babe… you’re in the news???

I blinked at it, then clicked the link she’d sent beneath it.

A grainy photo loaded slowly on my cracked screen. Paparazzi-style, shot from across the street. It showed Julian Carlyle stepping out of the Musée Moderne, all clean lines and cool detachment, with Elaine a few steps behind him — perfect hair, sunglasses, a phone pressed tightly to her ear.

And behind them, near the glass doors, blurred but unmistakable… me.

Caught mid-step. Face visible. Body turned just enough to recognize if you knew where to look. The headline blared in oversized font:

“Carlyle Fiancée Caught in Mystery Call During Private Museum Tour — Who Was the Insider?”

My throat closed.

I didn’t need to scroll far to see the speculation. An anonymous museum employee tipped him off. Someone broke protocol. Security breach during a VIP tour.

No one used my name, but they didn’t need to.

There were only three people on staff during that tour. One of them had been on lunch. The other had stayed behind the desk. That left me — the girl with the clipboard and the bad timing.

My chest tightened as I scrolled further. Elaine’s rep had already issued a statement, of course:

“Ms. Duclair was briefly responding to a family matter during the tour. Any suggestion of impropriety is baseless and offensive.”

I laughed — a hollow, shaky sound that didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

Baseless and offensive. Right.

I sat on the edge of the couch, still wrapped in the hoodie I hadn’t changed out of, trying to calm the buzzing in my head. How had this spiraled so fast? I wasn’t a whistleblower. I hadn’t gone to the press. I hadn’t done anything wrong. But somehow, I was the variable they didn’t like. The easy cut.

Another notification popped up. An email. Subject line: Interview Canceled — Position Closed.

It was a gallery I’d applied to last week. A long shot, but I’d made it to the shortlist.

My hands trembled, something told me this wasn’t the last one that would disappear.

Lucie burst through the door ten minutes later, still wearing her barista apron and smelling like burnt espresso.

“Are you okay?” she said, breathless.

“No,” I said, voice flat. “But thank you for asking.”

She kicked off her sneakers and dropped onto the couch beside me like she was crash-landing. “You’re not even named.”

“They didn’t need to name me.” I gestured to the blurry photo still glowing on my laptop. “That’s me. Anyone with eyes and a LinkedIn account could figure it out.”

Lucie frowned, pulling her long red hair into a topknot. “This is insane. You literally told the truth. Elaine was on the phone. Julian’s the one who freaked out.”

“Julian Carlyle doesn’t freak out,” I muttered. “He surgically removes problems from his day and moves on.”

“Still sounds like a freakout to me.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. I felt sticky and tired and very, very poor. “I got fired. A gallery pulled my interview. And now I’m trending online for being… what, the help who overstepped?”

Lucie was quiet for a beat. Then, softly: “Do your parents know?”

I shook my head. “They’re already paying my rent. I’m not adding this to their list.”

Lucie looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest. “Okay. So. Worst-case scenario — you get blacklisted from every gallery in Manhattan. What’s your plan?”

“Starve attractively.”

“I’m serious, Clara.”

“So am I.”

We sat in silence, the kind that stretched just long enough to make my eyes sting. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to march into the museum and demand someone say the words you were right.

Instead, I reached for my laptop and opened a blank browser tab.

Lucie watched me. “You’re job hunting?”

“I’m not going to let him ruin me,” I said quietly. “Not when I was already this close to falling apart.”

Lucie exhaled. “That’s my girl.”

I spent the next two days submitting applications like it was a full-time job.

Cover letters. CV updates. Personalized intros. I dug through old contacts, messaged every gallery owner I’d interned for, every professor who’d once called me “promising.”

And at first, I thought it was working.

I got two responses within 24 hours. One gallery said they were “impressed by my portfolio.” Another asked to set up a phone interview. It wasn’t exactly a dream job — assisting the assistant of a junior curator — but it was something.

Then the cancellations started.

The first came with an apology. “Due to internal restructuring, the role has been withdrawn.” Fine. It happens.

The second was more clipped. “We’ve chosen to move forward with other candidates.”

I hadn’t even spoken to them yet.

By the third one — a vague two-sentence rejection from someone who’d once told me I had “great instincts” — the unease settled into something colder. More personal.

I sat at the kitchen counter in a cardigan I hadn’t taken off in two days, trying to ignore the bowl of ramen cooling beside my laptop. Lucie had already gone to bed. I hadn’t moved in hours.

My inbox was a graveyard. My name was still circulating on small blogs. A Twitter thread about “entitled employees outing private figures” had gained traction, even though I wasn’t mentioned directly.

But the timing was too neat. The silence from people who used to champion me too complete.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. There weren’t many people who could shut doors that fast. Not unless they had connections. Money. Influence.

Not unless they were Julian f*****g Carlyle.

I’d only spoken to him once. And yet I was starting to feel like I was standing on a chessboard he owned — and I didn’t even know I was playing.

I wasn’t planning to leave the apartment that day.

But Lucie had written OAT MILK OR DIE in Sharpie on the fridge, and after spending the morning rage-decluttering my closet and stress-eating dry cereal, I figured a five-minute walk might qualify as emotional progress.

The grocer was quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I was halfway to the dairy section when I heard it.

“Clara?”

I turned too fast. And there he was.

Ryan.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He hadn’t changed. Still dressed like a discount art professor — navy jumper, carefully tousled hair, smug resting face. The same fake-soft voice he used to use when he’d talk circles around me. The same eyes that used to watch me cry without blinking.

“Wow,” he said, smiling like we’d bumped into each other at a high school reunion and not after months of calculated silence. “Been a while.”

I grabbed the oat milk without breaking eye contact. “Seven months.”

“You look…” His eyes drifted lazily over my face. “Tired.”

I let the silence speak for me.

“I mean—are you okay?” he tried again. “I saw the news. It’s messed up. You don’t deserve that.”

He didn’t move closer, but I felt caged anyway. Like the air between us belonged to him.

“I’m fine,” I said, turning toward the register.

“Clara, come on. You can talk to me. I always told you—”

“That I overreacted. That I was dramatic. That I should be grateful you put up with me?” I said, sharper than I meant to, but not sorry.

His smile faltered for half a second before he rebuilt it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You never did,” I said. “That was the problem.”

He exhaled, slow and theatrical. “Look. I’m just saying, if you need anything… I’m still here.”

That’s what he always said.

I’m still here — like it was a gift. Like staying was noble when it came from someone who made everything hurt.

I gave him a brittle smile. “I know. That’s why I left.”

Then I walked away without looking back, oat milk clutched like a lifeline.

The call came just after three, right as I was dragging myself through yet another application for a job I didn’t want but couldn’t afford to reject.

Unknown number.

I nearly let it go to voicemail. But something — instinct, maybe — made me answer.

“Hello?”

“Clara Giannetti?” The voice was calm, professional. Female. Slight Indian accent. Precise.

“Yes?”

“This is Zara Patel, calling from Langdon Recruitment. You registered with us a few months ago for arts and administration placements?”

That name rang a faint bell. I’d sent my resume to at least four different agencies in the last year. Langdon might’ve been one of them.

“I… yes. I think so.”

“We’ve had a position come up on short notice that may suit your background. Temporary contract. Discretion preferred. Would you be available for a same-day interview?”

I hesitated. “What’s the role?”

“Personal liaison. Cultural and administrative crossover — gallery-adjacent. It’s a private household, but they’ve requested someone with museum experience.”

“And the pay?”

“Standard administrative rate. Nothing glamorous,” she said, almost apologetic. “But the client is respected. It could open doors.”

Standard rate. Translation: barely livable. But that was still more than nothing, and I was currently earning nothing.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Where is it?”

“There’s no need to worry about that — we’ll send a car. The client prefers to keep the location private until candidates are screened in person.”

I blinked. “You want me to get in an unmarked car and just… trust that it’s a real job?”

“I completely understand your hesitation,” Zara said smoothly. “You’ll receive the driver’s license plate in advance, and I’ll remain on the line until you arrive. This isn’t unusual for our VIP placements.”

I didn’t know what made me say yes. Maybe it was her voice — so measured, so certain. Maybe it was the fact that I’d run out of reasons to say no to anything.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

Driver arriving at 7:15 p.m. Please be waiting outside.

The car arrived on the dot — black, glossy, too quiet — with a driver who said my name like it tasted expensive.

I slid into the backseat wearing the most neutral outfit I owned: an oversized cream linen shirt, black slacks, and my scuffed loafers. I looked like someone trying to blend in at a gallery opening without actually belonging there.

Zara called as soon as we pulled off from the curb.

“Clara? Just confirming you're in the vehicle.”

“I am.”

“Excellent. You’ll be there shortly. The client is expecting you.”

I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see that. “Okay.”

“Remember, it’s just an informal discussion. Be yourself.”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “Noted.”

A pause. Then, softer, “You’re doing fine, Clara.”

That made something twist in my chest.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said quickly. “I’ll let you go.”

Zara didn’t argue. “Best of luck.”

I hung up.

Outside, Manhattan flickered past — not the parts I knew. Sleek glass towers gave way to quieter streets, cleaner sidewalks. We were headed uptown. Too far uptown.

My stomach dipped when the car turned onto a quiet street lined with prewar buildings and planted trees. This wasn’t a business district.

We stopped in front of a residential tower with brass accents and a valet podium. No sign. No company name. Just wealth disguised as understatement.

The driver stepped out and opened my door. “Miss Giannetti.”

I took his hand, legs stiff, mouth dry.

Then the front door opened.

And there he was, Julian Carlyle.

No assistant. No clipboard. Just him — standing alone in the lobby like he’d been waiting.

He wore a dark charcoal suit that fit like it had been sewn directly onto his frame. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Tall enough to make the marble foyer feel small. His dark hair was perfectly in place, his expression perfectly blank.

Except for his eyes.

They were pale, watchful, and far too still — like he was already assessing every word I hadn’t said yet.

A man like that didn’t need to speak to hold power. He was the silence.

And somehow, despite the part of me that bristled at his arrogance, the rest of me felt like I’d just stepped off a ledge.

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t sure I’d come for a job at all.