The Art of Pretending

Routine

Julian

By the time the city began to stir, I’d already finished six miles on the treadmill and broken a sweat that soaked through my second shirt.

I didn’t work out to stay in shape. I worked out to stay in control.

The gym was private, soundproofed, built into the top floor of my building and lit by early morning sun filtering through double-glazed glass. Everything was minimalist — black rubber, matte grey steel, and the occasional hum of machinery. No music. No distractions.

I hated clutter. I hated excuses more.

After a cold shower and a change into a crisp white button-down and navy slacks, I stepped into the elevator at precisely 7:18. Zara was waiting in the lobby by the time the doors opened.

“Good morning,” she said, falling into step beside me.

Zara had been my executive assistant for five years. She didn’t handle dry cleaning, dinner reservations, or emotional management. She coordinated board meetings across time zones, crushed potential crises before they reached legal, and once negotiated a merger between three firms while sitting in JFK Terminal 4 during a three-hour delay.

She was the best in the city. Possibly the country.

She handed me an iPad with today’s schedule already loaded. “You’ve got breakfast with your mother at eight. Your brother invited himself. Legal wants five minutes before your nine-thirty with the Sotherby Gallery, something about the press clause in the new artist contract. And I moved the foundation meeting to two p.m. so you can attend the Van Der Meer walkthrough at one.”

“Fiancée?” I asked without looking up.

“Confirmed for dinner. Late, but confirmed.”

Of course she was late. Elaine was never on time unless there was a photographer present.

Zara paused. “And a heads up—there’s more noise online. Someone’s claiming the engagement is a front.”

“Do they have evidence?”

“Just conspiracy theories. You know the tone.”

“Then let them talk.”

She nodded once. “Do you want me to prep a statement?”

“No,” I said, stepping into the town car. “Not yet.”

Zara didn’t comment. She rarely did. That’s what made her valuable — her silence was never empty. She closed the door, and the car pulled into traffic.

Henely House was the kind of place that served poached eggs on silver trays and judged you for ordering anything but black coffee. I hated it. My mother loved it.

She sat upright at a table by the window, perfectly still in a white boucle jacket, pearls at her neck, and her expression sharpened to match the cutlery.

“Julian,” she said, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin though she hadn’t taken a bite.

“Mother.” I took the seat opposite. A server poured coffee without asking.

“Oliver’s running late,” she said with a sigh. “As always.”

Of course he was.

I glanced at the untouched croissant on her plate. “You’ve been here long?”

She smiled thinly. “I like to be early. It gives me time to think.”

That was never a good thing.

Before I could ask what she’d been thinking about, Oliver breezed in, sunglasses still on, shirt untucked under a too-expensive blazer. “Apologies, traffic was—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I said, not bothering to look up. “We all know you overslept.”

Oliver grinned as he slumped into the chair beside me. “Only slightly. You know I function better after ten.”

My mother’s lips twitched in mild amusement. “He gets it from his father. Always a dreamer.”

“And Julian gets what?” Oliver asked, reaching for a bread roll. “The ability to suck the joy out of a room before sunrise?”

“He gets discipline,” she said crisply. “Which is why he will be CEO one day, and you will be whatever it is you are this week.”

“Freelance art consultant,” Oliver muttered.

I sipped my coffee. “Which means unemployed.”

“Boys,” she warned, though her tone held more pride than disapproval.

Oliver turned to her, grinning. “So, Mother. You summoned us. What’s the agenda?”

Her eyes flicked to me. “We’re nearing October.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s how calendars work.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You turn thirty in seven months. Your grandfather’s will was very clear—if you are not married by then, the controlling stake in the Carlyle trust passes to the foundation board.”

“Which doesn’t concern me,” I replied. “The trust is just a formality.”

“It concerns me,” she snapped. “And your father’s legacy. I will not see it handed over to bureaucrats.”

Oliver coughed into his coffee. “You mean people with feelings?”

“Elaine is a perfectly suitable choice,” my mother continued, ignoring him. “Poised, respected, from a good family—”

“Boring,” Oliver whispered behind his hand.

I didn’t react. I didn’t need to. My mother’s eyes narrowed at both of us.

“You will marry her,” she said. “And you will do it before April. Or you’ll have more to lose than just a seat on the board.”

The call came just after one. Elaine’s name lit up my phone screen in all caps, the way Zara insisted I keep important contacts stored. I let it ring twice before answering.

“Yes.”

“You’re not in a meeting, are you?” she asked, her voice light, almost bored.

“No.”

“Good.” A pause. “I can’t do breakfast tomorrow.”

Of course she couldn’t.

“I have an early shoot,” she added, as if I needed a reason. “Something for Maison Elène. They’re doing a winter campaign—very exclusive.”

“You already rescheduled twice this week.”

“I’m aware,” she said. No apology. Just awareness.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” I replied.

“Mmm. Whitmore Room at seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

Another pause. I could hear the clink of glass in the background. Voices. Music. She was at an event already.

“Oh,” she said finally. “Wear the navy suit. It photographs well.”

The line went dead before I could respond.

By seven-ten, I was seated at a candlelit table by the window, the Manhattan skyline soft and golden behind me. The Whitmore Room was quiet, elegant, and discreet — a place where people dined to be seen not seeing each other.

Elaine was late. Not fashionably late — pointedly late.

I didn’t bother checking my watch. I ordered a scotch and drank half of it in silence.

Then I saw her.

Not Elaine. Her.

She came out of the side entrance of the little place across the street, shrugging a long camel coat over bare shoulders and tugging it closed against the cold. Her dress was short — black, fitted, barely reaching mid-thigh — and her legs were bare despite the chill, like she’d dressed for someone who hadn’t deserved the effort.

Her hair was long and dark, loose waves spilling past her shoulders, a little too perfect to be accidental but not fussy. There was something distinctly European in her presence — Italian, if I had to guess. Confident without being loud. Beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission.

She moved quickly, irritation tight in her jaw, pausing beneath the streetlamp with one hand already digging through her bag. When she looked up, her eyes caught mine through the glass.

Dark. Direct. Unflinching.

She looked… real.

Not curated, not posed, not apologetic.

She paused at the corner under the yellowish streetlight, pulling her phone from her coat. Then she glanced up — and her eyes met mine through the glass.

Just for a second.

Something jolted in my chest, sudden and unwelcome.

She tilted her head, lips parting as if to speak though she couldn’t possibly. Then she blinked, stepped back, and hailed a cab.

Gone.

Elaine arrived fifteen minutes later, swathed in designer chiffon, glowing from whatever event she’d just left. She air-kissed my cheek and slid into the seat opposite without apology or comment.

“You ordered without me?”

“I ordered a drink.”

“Shame,” she said, scanning the menu. “I’m starving.”

I didn’t respond. I was too busy wondering why I couldn’t stop picturing a stranger’s eyes under a streetlamp.

The last person I expected to see when I stepped into the east wing of the Musée Moderne was the woman in the camel coat.

But there she was.

Hair twisted up this time, lips bare, dressed in the museum’s plain navy uniform and a name tag that read Clara. She stood at the head of the small tour group like she’d been born there — composed, unreadable, utterly professional.

Her eyes met mine for a fraction of a second.

Recognition. Then erasure.

She didn’t acknowledge me. Not verbally. Not physically. But something in the air shifted.

Elaine didn’t notice. She never did.

Clara guided us through the exhibit with smooth, rehearsed commentary, pointing out brushstrokes, timelines, and scandalous artist biographies. Her voice was smooth, lightly accented — Italian, just as I’d suspected. Self-assured. Crisp. Not the kind of woman who shrank in a room like this.

Elaine, on the other hand, didn’t even pretend to engage. She paused once to take a few pictures, then muttered, “I need to step out,” and disappeared down the hallway toward the restroom, phone already pressed to her ear.

The group continued on, but I lingered by a Mondrian reproduction, watching Clara as she hovered by the next plaque. She looked up, just once.

“Apologies if this is out of turn,” she said, her tone low and private. “But I think your fiancée is on a call with someone she doesn’t want you to know about.”

My brow lifted. “Excuse me?”

Clara didn’t flinch. “She didn’t go to the restroom. She went around the corner, second door on the left. I passed it on the way in.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

“I’m pointing out what I heard,” she replied evenly. “A man’s voice. A call that ended quickly when she saw me. You can decide what that means.”

She turned away, already moving to catch up with the others, leaving me rooted to the floor.

Elaine returned five minutes later, smile tight, cheeks glowing faintly like she’d been laughing — or arguing.

I didn’t wait.

“Who were you on the phone with?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just now. While the guide was speaking.”

Her eyes narrowed. “A friend. I told you that.”

“What kind of friend?”

“The kind who doesn’t interrogate me in public.”

I said nothing. But something settled in my chest like a crack in concrete — quiet, ugly, and deepening. Clara didn’t look at me again for the rest of the tour.

The complaint was formal.

I used the museum’s private contact form, copied the curator, and flagged Clara’s conduct as “inappropriate” and “personally intrusive.” I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t need to.

The message was clear: I wanted her gone.

And within twenty-four hours, she was.

Zara confirmed it during our morning briefing, voice clipped and businesslike. “The tour guide has been dismissed. They’ve issued an apology and offered a replacement experience for you and Ms. Elaine, should you wish to return.”

I nodded. “Decline it.”

Zara didn’t ask why. She never did.

But the decision didn’t settle anything. It should have. It always had before. I moved problems aside and kept moving forward.

This time, the problem had eyes I couldn’t stop seeing.

The story broke that night.

Not through Elaine. Not through me.

Some faceless blog ran a blurry paparazzi photo from outside the museum — Elaine stepping out with her phone clutched to her ear, mid-argument. The headline screamed:

"Is Julian Carlyle’s Engagement a Lie?"

Mysterious Museum Call Sparks Cheating

It spread fast. Faster than I expected. Faster than Zara could contain.

Elaine called me twice. I didn’t answer.

I sat in the dark of my apartment with the article pulled up on my phone, staring at the photo.

Not of Elaine.

Of Clara.

Caught in the background, just behind the glass doors. Half-turned, in motion. A blur of long dark hair and poised, perfect posture. The only one looking straight at the camera.

Like she knew.