IN BLOOM

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leah's POV

I stared at the contract on my desk as if it might rise up and mock me.

The ink was dry. My signature curved neatly at the bottom of the page.

Official. Binding. Permanent.

And yet, everything about it felt unreal.

I had agreed to a marriage that wasn’t truly a marriage. A paper union. A performance. Something that looked whole from the outside but was hollow at the center. The sensible part of me repeated the reasons—security, stability, a future where I wouldn’t be left alone at the altar again. But my heart? My heart twisted in rebellion, whispering that this wasn’t enough.

Daniel didn’t see it the way I did. For him, it was a strategy, an arrangement with clear terms and boundaries. No love, no messy feelings, just a partnership that benefited us both. He hadn’t promised more, and I hadn’t asked for it.

Not aloud, anyway.

But I could feel the craving growing inside me. Not for love—not yet—but for something more than this endless pretense. If this marriage was to be fake, then at least I wanted the fake to have substance. Memories. Experiences. Moments that would mean something, even if he never admitted it.

Because what was the point of being someone’s wife, even on paper, if I never got to live like it?

I pressed my phone between my palms, debating. The idea had been gnawing at me since last night. Ask him to go out. Do something normal. Show the world you’re not just strangers bound by ink. But the thought of actually reaching out made my chest tight.

Daniel wasn’t the kind of man who strolled through life casually. Every move he made was deliberate, measured. Would he even entertain the idea of something as frivolous as a night out? Would he think I was childish for asking?

I bit my lip. I had agreed to this arrangement, yes. But hadn’t I also told him I didn’t want it to feel like a lie? That I wanted something real—even if the definition of “real” between us was shaky at best?

Gathering every ounce of courage, I opened our message thread and typed:

Leah: Would you like to go out with me tomorrow? Just… dinner. As a couple.

My finger hovered over the send button. I almost deleted it. But instead, I pressed send and immediately regretted it, tossing my phone onto the couch like it had burned me.

Seconds stretched. My heart pounded.

Finally, the screen lit up.

Daniel: Dinner? You mean, in public?

Leah: Yes. That’s how dinners usually work.

A pause.

Daniel: You want to play “pretend” outside, too?

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might stick. Typical Daniel. Always clinical, always cautious.

Leah: Isn’t that the whole point of this marriage? To look the part?

Another pause. Longer this time. Then—

Daniel: Fine. Tomorrow at 7. I’ll pick you up.

I exhaled so loudly I startled myself. Relief and nerves tangled in my stomach, refusing to sort themselves out.

Tomorrow. I was actually going on a “fake” date with my “fake” husband.

So why did it feel so terrifyingly real?

---

The next evening, I stood in front of my closet like a soldier before battle.

“What does one wear for an outing that isn’t a date but also kind of is?” I muttered.

I tried on three dresses, discarded two. The third was a soft blush pink with a flowy skirt—not overly romantic, but not stiff either. It felt like me. After some hesitation, I added delicate earrings shaped like tiny blossoms. Something about wearing flowers, my comfort, steadied me.

When Daniel arrived, punctual as always, he didn’t comment on my appearance. His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, but then he simply said, “Ready?” in that clipped tone of his.

We drove in silence, his expensive car humming beneath us. I watched the city lights blur past, fingers clasped in my lap, until finally I blurted, “You could at least pretend to be excited.”

That earned me the faintest twitch of his lips. “You wanted dinner, Leah. I agreed. Excitement wasn’t part of the contract.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he countered smoothly.

But his voice held the slightest trace of amusement, and that alone gave me courage.

---

The restaurant he chose was the kind of place that intimidated me—glass walls, soft golden lighting, tables set far apart for privacy. The kind of place where couples in elegant clothes murmured across wine glasses.

As we sat, the weight of eyes followed us. A powerful man and his fiancée. A pair that looked flawless, enviable. And wasn’t that the point?

Still, the silence between us itched. I stirred my water glass and finally said, “You do realize people expect us to act like we enjoy each other’s company, right?”

His gaze lifted, cool and assessing. “And you think I don’t?”

“Do you?” I shot back, half-teasing, half-serious.

Something flickered in his eyes before he leaned back. “Convince me.”

That startled a laugh out of me, unexpected and bright. “Convince you? Fine. But only if you try, too.”

And somehow, the ice cracked.

I told him about the florist who once ordered fifty roses, only to call back five minutes later demanding lilies instead because her boyfriend’s ex hated lilies. Daniel actually chuckled at that, the sound deep and low, catching me off guard.

He told me about a disastrous business dinner where a competitor’s dog escaped into the restaurant and stole someone’s steak. I laughed so hard people turned to stare, and for once, I didn’t care.

For a while, it stopped feeling like an act. For a while, it felt… human.

---

After dinner, I thought he’d drive me straight home. But instead, he parked outside a small café and said, “Dessert?”

I blinked at him. “Dessert?”

“You said we should look like a normal couple.” His lips quirked. “Normal couples get dessert.”

My heart squeezed. He didn’t have to do this. But he had.

So we went inside, ordered coffee and cake, and sat by the window. Outside, a flower vendor was packing up for the night, tucking away leftover blooms. My eyes softened at the sight. Flowers always tugged at me, reminders of both beginnings and endings.

Daniel followed my gaze. “You’re thinking about work again.”

I shook my head. “I’m thinking… sometimes pretending feels too close to real.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and humming.

Daniel’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes lingered on me, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something. But then he simply finished his coffee, as if my words had slid right past him.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d heard them.

---

He drove me home, as reserved as ever, but the air between us wasn’t the same. Warmer, somehow. Less brittle.

When I stepped out of the car, he said quietly, “Goodnight, Leah.”

Not perfunctory. Not cold. Just simple. But the gentleness in it struck me harder than I wanted to admit.

Inside my apartment, I leaned against the door and let out a shaky breath.

This marriage was fake. A contract. An arrangement. I knew that. I had signed for it with clear eyes.

And yet, as I replayed his rare laugh, the glimmer in his eyes, the unexpected café stop, I couldn’t stop the thought that bloomed in my chest:

If this is pretending, then let me have these moments. Let me collect them, one by one, until they mean something—at least to me.

I closed my eyes, whispered into the empty room, “Just one real memory at a time.”

And for the first time since signing the contract, hope didn’t feel like betrayal.