Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 17 : Fast

It was a Tuesday, pale sunlight rinsing the glasshouse windows. Paris liked the Botanic Gardens in autumn, when the paths smelled of damp leaves and the benches weren’t yet slick with winter. Raphael walked beside her, telling stories the way he did when he wanted her laughing — his botched attempt at an Ulster fry, his terror during the Friar’s Bush graveyard tour.

For a while, it was easy.

Until his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. The same lilting ringtone.

He silenced it quickly, sliding the phone deep into his coat. “Spam,” he said, too fast.

Minutes later, as Paris bent to tie her shoelace, the screen glowed faintly through the fabric:

Anni ♥️♥️: Greta’s drawing won a prize today! She wants to show Papa.

When she straightened, Raphael was already talking about a new mural in Cathedral Quarter, voice light, eyes too bright. Paris nodded, but the name Greta lodged in her chest like a stone.

The following week they met at the Ulster Museum café.

The building smelled of varnish and wet coats drying on radiators. They sat in the corner with two coffees between them, watching schoolchildren thunder past the dinosaur skeleton.

Raphael reached for the sugar. “We went to museums every winter when Greta was little—” He froze, then covered it clumsily: “When kids are little. Keeps them busy.”

Paris stirred her coffee. “Greta,” she repeated.

His smile flickered, then steadied. “A neighbour’s child. I babysat sometimes. Long ago.”

The lie hung heavy between them. Paris sipped, tasting only bitterness.

She told herself it was nothing — a wrong word, a stray call, a family too present in his pocket. But every time his phone lit, every time a German endearment slipped past his careful English, she felt the shape of the truth pressing closer.

At night she remembered the way he’d looked at her under the bandstand, rain on his lashes, as if she were the first warmth he’d found in years. She wanted that to be real. Wanted it enough that she almost convinced herself it was.

But the pieces kept stacking. Greta. Lukas. Anni with hearts. And each time she caught his eyes darting away, she wondered if she was complicit in building a house she already knew would collapse.

Friday morning, they drove to Stormont Estate. Her car was still at MOT, so Raphael picked her up from her flat.

The air smelled of wet leaves and diesel. “Fresh air before winter clamps down,” he said. She agreed, though her chest still carried the tail end of her flu, her patience thinner than she realised.

He posted again to his i********: story — updating the Malone Care Centre staff who followed him — then they began the climb up the long avenue.

Silence stretched. Twice he tried to start a story, about a patient, about a film he’d half-watched. Both trailed off. His phone buzzed.

Paris didn’t even need to look. She knew the ringtone now. He pressed a hand to his coat pocket as if he could smother it.

“Greta again?” she asked evenly.

He flinched. “Paris—”

“How old is she?”

His lips parted, then closed. His hand curled into a fist.

“Lukas too, isn’t there?” Her voice was quiet, almost kind. “Your children.”

Silence was confirmation.

For a moment, the world was only drizzle and the long white pillars of Stormont in the distance.

“You should have told me,” Paris said.

“I wanted to be different here,” Raphael whispered. “With you. I thought — if I carved out something separate, maybe I’d remember who I am.”

Paris turned to him. “But I wasn’t separate, was I? I was just… borrowed.”

“No.” He reached for her hand. “You were—”

She stepped back. “I was a secret you let yourself enjoy.”

His face crumpled. “My marriage is broken. Anni and I—”

“She sends you hearts. Your children call you Papa. That’s not broken. Maybe imperfect, but still yours.”

He swallowed hard, rain streaking his face in place of tears. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already have.”

Paris turned, walking back down the avenue. Her shoes slapped against wet pavement. Behind her, Raphael didn’t follow. She felt the absence like a weight lifted and a wound opening all at once.

At the Glider stop, Paris pulled her hood tight against the drizzle. The air smelled of wet leaves and diesel, and her scarf was damp against her mouth, muffling the words she kept whispering to herself: “Was I a mistress?”

The question sat like lead in her chest. She hated cheaters. Always had. She’d sworn she’d never be the woman tangled in their lies — not the side piece, not the secret. But Raphael’s silence at Stormont had told her everything she hadn’t wanted to hear. Greta. Lukas. Anni with her hearts. He hadn’t just borrowed time with her — he’d borrowed her.

The buses came and went. One hissed open, releasing commuters with bags of groceries and dripping umbrellas. Paris stayed rooted to the bench, her spine rigid, shame burning hot in her cheeks. A second bus arrived, brakes squealing, then rumbled away without her.

By the time the third pulled up, she couldn’t lift her body from the cold metal seat. She felt brittle, splintered, as if standing would shatter her outright. Commuters filed around her, some offering awkward glances, most pretending not to notice the girl hunched in her hood, shoulders shaking against the rain.

She pulled out her phone with clumsy fingers. Her contacts blurred through wet eyes, but one name stood out, sharp as if engraved: Liam.

She heard his voice in her head, clear as if he were beside her: Call me.

Before she could think better of it, her thumb pressed the name.

—

Across Belfast, Liam sat at the head of a glass-walled boardroom, the table polished like a mirror. Executives murmured about quarterly returns for Arrion Atlantic, their voices steady, but he was restless, his mind elsewhere. His phone vibrated once. He glanced down, uninterested.

Then he saw the name.

Paris.

The world contracted to a single pulse. He snatched the phone, saw the call still ringing, and rose so suddenly his chair skidded back. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” he said, voice sharp. None of the men in suits dared protest as he strode out, the door swinging shut behind him.

By the time he reached the underground garage, his Ferrari was already roaring to life. Red paint gleamed under fluorescents. Tyres squealed against wet concrete. The sound was a snarl, alive and impatient, as he tore into traffic. Streetlights smeared into gold streaks across the windscreen, horns blared, but he barely heard them. His hands were steady on the wheel, his entire body locked on one singular thought: Paris called me.

—

The drizzle thickened as the Ferrari pulled up at the Glider stop, headlights carving through the gray. Commuters scattered back on their heels, eyes wide as the scarlet machine hissed to a halt. The door swung open with practiced impatience.

Liam stepped out, his coat collar flipped against the rain. He didn’t look at the gawking strangers or the buses hissing behind him. His gaze was fixed only on her.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said, voice clipped.

Paris blinked up at him, rain and tears streaking her face. Her voice cracked. “I wasn’t planning to… break down.”

The corner of his mouth shifted — almost soft, almost not. He stepped closer, his cologne cutting through the city’s damp.

“Next time,” Liam said quietly, his eyes locked with hers, “call sooner.” A beat passed, heavy with meaning. “Call me.”

Something inside her crumbled. A sob tore loose, raw and helpless, and her knees buckled before she could stop them. Liam caught her by the elbow, his grip firm, steady, grounding.

For a suspended moment, the world narrowed to just this: his hand on her arm, the Ferrari idling low behind him, rain streaking off his coat, her shame and heartbreak unraveling into the night.

She had called him. And he had come.