Read Chapter 4: First Public Date

The restaurant was called Glasshouse, and it was exactly the kind of place Theo Ashford’s team would pick: floor-to-ceiling windows, strategically soft lighting, and a menu priced to discourage lingering. Elise had been seated for exactly four minutes before she understood the geometry of it. Every table was a stage. Every glance through the glass was a potential headline.

She smoothed the napkin across her lap and took a measured breath. *You’ve done this before. You’ve done harder.* But the voice in her head sounded like Vivienne, and Vivienne wasn’t here. Vivienne was in Paris, fielding calls from the producers of *La Mer Blanche*, who were—at this very moment, in some sleek office across the Channel—meeting with her replacement.

Theo arrived at 7:58, two minutes early, wearing a navy blazer that fit him like it had been tailored by someone who knew exactly how his shoulders would photograph. He smiled as he approached the table—a warm, open smile that didn’t reach his eyes in any way that mattered—and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“You look lovely,” he said, loud enough for the couple at the next table to hear.

“You look like you rehearsed that,” Elise murmured against his jaw.

His smile flickered, just for a second, before he settled into the chair across from her. “We’re on, Elise. Cameras are already outside.”

She didn’t turn to look. She knew. She could feel the weight of lenses pressing against the glass like insects drawn to light. “I counted six when I arrived,” she said, reaching for her water glass. “Two more joined while you were being photographed on the pavement.”

Theo’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re counting?”

“I’m assessing the audience.” She took a sip. “Aren’t you?”

His laugh was genuine enough that she almost believed it. “You’re more cynical than your press suggests.”

“My press is written by people who’ve never met me. I’d rather they didn’t start now.”

The waiter arrived with champagne—no doubt pre-ordered by Theo’s team—and Elise watched him perform the ritual of the tasting pour with practiced ease. He nodded, the waiter filled both glasses, and for a moment, the scene was exactly what it was supposed to be: two beautiful people, a summer evening, the promise of something new.

“You’re good at this,” Theo said, lifting his glass. “I’ll give you that.”

“At what?”

“Making it look effortless. Most people try too hard. They laugh too loudly, touch too much. You just… sit there, looking slightly bored, and it reads as mysterious.”

Elise’s fingers tightened around her glass. “I’m not *trying* to look bored.”

“I know. That’s what makes it work.”

She set the glass down. “Is that a compliment or a critique?”

“Neither.” He took a sip of champagne, watching her over the rim. “It’s an observation. You’re very good at being watched. It’s a skill. I have it too, but I have to work at it. Yours looks natural.”

Elise wanted to tell him that there was nothing natural about it—that she’d spent fifteen years learning how to hold her face in public so that no one could see the machinery behind it. That the bored expression was armor, not affectation. But she didn’t. She just said, “Thank you,” and let the silence stretch.

Theo did what actors do best: he filled the space. He told a story about a disastrous audition he’d had in his early twenties, where he’d been asked to cry on cue and had instead sneezed so violently that he’d headbutted the casting director. Elise laughed—actually laughed, surprised by the self-deprecation—and the couple at the next table turned to look.

“That’s the one,” Theo said quietly, leaning in. “Keep that energy. The photographers out front are waiting for a moment like that.”

Elise’s laugh died in her throat. “You planned that.”

“I planned the story. The sneeze was real.” He shrugged. “But yes, I knew it would get a reaction. And now we have a headline: ‘Theo makes Elise laugh for the first time.’ It’s a good angle.”

“I’m not a prop in your publicity machine, Theo.”

“No.” His voice was even, but something behind his eyes sharpened. “You’re a partner. And partners make each other look good. That’s what we agreed to, isn’t it?”

Before she could answer, their main courses arrived. Elise watched him charm the waiter, ask about the wine pairing, pretend to care about the provenance of the lamb. She ate her fish in small, measured bites, aware of every movement she made. The photographers outside had started to shift, their lenses hunting for a new angle.

It happened between courses.

The dessert menu came, and Elise—tired, hungry, and increasingly aware that she hadn’t slept properly in three days—let her face relax. For exactly four seconds, she stopped performing. She stared at the menu without reading it, her expression settling into something blank and distant, a thousand miles from the candlelit romance Theo’s team had choreographed.

The flash outside was unmistakable. Followed by another. And another.

Theo’s jaw tightened. “Elise.”

She looked up. “What?”

“You looked bored.”

“I *am* bored. This is exhausting, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because—”

He laughed.

It was sudden, loud, and completely incongruous with the tension at the table. His head tipped back, his shoulders shook, and for a moment, he looked like a man who had just heard the funniest joke of his life. The photographers went wild. Through the glass, she could see them scrambling, capturing the moment from every angle.

“What are you doing?” Elise hissed.

“Giving them a better shot.” He was still smiling, but his eyes were hard as flint. “You looked like you were calculating your escape. Now you look like you’re sharing an intimate joke with your new boyfriend. That’s the narrative. Get on board or get left behind.”

The waiter returned, and Theo ordered dessert—something elaborate and chocolate-heavy—with the ease of a man who had never once doubted his place in the world. Elise let him. She was too angry to speak, her teeth pressed together so hard that her jaw ached.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of meaningless conversation. Theo talked about his upcoming film—a period drama nobody was excited about—and Elise nodded at appropriate intervals, her mind churning. He’d done it again. He’d taken control of the moment, rewritten her expression, turned her boredom into something warm and intimate and *false*.

The check came. Theo paid without looking at the total. They stood, and he placed a hand on the small of her back as they walked toward the exit. The pressure of his palm was light, but it felt like a brand.

The photographers were waiting outside. Theo guided her through them with practiced ease, pausing just long enough for a few more shots, smiling down at her like she was the only person in the world. Elise smiled back. She had no choice. The cameras were watching, and tomorrow, these images would be everywhere.

The car door closed behind her, and the silence inside was a relief. Theo slid in beside her, and the driver pulled away from the curb. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“You could have warned me,” Elise said finally.

“About what?”

“About the laugh. About the plan. About any of it.” She turned to face him, and in the dim light of the car, she saw something she hadn’t expected: a flicker of uncertainty. “We agreed on terms. I have creative control over the narrative. That was our deal.”

“And I agreed to a month of following your lead,” Theo said, his voice low. “But you’re not leading, Elise. You’re retreating. And I can’t save a campaign where my partner looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I looked bored for four seconds.”

“Four seconds is all it takes. That’s what this industry is—seconds. Moments. The gap between one expression and another. I gave you a moment that worked. You can hate me for it, or you can thank me, but you can’t pretend it didn’t just save the story.”

Elise stared at him. In the flickering streetlights, his face was all sharp angles and shadows. She thought about the earring she’d lost in Simon’s office—small, silver, one of a pair her mother had given her before the cancer took her. She’d realized it was missing that night, and she hadn’t slept. She’d told herself it was the stress, but it wasn’t. It was the thought of her mother’s hands fastening that clasp, the way she’d said, *“Pour les jours où tu as besoin de te rappeler qui tu es.”* For the days you need to remember who you are.

She hadn’t felt like herself in weeks.

“Take me home,” she said.

Theo didn’t argue. He gave the driver Elise’s address, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. When the car pulled up outside her flat, Elise reached for the door handle.

“Elise.”

She paused.

“It will get easier.” His voice was softer now, almost human. “And it will get harder. But the publicity is already working. I checked my phone. We’re trending.”

She didn’t respond. She stepped out of the car, walked to her door, and didn’t look back.