It had been three days since Elio left that list on her table.
Three days since words no longer needed to be said, but still haunted her every breath.
Aurélie carried the paper in her coat pocket now — folded neatly, creased from her fingertips tracing each line over and over again. As if the ink could fade into her skin. As if it could make sense of how real everything had become.
That morning, she woke to an invitation on her phone.
> "Art Gala – Musée d'Orsay, 8 PM. Black tie. You and I, as planned.
– E."
It was one of their final public events together before the contract expired. A few more appearances, a few more polite smiles and photographs. Then… nothing.
Or maybe something.
Aurélie couldn't tell anymore which one she feared more.
---
By 7:50 PM, the Musée d'Orsay sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the scent of old money. The hall was lined with critics, collectors, and people who called themselves patrons of art but rarely created anything of their own.
Aurélie arrived alone, her dress midnight blue — simple, backless, and draped like liquid silk. Her hair swept up, a single strand falling deliberately down the side of her neck.
She felt like a painting herself — curated, intentional, half-real.
But when Elio entered, she lost the ability to breathe.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo with a dark grey tie, his hair slightly tousled, like he had run his fingers through it just before stepping out of the car. And for once, he wasn't performing. His eyes found hers instantly, and the noise of the crowd fell away.
"Bonsoir," he said when he reached her, offering his arm.
"Bonsoir," she replied, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
They walked into the main hall together. Like a couple. Like always. Except nothing felt like always anymore.
---
The gala was a celebration of new artists, but Aurélie didn't look at the paintings. She couldn't. Not when Elio's presence next to her burned hotter than any gallery light.
They made small talk. Smiled for cameras. Toasted with champagne they barely sipped. They were good at this. So good, it frightened her.
"Do you remember the first event we went to together?" Elio asked quietly as they stepped into a quieter corridor.
She nodded. "You stepped on my dress."
"You told me you'd invoice me for emotional damage."
"You never paid."
He laughed. "I was waiting for the interest to build."
Aurélie turned to face him, back to the wall, her glass resting on a narrow marble ledge. "And now?"
He stepped closer. "Now I'm wondering if I should just pay with the truth."
---
Their eyes locked.
But before Elio could say anything else, a voice interrupted them.
"Elio Thorne?"
They turned. A man in his forties, polished and confident, extended a hand.
"I've been trying to reach your team. I'm Arthur Gaudin — owner of the Vienna Modern Arts Institute."
Elio shook his hand. "Ah. I've heard of your work. You're opening the satellite branch in New York, right?"
"Exactly. And we'd like you involved. You've got the face, the reach, and let's be honest—your 'relationship' with Aurélie Durant has made headlines in all the right circles."
Aurélie's expression didn't flinch, but Elio's jaw subtly tensed.
"I appreciate the offer," Elio said.
"We'll talk soon," Arthur said with a smile before disappearing into the crowd.
When he was gone, Aurélie looked up at Elio. "You didn't correct him."
Elio ran a hand through his hair. "Should I have?"
She didn't answer. Not right away.
Then: "I don't know anymore what's part of the contract and what's just… you."
---
Later, they stepped outside for air.
The museum courtyard was empty, lit by amber lights that cast long shadows across the stone. A fountain trickled somewhere nearby, the only sound breaking the stillness.
Aurélie walked ahead, arms folded lightly across her chest. Elio followed.
"You're quiet tonight," he said softly.
"So are you."
"I guess silence is what happens when two people don't know what happens next."
Aurélie turned to face him. "Maybe we're afraid to name it."
"Elio," she continued, voice low, "what happens when this ends? Do we pretend it never mattered? That none of it was real?"
He stepped closer. "What if I don't want it to end?"
She blinked. "You don't?"
He shook his head.
"I've been thinking about this for weeks. About us. About what it means when a fake relationship starts feeling like home."
Aurélie's breath hitched. "Elio…"
"I meant what I wrote, every word," he said. "And I know we started this with rules. With timelines. But somewhere between the obligations and the staged photos, I forgot how to separate what's real from what isn't."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "And now?"
"Now I'm standing in front of someone I never meant to fall for, and I'm terrified it's too late to say it out loud."
---
Aurélie took a step forward, closing the space between them. Her eyes searched his face.
"You didn't say it."
"Say what?"
"The one thing you've been circling around all night."
He smiled faintly. "You mean this?"
He reached out, took her hand, and said it — finally.
"I love you."
It was soft. Uneven. Honest.
She closed her eyes. The words sank deep, warm and terrifying.
"I love you too," she said.
Not as a performance. Not as an echo.
But as the truest thing she'd said in months.
---
The night ended without fanfare.
No kiss. No grand gesture.
Just the understanding that something had shifted.
Not broken. Not finished.
Just changed — into something neither of them fully understood, but both were finally brave enough to name.