Page 32 of Pretend You Love Me

“I don’t want to go,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But I also don’t want to give Diane any ammunition.”

“Does Daniel suspect anything?” he asks finally.

“No,” I say with absolute certainty. “He has no idea.”

“Good,” Adrian says, his voice measured. “That’s good. How are you feeling about maintaining normal appearances for another two weeks? Is that something you think you can handle?”

“I can do it,” I say. “Two more weeks. I can do two more weeks.”

From somewhere in the background, Luca makes a small sound. “You know,” he says, his voice deliberately casual, “there’s also the option of not doing it. Of saying ‘actually, I can’t make it’ and letting Diane deal with her own feelings about that.”

“It’s not that simple,” I start, but Adrian cuts me off with the gentleness that makes his courtroom objections so effective.

“It could be,” he says. “Not without consequences, obviously. But ‘I can’t handle it right now’ is a complete sentence. You don’t have to explain beyond that if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” I say finally after taking a second to gather my thoughts. “I want to go to this lunch and sit across from Diane Quinn and drink wine that tastes like punishment and answer questions about whether I’m ‘working’ and then I want to come home and never, ever have to do it again.”

Adrian says, his voice matter of fact: “Then that’s what you’ll do. Attending is probably the strategically smarter move unless you genuinely cannot handle it.”

“Two more weeks,” Luca says, his voice suddenly serious. “That’s nothing. That’s less time than it takes to grow a decent beard. That’s…“

He’s interrupted by a notification sliding across my screen, Clara’s name appearing next to a single line of text: “Forensic accountant is almost done, he hit a snag when he found an unexpected account but we are nearly at the finish line, should take about two more weeks as he has to be granted special accesses.”

I read it twice, feeling conflicted. The family gathering is in two weeks. Clara’s timeline is two weeks. Everything is converging into the same point on the calendar like a series of slow-moving trains on the same track.

“Clara just texted,” I say, already doing the mental arithmetic. “Two more weeks puts me in a stronger position legally, the forensic accountant should be done by then.”

“That’s good,” Adrian says, his voice calm. “That’s very good.”

“It is,” I agree, but there’s something in my voice, a particular quality of uncertainty, that makes Luca pause.

“What is it?” he asks, the question direct in the way only he can manage.

“I just...” I start, then stop, suddenly unsure how to articulate the hollow feeling in my chest. “What if two more weeks is actually too long? What if I can’t maintain this for fourteen more days? What if…“

“What if you’re stronger than you think?” Luca interrupts, his voice gentle. “What if you’ve already survived the worst part, finding out, and everything after is just a part of moving forward? What if two weeks from now, you’re sitting in Clara’s office with all the evidence you need and the absolute certainty that you’re doing the right thing for yourself and those tiny humans?”

The question hangs between us.

“Also,” Luca continues, his voice shifting to the tone he uses when he’s about to say something ridiculous but sincere, “if Diane makes one comment about your weight, I’m going to set her tablecloth on fire.”

I laugh despite myself.

“We should go,” Adrian says, his voice warm. “It’s late, and you have tiny dictators who don’t care what time their mother went to bed. But we’re here, Elsie. For whatever you need. Whenever you need it.”

“Thanks,” I say, the word inadequate for what I’m trying to express.

“Don’t mention it,” Luca says. “Just doing my job as your emotional support human/dramatic best friend/occasional arson consultant.”

They say goodnight, Luca with his usual flair, Adrian with quiet warmth, and then they’re gone, the line going quiet with a soft click. I sit on the edge of the sofa with the phone in my hand, Clara’s message still open on the screen, and stare at the wall without seeing it.

I can do this. It’s just two more weeks, what could go wrong?

Eleven

I’m on my third coffee of the morning and hitting that perfect sweet spot of functioning exhaustion, the state where my hands can make change while my brain catalogues everything that’s happened in the last seventeen hours. Clara’s email sits in my locked notes app, read so many times I could recite it like a prayer if anyone ever asked: Documentation thorough. Evidence strong. Divorce petition prepared. Custody arrangements outlined. Proceed when ready. I haven’t told anyone about it yet, not Luca, not Liv, not even Harper, but the knowledge sits behind my ribs like a second heartbeat, real and entirely my own.

“You look,” Luca says, sliding a cappuccino across the counter, “like someone who just discovered the entire concept of sleep is a government conspiracy.”