Page 26 of The Authenticity Clause
The hope was a dizzying, effervescent thing, bubbling up in his chest and making it hard to breathe. And right behind it was the guilt, a cold, heavy anchor. Because the one thing Julian was investigating, the man he was starting to see, was a fiction. A carefully constructed character named Leo Hayes, Creative Concept Lead. Not Leo Hayes, broke artist and professional imposter.
He was so lost in his internal hurricane of hope and dread that he didn't notice Julian approaching his desk at the end of the day until he was already standing there. Leo looked up, his heart executing a perfect triple axel in his chest.
"Hayes," Julian said, his voice low and formal, though his eyes held a different, softer light. "My office, please."
Oh god, this is it,Leo thought, his blood turning to ice.He's found out. The Scrimshaw Institute sent him an email. They don't exist. It's over.
He followed Julian into the glass-walled office, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. He sat in the chair opposite the imposing desk, bracing himself for the inevitable. Julian sat down, folded his hands neatly on the desk, and looked at him. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
"I find myself in an unprecedented situation," Julian began, his voice a calm, even timber. "One for which my usual protocols are inadequate."
"Join the club," Leo muttered under his breath.
Julian's lips twitched. "My professional judgment dictates that I should apologize for my behavior on Friday and ensure it does not happen again. My personal… data, however, suggests a different course of action."
"Data?" Leo squeaked.
"The evidence suggests that the event was not an anomaly but the logical result of a developing interpersonal dynamic," Julian continued, as if discussing a market trend. "Therefore, to ignore it would be an inefficient use of emotional resources."
Leo stared at him, completely bewildered. "Are you… are you analyzing our kiss like a spreadsheet?"
"I am attempting to apply a logical framework to an illogical event," Julian corrected, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "The conclusion I have reached is this: I would like to continue the experiment. Outside of the office."
It took Leo's brain a solid ten seconds to parse that. "The experiment?"
Julian let out a small, frustrated sigh, the first crack in his composed facade. "I am asking you on a date, Leo."
The world tilted. Julian Thorne was asking him out. Not as a boss, but as a man. The hope that had been bubbling in Leo’s chest exploded, a supernova of pure, unadulterated joy. He couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face.
"Oh," he said, the single word filled with a universe of relief and exhilaration. "Yeah. Yes. Definitely. I would love to continue the experiment."
"Good," Julian said, a look of profound relief washing over his own features. "I've made a reservation. Friday night. Eight o'clock. At Cordelette."
And just like that, the supernova of joy collapsed into a tiny, dense black hole of dread. Cordelette. Leo knew of Cordelette. It was the kind of restaurant that had its own font. It was a place where the waiters spoke in hushed whispers and the food was arranged with tweezers. It was a place where a single entrée cost more than his weekly grocery budget. It was, in short, the most Julian Thorne place on the planet, and the absolute last place Leo Hayes would ever feel comfortable.
"Great," Leo said, his smile feeling brittle. "Can't wait."
On Friday night, Leo stood in front of his closet, experiencing a level of wardrobe-related panic usually reserved for spies on undercover missions. What did one wear to Cordelette?His usual uniform of band t-shirts and worn jeans felt like a declaration of war against fine dining. After an agonizing twenty minutes, he settled on a pair of black jeans—his least faded pair—and a dark blue button-down shirt that he'd ironed twice. He still felt like a child playing dress-up.
When he arrived at the restaurant, his fears were immediately confirmed. The interior was a study in hushed, expensive minimalism. The lighting was so dim he was worried he might trip over a piece of avant-garde furniture. The air was thick with the scent of money and intimidatingly subtle perfume.
Julian was already there, sitting at a secluded table in the corner. He stood as Leo approached, and Leo's breath caught in his throat. In a crisp, dark suit with a simple white shirt, no tie, Julian looked less like a boss and more like a movie star. He was devastating.
"Leo," Julian said, a genuine, small smile on his face. "You look nice."
"You look like you own the place," Leo replied, the words tumbling out. "Or at least, like you could afford to buy it and shut it down out of sheer boredom."
Julian's smile widened. "Let's eat first. Then I'll consider it."
The date, however, went downhill from there. The waiter spoke exclusively in French. The menu was a single, cryptic page with no prices and descriptions like "A Deconstruction of the Forest Floor." Leo, trying to appear sophisticated, ordered something that turned out to be a single, lonely scallop sitting in a puddle of foam. Julian, in his natural habitat, navigated the experience with effortless grace.
The conversation was stilted, formal. The easy banter they had discovered in the car felt a million miles away. Here, underthe weight of the restaurant's oppressive silence, they reverted to their roles: the polished, successful boss and the out-of-his-depth, fraudulent employee. Every time Julian asked him a question about his past work, Leo felt a jolt of panic, forcing him to weave another thread into the tapestry of his lies.
The final straw came when Julian, in a genuine attempt at connection, said, "I value honesty above all else. In work, in life. It's the most efficient foundation for any relationship. It's why I appreciate your directness, even when it's… chaotic."
The words landed like a physical blow. Leo felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at Julian, at this brilliant, honest, ridiculously handsome man who was trying to build a foundation with him, and the weight of his deception was a crushing, suffocating thing.
He had to get out.
