Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 134: Meet The Intern [II]

The private elevator chimed open, the sleek walls reflecting the polished image of Adrien Walton and Clara Langford standing beside me like some curated power exhibit.

Clara was already mid-sentence, her voice like perfectly poured wine. "I’m hoping to shadow different departments, of course. But I’d really love to see the way you handle executive negotiations. It’s something I’ve always admired."

"I’ll send you a schedule," Adrien replied, voice clipped but not unkind. "Your primary role will be observation. If I need anything more, I’ll say so."

"Of course," she said sweetly, eyes upturned. "I’ll try to stay invisible."

I glanced at her. That was... rich.

Adrien’s phone buzzed once. He checked it, tapped the screen, then glanced down at me briefly. The moment was small, but there. His fingers brushed against mine—on purpose.

Then my phone vibrated.

I glanced down, already suspecting who it was.

Aria:

"So... that Cameron dude and I agreed to tell everyone we had fun. Fake-dating alliance activated I guess. I’m calling it: Mission Chaotic Grace."

"PS. You still owe me for leaving me alone and going with your man. You’re buying lunch."

I snorted. A small, sharp laugh escaped before I could help it.

Both Adrien and Clara turned to look at me.

I cleared my throat and quickly tucked my phone away. "Sorry. Something... caught in my throat."

Adrien arched one brow. Clara smiled, just a little too curious.

The elevator dinged.

"Let’s go," Adrien said, stepping out first.

We walked the quiet corridor together, heels and footsteps echoing against the polished floors. Adrien’s pace was brisk, precise. I followed beside Clara, who somehow managed to look like she belonged here already.

He stopped outside the executive suite, turned to her, and said, "You’ll be working here."

Clara looked around, nose slightly upturned. "Of course. Where exactly?"

He looked to me. "Miss Miller, she’ll be sharing your desk."

I blinked. Sharing?

Clara’s eyes sparkled with a smile that didn’t reach her cheeks.

I blinked. "What?"

"She’s your handler. She already knows how things work. You’ll be sitting beside her for now." He said to clara

Clara gave me a smile. "I’ll try not to invade your personal space."

"Sure," I muttered.

Adrien’s gaze flicked over me—quickly, unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned away, striding into his office with the casual gravity of someone who could shut down a continent by noon.

Click.

The door closed behind him.

Clara and I stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the floor and distant printer the only sound.

Then, slowly, she walked around the shared desk—the one I’d carefully curated to fit my life—and sat on the other end like she was claiming a throne. Since when has there been a second chair?

She opened a drawer. Frowned. Took out a tissue.

And began wiping the surface of the desk.

Over and over. Small, practiced swipes.

The swiping stopped. Clara placed the used tissue delicately into the wastebasket as if it were a fragile artifact.

Then, from a ridiculously expensive-looking leather satchel, she produced her arsenal. First, a pristine, ice-white laptop that made my company-issued machine look like a relic. Second, a matching set of stationery in a sleek acrylic holder.

A single, elegant pen—Montblanc, I guessed—was placed beside it with geometric precision.

Lastly, she pulled out a small, minimalist pot containing a single, perfect white orchid.

She positioned it directly on the dividing line of our shared space, its delicate petals seeming to mock the chipped rim of my favorite office flower friend.

"There," she sighed, a sound of pure satisfaction. "A little order helps the mind, don’t you think?"

She glanced at my side of the desk, her gaze lingering on a framed, goofy photo of Aria and me at a street festival, covered in powdered sugar. "How... personal."

Well. Looks like we’re going to be desk buddies... yay

****

I was adjusting my monitor when she appeared beside me—like some poised shadow in soft heels and designer perfume.

Clara Langford.

She smiled, polished and elegant, holding two coffee cups like we were old colleagues on a casual Monday.

One was clearly hers—perfect handwriting on the lid. The other she placed gently in front of me.

"I thought I’d bring coffee," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "Starting a new role can be stressful. And... well, we’re desk-mates now, aren’t we?"

I blinked, startled. "Thanks," I said, accepting the cup.

It was... warm. Vanilla, maybe.

She leaned down slightly, as if making sure no one else could hear.

"Don’t think I don’t remember you," she said softly.

The words caught me mid-breath.

Her smile didn’t shift. It was still polite. Friendly, even.

"That day at Lenora’s," she added in a near-whisper. "You and your friend. You... stood up for each other. I respect that."

I stared at her, unsure what to say.

"But I’m kind," she continued, smile still steady. "So let’s forget all that and work in harmony, yes?"

I offered a tight, professional smile that I hoped conveyed exactly none of my internal turmoil. "Of course. Professional harmony is key to productivity."

Her eyes softened a little. "Good. I like peace." Then she stood tall again and moved to her side of the desk.

I sat there for a second longer, fingers around the coffee cup.

Maybe I’d been wrong.

She didn’t seem angry. If anything, she seemed... composed. Generous, even. Maybe a little cold, but not unkind.

It wasn’t what I expected.

Not at all.

Maybe she really was trying to start fresh.

Maybe.

I took a sip of the drink... and paused.

This is actually so good.

Sip.

Hmm. I moaned before I knew it.

My eyes snapped open, wide with immediate horror.

Oh, for the love of— I just moaned over coffee. In front of Clara Langford. The woman who just confessed to remembering me from a heated argument and then offered me coffee like a peace offering.

A mortified flush crept up my neck. I clamped my lips shut, my internal voice screaming, Mute yourself, Miller!

Clara turned her head slowly, her expression not one of ridicule, but of quiet, analytical curiosity.

A small, knowing smile played on her lips.

It was the smile of someone who had just won a point in a game I didn’t even know we were playing.

"I’m glad you like it," she said, her voice dropping back to that smooth, confidential tone. "It’s a single-origin Geisha bean from a small estate in Panama. The notes of jasmine and bergamot are quite distinct, don’t you think?"

I swallowed, the warmth of the excellent coffee now a fire of humiliation in my cheeks. "It’s... very good. Thank you." I set the cup down carefully, as if it might explode.

"Of course," she replied, turning back to her pristine laptop. "A productive day starts with quality fuel."

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