The silence at the breakfast table was a thick, suffocating thing. It pressed down on the fine china and absorbed the cheerful morning light streaming through the mullioned windows.
Yesterday, this same table had been a stage for witty banter and shared smiles; today, it was a war zone, demarcated by an invisible line drawn between Alistair and Chloe.
Alistair stared intently at the intricate pattern of his oatmeal, tracing the swirls with his spoon as if they held the secrets to some ancient, forgotten text. Every word from their fight last night echoed in his mind, a brutal chorus of his own failings.
Coward. Hiding behind books and logic because you’re terrified of anything you can’t control. Chloe’s accusation had sliced through his carefully constructed defenses, laying bare a truth he had spent his entire adult life avoiding. He was a coward.
He’d wielded logic like a club, trying to beat back the terrifying, beautiful, and utterly uncontrollable feelings she stirred in him. And in his panic, he had struck her with the cruelest weapon he could find: her profession.
Manufacturing feelings for a living. The memory of the words made his stomach clench with shame.
Across the table, Chloe presented a masterclass in composure. She sipped her tea, offered a polite smile when the housekeeper refilled her cup, and responded to Matilda’s pleasantries about the weather with serene, measured grace.
But inside, she felt fractured. Alistair’s accusation had hit its mark with surgical precision, validating the tiny, insidious fear she carried with her: that her work, the very thing she was so proud of, somehow cheapened her.
That by monetizing empathy, she had rendered her own emotions suspect. She had spent years helping others navigate difficult family dynamics, yet here she was, crumbling under the weight of one man’s fear.
A man she was starting to care about far more than any contract stipulated. The kiss in the garden felt like a memory from another lifetime.
Caleb, seated between them, observed the arctic chill with the keen interest of a predator watching two wounded animals. He took a delicate bite of his croissant, his eyes flickering from Alistair’s rigid posture to the faint tremor in Chloe’s hand as she set down her teacup.
The effortless chemistry they had flaunted all weekend had vanished, replaced by a strained courtesy that was more damning than any open argument. This was the crack he’d been searching for.
Their perfect facade was crumbling all on its own. He just needed to give it a final, decisive push.
“Everything alright, you two?” Caleb asked, his voice oozing a counterfeit concern that set Alistair’s teeth on edge.
“You’re both awfully quiet this morning. Lovers’ quarrel?”
Alistair flinched. Chloe’s smile tightened by a millimeter.
“Just a little tired, Caleb,” she said, her tone smooth as polished glass. “It’s been a wonderful, but very full, weekend.”
“Of course,” Caleb purred, not believing her for a second. He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin, his mind already spinning.
He had been digging, of course. A background check had turned up nothing scandalous—no criminal record, no bankruptcies, just a clean, almost boringly normal life.
‘Chloe Jones’ was a maddeningly common name. But her performance had been too polished, her stories too perfect.
No one was that charming under pressure unless they were either a sociopath or a professional.
He excused himself from the table, claiming an urgent work call, and retreated to the solitude of his father’s old study. The room, paneled in dark mahogany and smelling of leather and old brandy, was his preferred place for plotting.
He settled into the worn leather chair behind the grand desk and opened his laptop.
He started again with her name, but this time he added a new variable, a scrap of information he’d overheard her mention to one of Matilda’s friends at the garden party. She’d been talking about a particularly demanding event she had managed, “the Henderson wedding at The Grove.”
It had been a throwaway line, a bit of professional small talk. To Caleb, it was a breadcrumb.
He typed `“Henderson wedding” “The Grove” vendors` into the search bar.
The results were a flurry of luxury wedding blogs and magazine features. He clicked on the first one, a glossy spread with photos of a ridiculously happy couple surrounded by an ocean of white roses.
He scrolled past the photographer, the caterer, the florist. His finger paused on the mouse.
There, near the bottom of the vendor list, was a credit that made him lean closer. It wasn’t for a wedding planner—they had a separate, well-known one.
This was different.
Event & Guest Experience Consultant: The Perfect Plus-One.
Caleb’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. It was a brand name.
A business. Vague and corporate-sounding, but it was a lead.
He copied the name into the search bar and hit Enter.
The first result was a website. The homepage loaded, a wash of tasteful pastels and elegant script.
A stock photo of a diverse group of friends laughing at a cocktail party sat above a tagline: “Your Partner for Every Occasion. Never Attend Alone Again.”
Caleb felt a jolt of adrenaline, the exhilarating thrill of the hunt nearing its conclusion. He clicked on the “Services” tab.
The page was divided into neat packages: The Corporate Confidante, The Wedding Warrior, The Family Function Fixer.
He read the descriptions, his eyes widening with a kind of dark delight.
“Need a poised and polished partner to impress your boss at the annual gala? Our consultants are versed in a wide range of industries and can hold their own in any conversation.”
“Dreading that family reunion? We provide a charming buffer between you and your inquisitive relatives, complete with a custom-crafted, unassailable backstory for your relationship.”
It was all there. A menu of deception.
He was so engrossed he almost missed the “Meet Our Founder” link at the bottom of the page. He clicked.
And there she was.
Chloe’s professional headshot beamed back at him from the screen. It was the same warm, confident smile she had used to disarm his grandmother, the same twinkle in her eye that had made Alistair look at her like a parched man finding an oasis.
Beneath the photo was a short biography.
“Chloe Jones, founder of The Perfect Plus-One, believes that no one should have to face life’s big moments alone. With a background in psychology and theater arts, Chloe specializes in providing discreet, emotionally intelligent companionship…”
Theater arts. Of course. It was all a performance.
A low, guttural laugh escaped Caleb’s throat. This was better, so much better, than discovering a sordid criminal past.
This was a direct, irrefutable refutation of their entire story. Alistair hadn’t fallen in love.
He had hired a girlfriend.
The true gold mine, however, was the testimonials page. He clicked on it, his heart pounding with vindictive glee.
It was a treasure trove of damning praise.
“Chloe was an absolute lifesaver! My family adored her, and no one suspected a thing. She played the part of my loving girlfriend perfectly. She even remembered my great-aunt’s obscure medical condition! A truly five-star performance.” — Mark T.
“I needed a date to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding, and I was a nervous wreck. Chloe not only looked the part, she was my rock. Her ability to blend in and create a believable connection on the spot is uncanny. Worth every single penny.” — Anonymous.
“The Perfect Plus-One saved me from my mother’s relentless interrogation at Thanksgiving. Chloe’s performance as my doting fiancée was so flawless, my mom is already trying to set a wedding date. She deserves an Oscar!” — David P.
Caleb leaned back in the creaking leather chair, the screen casting a pale blue light on his triumphant face. An Oscar.
He almost felt like applauding. He had to hand it to her; she was good.
She had fooled them all. She had even fooled Alistair, it seemed, judging by the way his cousin looked at her.
The poor, pathetic sap had probably started to believe the fiction himself.
The weapon was now in his hands, fully loaded and aimed directly at the heart of Alistair’s pathetic little scheme. He could feel the Finch inheritance, the control over the family legacy that he had always believed was his by right, settling securely into his grasp.
He methodically took screenshots of the most incriminating pages: the services list, Chloe’s biography, the glowing testimonials. He saved them to a folder on his desktop, a digital dossier of Alistair’s downfall.
He could go to them now, confront them in the hallway and watch the color drain from their faces. But that would be a waste.
A private humiliation was nothing compared to a public execution. The formal family meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
Matilda, the lawyers, the whole family. It was the perfect stage.
He would let them stew in their miserable silence for another day. He would let them hope, perhaps even attempt some fragile reconciliation.
It would only make the final blow more devastating. He would stand before his grandmother and expose Alistair not just as a liar, but as a lonely, desperate man who had to pay a woman to pretend to love him.
Caleb closed the laptop with a soft, definitive click. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the pristine, sun-drenched gardens where Alistair had so foolishly kissed his hired actress.
He could already taste victory. It was sweeter than any brandy.