Six Months Later
The air in the Blackwood Library was thick with the scent of progress—a heady perfume of old paper, lemon-scented wood polish, and the clean, mineral tang of fresh plaster. Alistair Finch ran a hand over a newly restored oak panel, his fingers coming away with a fine layer of white dust.
He smiled. Six months ago, such a thing would have sent him scurrying for a hand wipe.
Now, it felt like a badge of honor.
He was a different man from the one who had cowered in his university office, petrified by an ancestral ultimatum. The Alistair of then would have observed this restoration from a safe distance, clipboard in hand, offering dry, academic notes.
This Alistair, however, was in the thick of it. He wore sturdy work boots instead of polished Oxfords, and his tweed jacket had been replaced by a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He knew the names of every carpenter, electrician, and masonry expert on site. He’d learned the difference between lime plaster and gypsum, and he could argue the merits of Tung oil versus shellac with surprising passion.
The library was breathing again. Sunlight, once choked by decades of grime on the high arched windows, now streamed in, illuminating the dancing motes of dust he’d come to love.
The crumbling sections of the gallery had been reinforced, the leaking roof was a memory, and the scent of mildew had been vanquished by the diligent work of book restoration specialists. He was not just funding the project; he was a part of its resurrection, pouring his own heart and soul into the mortar.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his dusty thumb swiping to answer.
“Dr. Finch,” Chloe’s voice was a warm, teasing melody. “I trust you are not attempting to alphabetize the sawdust again.”
Alistair chuckled, leaning against a sturdy bookshelf that no longer wobbled. “Merely cataloging the various species of wood shavings.
It’s a fascinating microcosm of historical forestry, you know.”
“Of course, it is,” she said, her laughter crinkling through the speaker. “Are we still on for lunch?
My new intern is so competent I’m starting to feel redundant, and I need a legitimate excuse to escape my own efficiency.”
“The steps, one o’clock,” he confirmed. “And Chloe? Don’t you dare bring a kale salad.”
“You wound me. I was thinking of a prosciutto and fig sandwich that would make a grown man weep,” she retorted.
“See you soon.”
He hung up, the smile lingering on his face. The ease between them was a constant, quiet marvel.
It was a language built not on clauses and sub-sections, but on shared glances, inside jokes, and the comfortable silence of two people who simply fit.
***
Chloe clicked off the call, her gaze drifting around her new office. It was everything her old, cramped space was not: sleek, minimalist, and flooded with light from a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
The walls were a calming shade of slate grey, accented by a single, vibrant abstract painting. Her company’s new logo—an elegant ‘C.J. Events’—was subtly embossed on the glass door.
After Matilda’s surprising and formidable investment, buying out her partner had been swift and surprisingly amicable. Bethany, thrilled with the cash infusion, had happily gone off to launch her bachelorette party empire, leaving Chloe free to reshape the business in her own image.
‘Plus-One for Hire’ was still a boutique service, but it was now a small part of a much larger, more sophisticated event-planning company that catered to corporate functions, charity galas, and the occasional high-end, tastefully executed wedding.
She was a success. The knowledge was a steady, warm hum beneath her skin.
She had done it, on her own terms. But as she straightened a stack of crisp portfolios on her desk, her eyes landed on a small, silver-framed photo.
It was of her and Alistair, taken a few months ago at the coast. He was squinting into the sun, his hair a mess from the wind, and he was laughing—a full, uninhibited laugh she’d coaxed out of him with a terrible pun.
That, she thought, was the real victory. Her business was thriving, but her life was full.
The constant, grinding anxiety that had been her companion for years had finally receded, replaced by a deep sense of peace. Alistair hadn’t saved her, and she hadn’t saved him.
They had, quite simply, met in the middle of their respective messes and found a better way forward, together.
Grabbing the picnic basket she’d prepared that morning, she gave her reflection a quick check in the glass door. The competent, unflappable businesswoman looked back, but her eyes were softer now, her smile less of a performance and more of a simple fact.
***
When Chloe arrived, Alistair was sitting on the grand stone steps of the library, brushing the dust from his trousers. He looked up as she approached, and the academic intensity she’d first met had been replaced by an open, unguarded affection that still made her heart perform a little skip.
“I come bearing prosciutto,” she announced, setting the wicker basket down between them.
“You are a true humanitarian,” he said gravely, peering inside. “And is that the lemon tart from that little bakery you like?”
“Only the best for the man who single-handedly saved architectural history from the scourge of damp,” she said, unpacking their lunch.
They ate in comfortable companionship, the sounds of the restoration work providing a percussive backdrop to their conversation. Chloe told him about a client who wanted a zero-gravity theme for their tech launch, and Alistair detailed a thrilling discovery of a first-edition manuscript hidden in a mislabeled crate.
It was all wonderfully, beautifully normal.
There was no trace of the tense, hyper-aware couple who had first walked these grounds. They didn’t need to manufacture anecdotes or worry about their body language.
When his hand found hers, it was an unconscious gesture, his thumb stroking a familiar pattern over her knuckles.
“Caleb sent a postcard,” Alistair said after a while, his tone wry.
“From Monaco. It seems he’s found his true calling: losing the modest trust fund Father left him at the baccarat tables.”
Chloe smirked. “I hope he’s having a terrible time.”
“The prose on the postcard suggests he is,” Alistair said with satisfaction. “And Matilda calls every Tuesday.
She wants a full progress report on the library, followed by a thinly veiled inquiry into when I intend to ‘make an honest woman’ of you.”
Chloe laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Tell her my rates for that kind of long-term contract have gone up considerably.”
Alistair’s arm tightened around her. He fell silent for a moment, and Chloe felt a subtle shift in his posture, a new layer of intention.
“Actually,” he began, his voice suddenly a little less steady. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
He pulled away slightly, turning to face her fully. The playful mood had evaporated, replaced by a quiet seriousness that made Chloe’s breath catch.
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a small, velvet-covered box. It wasn’t the slick, modern box of a new ring, but something older, its corners softened with age.
“Alistair?” she whispered.
“Our entire relationship began with a contract,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “A ridiculous, overly detailed document with clauses for every conceivable contingency.
It was my attempt to control the uncontrollable, to force emotion and connection into a logical framework. It was, in hindsight, the work of a terrified man.”
He opened the box. Nestled inside on a bed of faded silk was an antique silver locket, intricately engraved with the delicate forms of climbing ivy. It was beautiful, timeless, and so perfectly him.
“I was terrified of the messiness of life, of feelings I couldn’t footnote or analyze. And then you walked in, and you were the most beautifully, wonderfully messy thing that had ever happened to me.
You didn’t fit into any of my frameworks, Chloe. You shattered them.”
His hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he lifted the locket from the box.
“This isn’t a contract,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “There are no terms, no stipulations, no exit clauses. There’s no inheritance tied to it, and no performance required.
It’s just… a vow. My vow. A promise to you that everything we have, everything we’ve built since that insane weekend, is real.”
He reached around and fastened the delicate chain around her neck. The cool silver felt heavy and significant against her skin.
“Alistair,” she said, her voice watery as she lifted a hand to touch the locket. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a real vow, Chloe,” he repeated, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that had escaped her eye. “To be your partner, your friend, your ridiculous, dusty historian.
No contract required. Forever.”
Chloe looked from his earnest, open face to the grand, half-restored library behind him—a monument to his passion, now a symbol of their future. She thought of the cold, sterile coffee shop where they’d negotiated the terms of their fake lives, and she marveled at the winding, improbable path that had led them here, to this sun-drenched, genuine moment.
She didn’t need to say yes. It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement of fact, a truth that had been building between them for months. Instead, she leaned in, framed his face in her hands, and gave him her answer in a kiss.
It was unhurried, unperformed, and entirely their own, tasting of lemon tart, sunshine, and the promise of a thousand more days just like this one.