Chapter 16: The Invitation
The morning light through Sasha’s windows was a pale, unforgiving grey. Aidan watched it bleach the color from her kitchen, turning the vibrant tiles into dull squares. He stood by the espresso machine, watching dark liquid drip into a cup, his body sore in a pleasant, unfamiliar way. The scent of coffee mixed with the remains of last night’s candles, a clash of stimulation and calm.
Sasha was at the island, methodically destroying an avocado toast. She wore one of his t-shirts, which hung nearly to her knees, and nothing else. Her hair was a magnificent chaos. She didn’t look at him as she spoke.
“We should probably talk about the elephant. Before we leave this apartment.”
“The elephant?” Aidan carried the coffee over, setting it near her elbow.
“The fact that we fucked on my rug, cried in my shower, and then slept like we’ve been married for ten years.” She finally glanced up, her expression unreadable. “It changes the data set.”
“It does,” he agreed, leaning against the cool glass of the island. “What’s the protocol for contaminated data?”
She took a savage bite of toast. “There isn’t one,” she said around the mouthful. “Lena’s methodology assumes professional detachment. Which we just torched with a flamethrower.” She swallowed, pointing the knife at him. “So. My proposal. We compartmentalize. What happens in the townhouse stays in the townhouse. In the office, we’re Researcher B and Variable A. We stick to the scripts. We don’t get… misty.”
Aidan sipped his coffee. It was bitter. “You think that’s possible?”
“It has to be.” She put the knife down with a decisive click. “If Lena smells a hint of this, she’ll weaponize it. Turn it into a ‘falling for your test subject’ think-piece. My credibility is built on being unshakeable. On knowing what I’m doing. I can’t be the girl who got feelings for the human dildo.”
The term was clinical, harsh. It was meant to be. He didn’t flinch. “Okay.”
“Just ‘okay’?”
“What do you want me to say, Sasha? I’ll follow your lead. It’s your field. Your reputation.”
She studied him, looking for sarcasm, for resistance. Finding none, some of the tension left her shoulders. “Good. That’s… good.” She pushed the plate away. “It’s just smarter this way. Cleaner.”
Her phone buzzed on the counter, skittering on the glass. They both looked at it. The screen lit up with a single name: LENA.
Sasha’s hand hovered for a second before she snatched it up. Her thumb swiped. Aidan watched her face change. The carefully constructed morning-after composure dissolved, replaced by a stark, professional alarm. The warmth in her eyes cooled into something sharp and focused.
“Shit,” she whispered.
“What?”
She didn’t answer. Her thumbs flew over the screen. A moment later, Aidan’s own phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.
The message was in the group chat for the project, named ‘AMA Parameters.’
Lena: Group session. All variables. 10 AM sharp. Conference room C. Do not be late. Do not come unprepared.
Sasha’s phone buzzed again. A follow-up, just for her.
Lena: Be ready to discuss Subject A’s performance metrics from your one-on-one. Full analysis. And Sasha—wear something less… emotive.
Sasha’s knuckles were white around her phone. The casual intimacy of the kitchen evaporated, replaced by the sterile pressure of the office. The avocado toast looked like a prop from a different play.
“Performance metrics,” Aidan said, the words tasting foul.
“She knows,” Sasha said, her voice flat. “Or she suspects. The ‘emotive’ dig is her version of a warning shot.” She stood up, the hem of his t-shirt swinging. The vulnerability of a few minutes ago was gone, packed away. “We need to go. Now.”
“It’s eight-thirty.”
“And I need to look like I haven’t spent the night being debriefed in a non-professional capacity.” She was already moving, a whirl of purpose headed for the bathroom. “You have clothes here. From the shoot last week. In the guest closet. They should work.”
He stayed in the kitchen, listening to the shower turn on. The city outside the window was fully awake now, all hard edges and moving traffic. He finished his coffee, washed the two cups, wiped the crumbs from the island. The domesticity of the actions felt like a lie.
By the time she emerged, wrapped in a towel, her hair in a microfiber turban, he had changed into the spare clothes—dark jeans, a simple grey henley. They felt like a costume.
She dressed with her back to him, a swift, efficient series of motions: sleek black trousers, a high-necked cream silk blouse, a structured blazer. She applied makeup at the island, her face tilted to the grey light. Each stroke of the brush was an act of erasure, covering the softness, highlighting her sharp cheekbones, darkening her eyes into something formidable.
When she was done, she looked like the Sasha from the office. The expert. The critic. The one who wasn’t easily impressed.
She caught him looking in the reflection of the window. “What?”
“Nothing. You look… professional.”
“That’s the point.” She spritzed on perfume, something expensive and unyielding. “Let’s not arrive together. You go first. I’ll take a separate car in fifteen.”
He nodded. The rules were back. The framework was re-established.
At the door, he hesitated. She was checking her bag, her profile all business. He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand on the strap. She went still.
“For the record,” he said quietly, “last night wasn’t about performance metrics.”
She didn’t pull her hand away. But she didn’t look at him either. She just gave a single, tight nod, her gaze fixed on the door latch. “I know. Now go.”
He went, the click of the door behind him sounding final. The hallway of her building was quiet, carpeted, neutral. He walked to the elevator, each step feeling heavier than the last. The warmth of her skin, the sound of her broken cry on the rug, the quiet confession in the steam of the shower—it was all being stored away, locked in a compartment labelled ‘Townhouse. Off the record.’
The elevator doors slid open to the building’s pristine lobby. Outside, the city air was cold. He turned up his collar and started walking, blending into the stream of people on their way to perform their own versions of themselves.