Monday mornings at the office were usually quiet.
Not today.
Aldrin had barely made it through the front doors when Ainsworth intercepted him, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a grin that could only be described as predatory delight.
"Well, well, if it isn't Loverboy himself," he said. "Survived dinner with the in-laws?"
Aldrin accepted the coffee with narrowed eyes. "I take it you've already been briefed."
"Oh, I didn't need to be. Your girl looked like she'd seen a ghost when she walked in. And then she got into a ten-minute argument with Marek about whether or not you two were coordinated or just fashionably telepathic."
Marek popped up around the corner like he'd been waiting for his cue. "It was the matching tones. Olive accents. Seamless balance of neutral and bold. That's not coincidence—that's couple synergy."
Aldrin sighed. "Do either of you work?"
"Not when there's fresh gossip," Ainsworth replied, following Aldrin down the corridor.
"You did go full method," Marek added, falling in step. "The whole mysterious-but-loyal protector vibe. I mean, we expected stoic, maybe cryptic. But you flirted. With a smile."
Aldrin didn't look up from the file he was flipping through. "I was being polite."
"Oh no, boss man," Ainsworth said, drawing out each word, "you were being devastating."
"She called him 'charming' this morning," Marek said.
Aldrin glanced up.
"She what?"
"I have ears, Aldrin," Marek smirked. "Better yet, I have friends in Admin. We hear everything."
He dropped a manila folder onto Aldrin's desk dramatically. Written across the top in red marker: OPERATION: DINNER DATE.
"Where did you get this?" Aldrin asked dryly.
"Not the point. What is the point is, this is the first time I've seen Iris laugh like that outside a classified op. And not that clipped sarcastic chuckle—like a real, full-throated 'he's not as cold as I thought' laugh."
A beat.
Ainsworth leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You sure this is all still pretend, Aldrin?"
Aldrin set the folder down slowly. "We agreed to play a part. For the weekend."
"And now?" Marek asked, tone lighter but still probing.
"Now," Aldrin said, standing, "we get back to work."
But as he walked into the briefing room, sipping the coffee they'd laced with too much sugar just to mess with him, neither Marek nor Ainsworth said anything more. They didn't have to.
Because the smallest smile had tugged at the corner of Aldrin's mouth.
And it wasn't for any of them.
brunch with Lucienne Albrecht was an institution, not an invitation.
It was where deals were struck over almond croissants, secrets were sniffed out through bottomless mimosas, and no child of hers—no matter how sharp—left without revealing something they didn't intend to.
Iris arrived two minutes late and was already met with an arched brow.
"Traffic?" Lucienne asked, sipping her tea.
"An old lady was crossing the street."
"How noble."
They kissed cheeks. Iris sat. The server floated over as if summoned by maternal energy alone.
"Earl Grey, dry toast, no butter," Lucienne ordered for her.
"I'll have the eggs Florentine and a reason I'm here," Iris said, folding her napkin.
Lucienne smiled. "So defensive. I haven't even brought up Aldrin yet."
"You just did."
Her mother leaned in, chin resting on her manicured hand. "You're glowing."
"I'm sweating."
"Same thing. You've got that post-romantic glow."
Iris stared at her. "We had dinner."
"Yes. But you didn't look like a woman playing house, Iris. You looked like someone who might have actually... fallen."
Iris blinked. "Lucienne, are you seriously trying to get intel like this is some emotional polygraph?"
"Sweetheart, I don't need a polygraph. I gave birth to you."
The toast arrived. Lucienne didn't touch it. She was too focused.
Iris sighed. "It's not what you think."
"Really? Because I watched you two make an entire room forget how to breathe. The chemistry was real."
"It was acting," Iris insisted.
Lucienne tilted her head. "Was it acting when he touched your back like it was instinct? Was it acting when your father offered to take him shooting and he said, 'Only if Iris comes too'? Was it acting when you looked at him and forgot we were sitting there?"
Iris bit her lip. "You were not supposed to see that."
"Oh, we did. And so did he."
Lucienne reached for her tea.
"I've known a lot of men who can lie with charm. But Aldrin? He wasn't pretending to protect you. That's not something you can fake. And you—" she paused, narrowing her eyes like a sniper sighting her target, "you trusted it."
Iris didn't respond.
"Look," Lucienne said more gently, "I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm your mother. I just want to know what's real. And more importantly—do you?"
Silence sat between them for a moment. The kind filled with too many truths.
"I don't know," Iris said finally, quietly. "It started as a cover story. A distraction. A play."
"And now?"
Iris stared into her untouched mimosa. "Now it feels like a high-stakes lie that's starting to tell the truth."
Lucienne smiled—soft, maternal, almost wistful. "Darling, some of the best love stories begin with mischief and misdirection. The trick is knowing when to stop acting."
"Is this the part where you give me your blessing?" Iris asked dryly.
"Oh no," Lucienne said, dabbing her lips with her napkin. "This is the part where I warn you."
Iris raised a brow. "About what?"
"That men like Aldrin—the wounded ones, the ones built in silence and forged in shadows—don't let people in easily. But when they do? It's not a fling. It's fire."
Lucienne stood, smooth and elegant as always, her bill already mysteriously paid.
"You're playing with fire, sweetheart."
She kissed Iris's temple.
"Try not to burn alone."