Chapter 3
Three
OLIVER
Lumina . Three days later, and the name still twisted something in my gut.
When I first looked at her business card after leaving the café, I nearly backed out of the booking. Of all the names she could have chosen, she'd built her company on the nickname I'd given her when we were kids, back when she was the only one who brought light into my life.
A corridor of doors greeted me when the elevator door of the downtown Seattle building slid open on her floor, the manila envelope containing the final draft of our contract crisp in my hand, its weight a reminder of what I was about to sign up for.
I strode to the opaque glass door with Lumina emblazoned onto it and ground my teeth. She’d even incorporated a subtle constellation in the shape of a bouquet. Hand-drawn. By her. I recognized the style.
It was still as endearingly dreadful as it was when we were kids. And it felt like mockery.
Had she chosen the name as some kind of homage to what we once had? Or had she simply taken one more thing from me, repurposing our private moments into her corporate identity without a second thought?
Either possibility left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I’d already committed, and I was never one to back out of a commitment.
I pushed the door open, greeted by a small office space—elegant, polished, and unapologetically confident.
White walls adorned with framed magazine spreads showcased her work.
Fresh flowers stood in full bloom in a vintage vase I recognized as one of her mother’s prized flea market finds.
It was a small yet significant show of support and love.
The reception desk was unmanned, but the well-kept money tree alongside an assortment of personal items was evidence of a well-settled employee who was probably sent home early to offer Zahra and me discretion.
"Oliver," Zahra whisper-shouted from behind me, and I turned to find her with her phone to her ear, gesturing for me to follow her as she listened to whoever was on the other end.
She was dressed in a sleek, sophisticated sleeveless wrap dress in a soft powder blue that accentuated the deeper shades of brown in her hair, which in turn made the green of her eyes even more mesmerizing.
Then there was the crossover V-neckline, nothing flashy, but it sat just so, especially with the side tie that cinched at Zahra’s waist.
I’d never noticed these things when it came to Zahra—the enticing contours of her curves, the mesmerizing sway of her hips as she walked, or how inviting her lips seemed slightly parted as she listened intently to whoever was on the other side of the line.
She was gorgeous beyond words, always had been. Not merely a bright star, but a constellation that outshone the rest. It’s how she earned her nickname. But now? She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was achingly sexy.
The thought was a bucket of ice water, and I was ready to turn on my heels and leave, run from the meteor set to crash and burn my life if I went through with this deal.
But then my phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn't need to check it. The same text alert had been haunting me since our meeting at the café. An automated reminder about overdue payments on one of the many loans I had in my name.
The reason I’d called her back to the table.
I was drowning, and I needed to fix it, not just for now, but as a permanent, long-term solution. And I needed this job for that to happen.
Zhara finished her call and turned to me, her smile tight.
"Thank you for coming," she said, then gestured to a small seating area by the window. "Would you like coffee?"
"No, thank you." I waited until she took a seat, then chose the chair across from her, maintaining maximum distance. “Let's get started. I’d like to finalize the contract today.”
“Absolutely,” Zahra agreed, a bit too eagerly.
Her desperation struck me as bizarre, but I forced the unease to the back of my mind.
Professionalism, boundaries, control—maintaining all three was what kept me safe throughout the last seven years.
All I had to do was adhere to the same strict standards I’d always imposed on myself, and I’d sail through this booking with Zahra.
I placed the manila envelope on the glass coffee table between us and removed the two contract copies I’d prepared, laying them out side by side with methodical precision.
"I've outlined everything we discussed in detail," I said, slipping into the detached professionalism that had become second nature. "Payment schedules, social media requirements, and physical boundaries. Each section has been carefully worded to protect us both."
Zahra nodded, her posture perfect, but her fingers threaded in her lap. The nervous girl from the café had vanished, replaced by a poised businesswoman. This was new, the savvy business side of Zahra. It was intriguing.
I pushed her copy toward her, surveying the first page of mine.
"The base rate covers eight hours per day, as we discussed. Anything beyond that incurs the additional hourly rate specified on page three. Travel days are billed at a flat rate rather than hourly."
She nodded, scanning the document. "And the payment schedule?"
"Thirty percent up front, then sixty percent distributed in accordance with achieved milestones, and the remainder upon completion.”
“That’s fair.”
I flipped through to the next section. "Social media stipulations are outlined here. You may post photos of us together on your personal accounts during the contract period. I reserve the right to approve all images before posting. No tagging or location services without prior consent."
Zahra read through each page, asking intelligent questions that reminded me she wasn't the impulsive girl from high school anymore. This woman ran a business, negotiated contracts regularly, and clearly understood the importance of details.
"The section on personal information begins on page five," I continued, tapping the paper with my pen.
"Any backstory we create about our 'relationship' needs to be agreed upon by both parties. Nothing about my current life circumstances is to be shared with family or friends, and no personal questions beyond what’s necessary to maintain our cover. "
Her brow furrowed slightly at the last condition. "This is quite... thorough."
"It needs to be." I kept my voice flat. "The nature of this arrangement requires clear boundaries."
Zahra seemed doubtful, but eventually, she shrugged. “You’re the professional.”
We continued through the document until we reached the section that had taken me the longest to draft—physical boundaries. The clinical language felt like a heliosphere, a protective bubble that kept us safe from touching the cosmic radiation of the inevitable contact.
"Handholding duration not to exceed forty-five minutes per day,” Zahra read out loud.
“Casual touches are limited to arms, shoulders, and back.
Kisses only when specifically required for photography or family observation, with a maximum duration of five seconds. " She paused. "This is very specific."
"It's necessary," I said. "Without clear parameters, situations can become ambiguous. Ambiguity leads to misunderstandings."
Like thinking someone cares about you when they're actually just using you.
The bitter thought rose unbidden, and I pushed it aside.
Though there was certain poetic justice in it.
Once upon a time, she'd used me and walked away when it no longer suited her, standing by while I was bullied by Ryan and his cronies.
Oh, how the tables had turned .
Now I was the user and the one who would walk away.
"Oliver?" Zahra's voice pulled me back to the present. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," I said, straightening my posture. "Any questions about this section?"
She hesitated, then pointed to a clause. "Can we adjust the time limits on handholding? Forty-five minutes seems arbitrary."
"It's not arbitrary. It's based on the average social gathering duration, allowing for natural moments of separation without appearing staged."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
I didn't return the smile. "It's my job to consider these details."
She paused, her eyes fixed on me as she mulled over my words.
“This level of thoroughness,” she started. Slowly. Carefully. “You’re clearly experienced.”
“I’ve been at Rent-A-Date for seven years.” I placed my papers on the table and tidied them into a neat stack. “I’ve had my fair share of fake boyfriend bookings.”
Zahra looked away. She was nodding, but there seemed to be hesitation in the motion.
“My experience was part of my appeal, no?”
“It was—is!” Red stained Zahra’s cheeks, her high cheekbones highlighted by the color. “I need a coffee break.”
“Dash of milk, one sugar,” I requested, though she didn’t ask.
Zahra nodded, and I watched her walk away, telling myself that noticing her firm ass hugged by that damn blue skirt was meaningless, despite the rush of blood down south.
While my little brain was having a moment of distraction, the rest of me was worried that she’d change her mind.
I needed the money, and I needed the excuse to go back to Norman even more.
But if Zahra was already hesitating, already shaken by things that shouldn’t move her if this was only business, maybe pressing forward was a mistake.
By the time Zahra was back with our coffees, seeming composed, I’d gotten myself under control and established that her feelings were meaningless. She knew the score, she’d sign off on the rules. If she breaks them, that’s on her, not me.
“Shall we?” I indicated the contract, and Zahra nodded.
We moved through the rest of the contract methodically, section by section. Her professional demeanor cracked only once, when discussing how to handle questions about our reconciliation story.
"So, if anyone asks how we reconnected?" she began.