Chapter 4
Four
ZAHRA
"Perfect. Now angle your cup so the logo faces the camera."
I adjusted the ceramic mug as instructed, trying not to roll my eyes at the precision of Oliver's direction. We were seated by the window of Café Reverie, a trendy downtown spot known for its Instagram-worthy latte art and exposed brick walls.
It was a rare day weather-wise for February in Seattle, as if the universe had decided to lend us a helping hand for our second “date.” The morning light streamed through the full-wall window facing the street, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that would make our photos look effortlessly romantic.
If only the actual experience was as painless as the online results.
"Good. Now look over the rim of the mug like you’re teasing the audience. I'll be in the background pretending to read."
I followed his instructions, the practiced smile I wore for client meetings fixed firmly on my face.
Yesterday we had a “surprise reunion” at a popular bar. Today was the soft launch of our fake reconciliation, designed to plant the seeds of our relationship in the social media ecosystem so that by the time we arrived in Norman, nobody would question our status.
"You're too stiff," Oliver noted, not looking up from his book. "Try to look like you’re having fun."
"I am trying," I muttered, closing my eyes and practicing my breathing for what felt like the millionth time. "It would help if this were actually fun."
Oliver lowered his book slightly, his expression professionally neutral. "Structure ensures success. Deviation and improvisation put the assignment at risk of derailing."
Assignment . The word stung more than it should have. I forced myself to remember that's exactly what this was to him—a job, nothing more.
He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, hair freshly cut on the sides with styled texture on top, and dressed in dark jeans and a navy button-down that made his brown eyes seem impossibly deeper.
Gone were the contact lenses he'd worn at our first meeting, replaced by stylish rectangular frames that somehow managed to look both modern and reminiscent of his old glasses.
Something about seeing him in glasses again made my heart twist in a way I wasn't prepared for.
Under his arm was a leather portfolio containing what turned out to be a literal checklist of approved poses and interactions.
"I've categorized each interaction by intimacy level," he'd explained, sliding my copy across the table. "We'll progress gradually through these stages over the next two weeks to make the relationship development appear organic."
Looking at Oliver’s methodical list made me think of how easily he used to hug me, and how his arms would wrap around me without hesitation, giving warmth and security. He had been the best hugger I'd ever known. Now there was a precise timeframe for how long his fingers could rest on my shoulder.
"So," I said, searching for conversation that wasn't dictated by his checklist. "How's the university treating you these days?"
Oliver took a sip of his latte, the soft, warm light a stark contrast to his hardened and closed off features. "It's fine. Teaching load fluctuates semester to semester."
"What classes are you?—"
"We should stick to general topics," he interrupted, eyes scanning the room rather than meeting mine. "Vague catching up is acceptable, but too many personal details will complicate maintaining consistent story points later."
I bit back a sigh. "Talking about your job is hardly delving into deep personal territory, Oliver."
"Nevertheless."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a diamond. I focused on my cappuccino, tracing the leaf pattern in the foam with my spoon. How had we gone from finishing each other's sentences to barely being able to hold a conversation?
Behind us, a new customer approached the counter, ordering something so convoluted that both the barista and I visibly winced.
"A half-caf oat milk cortado with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of hazelnut, a shake of cinnamon powder, not cinnamon syrup, and make it extra hot.”
"That's not coffee; that's a cry for help," Oliver muttered under his breath, his expression deadpan.
The unexpected commentary, delivered in such perfect, dry Oliver fashion, caught me completely off guard. A burst of laughter escaped me before I could stop it—genuine, unrestrained, and embarrassingly loud in the quiet café. Several patrons turned our way.
Oliver’s head snapped up from his book, his eyes wide as he stared at me with an unreadable expression.
I straightened in my seat and smoothed my blouse. "I'm sorry."
He frowned slightly. "Why would you apologize for laughing?"
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again, unsure what to say. Because Ryan always hated it when I laughed too loudly in public. Because I spent years unlearning the instinct of making myself smaller. If that didn’t cross every line in Oliver’s book, I didn’t know what would.
"Force of habit," I finally said, looking away.
Something flickered in Oliver's expression, a flash of... What? Concern? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it vanished quickly behind his carefully constructed wall of professional detachment.
"Well, it works for our scenario," he said, reverting to business mode. "Capturing a moment of genuine laughter on camera would make for convincing content. Let me try to say something amusing again, and this time I'll take the photo."
And just like that, we were back to military operation mode.
As the coffee date continued, following Oliver's guidelines proved increasingly challenging.
Each interaction felt choreographed, each touch timed and measured.
When I instinctively reached to fix his slightly askew collar, he tensed so hard I felt it through my fingertips.
I withdrew my hand immediately, mumbling an apology that he dismissed with a curt nod.
"Zahra,” a familiar voice called out, and I looked up to see Maya, a barista who'd worked several of my smaller events, approaching our table with a bright smile. “I thought that was you!"
“Maya.” I shifted into my professional-friendly mode, the one I used for networking.
This was our first real test—an unplanned interaction requiring us to sell our budding relationship to an outsider.
Without missing a beat, Oliver transformed. His posture softened, his expression warmed, and he leaned slightly in my direction, creating an impression of intimacy without actually touching me. The shift was so subtle yet so complete that it caught me off guard.
I stood to greet Maya with a quick hug. “How are you?"
"Great! We just booked that venue you recommended for my sister's engagement party.” She was still smiling at me, but her eyes drifted to Oliver, and I didn’t miss how she scanned him head to toe in appreciation. “It was perfect."
I wanted to grab her chin and yank her gaze back to me, but I forced the rational part of my brain to take over. The part that knew Oliver wasn’t mine, and even if he were, the man was all sorts of eye candy, and I honestly couldn’t blame any woman for checking him out.
“Maya, this is Oliver," I introduced. "An old friend."
“Nice to meet you.” Oliver offered Maya his hand with an easy smile.
"Likewise," Maya replied, her smile widening. "So, old friend, huh?” Maya’s smile was sly, not so subtly scoping whether there was more than friendship going on. “You guys go way back?"
Oliver glanced at me, a barely perceptible cue that I should take the lead.
"All the way back to fourth grade," I said, the truth coming easier than any fabrication.
“Third,” Oliver corrected, his smirk a mix of mock admonition and joyful reminiscing. “You were going through your princess phase—went through pink crayons faster than most people go through a chocolate bar. I gave you mine and you declared me your knight in shining armor.”
“And you brought me a new crayon every week.” I laughed at the memory. We were so na?ve back then, so sold on the idea of friendships that last forever.
"We lost touch after graduation." Oliver reached up, and his hand took mine with practiced ease.
His touch was perfectly calibrated—not too intimate to be inappropriate, but familiar enough to suggest history.
Our eyes met, and the warmth of his hand swirled up to my chest. My breath caught, heart rate increased, and I was all too aware of the point of contact between our skin.
"Then, by some lucky star, we bumped into each other at a bar yesterday. "
The warmth in his voice, the casual comfort of his demeanor—it was all so convincing that for a moment, I almost believed it myself.
How many other clients had hired him for similar performances?
How many other times had he transformed like this, making everyone around him believe exactly what he wanted them to?
"I couldn't believe it when I looked up and saw him after all these years." Despite knowing it was an act, affection crept into my voice, unable to stay buried with those deep eyes boring into mine.
"I love that." Maya beamed, her gaze back to fixing on me with adoration. It worked; she was sold on a budding romantic relationship. "I have to get to my sister’s dress fitting, but I’ll see you around?"
“Call me for anything you need.” I hugged Maya goodbye, and she waved at Oliver with a friendly smile before walking away.
Oliver maintained the friendly demeanor just long enough for her to be out of earshot before straightening his posture and returning to his professional self, the transformation so immediate it was as if he’d flipped a switch.
"That went well," he said, checking his watch. "Now for our social media debut."
I nodded, pulling out my phone to scroll through the photos I’d taken earlier. After deliberation, we settled for a casual photo, one that would hint at our reconnection without being too obvious.
"Caption?" I asked, finger hovering over the keyboard.
"Something light. Reference me, but don't make it about me."
I typed: "Catching up with this nerd over a cup of hot java " and showed him for approval.
Oliver nodded, scanning the post with a critical eye. "Good. It hits the right tone—obvious enough for people to notice but subtle enough to seem genuine."
"When do we post the next one?" I asked, feeling strangely like a teenager asking permission for social media access.
"We need two weeks of friendship posts before any hint of romance.” He pulled up a detailed timeline on his phone.
“That includes three casual interactions and two activities that show shared interests, followed by one group setting where we're noticeably gravitating toward each other.
" He looked up at me, sharp and focused.
“Six posts in fourteen days with progressive intensity, so the next post should go up in two, maybe three days.”
I stared at him, slightly alarmed by the precision of his planning. This wasn't just a job to him, it was a science, the act of emotional entanglement broken down into formulaic steps and predictable outcomes.
"How many times have you done this?" I asked before I could stop myself.
When I realized the depths of his experience in this sort of scheme, I almost backed out of signing. He was an expert manipulator with a perfect record. I was the gullible, weak girl who was easily swayed, always trusting the wrong people, letting them erase me and make me small.
The power imbalance was terrifying. But, at this point, I had no other choice. No one except for my parents knew the depth of Ryan’s cruelty, and I was determined to keep it that way. I had to trust that Oliver wouldn’t exploit me.
"Orchestrated a fake relationship? Quite a few times.” His eyes met mine, cool and professional. “Though nothing as long-term and elaborate as what we’re doing. It's a common request for clients facing family events or professional situations where being single might be disadvantageous."
"And how many stayed...professional?" The question slipped out, unbidden.
Oliver's expression hardened slightly. "All of them. I don't blur those lines, Miss Nazarian."
The formality both stung and gave me a sense of relief. It was a reminder of the transactional nature of our arrangement, of every arrangement he’d ever been involved in. I busied myself with my phone, posting the photo and watching as the first likes began to trickle in.
"People need to see us rebuilding trust before we escalate," Oliver continued, tapping away at his phone, adjusting our shared timeline and adding notes.
Rebuilding trust. The words landed like stones in my stomach.
I was never good at knowing who to trust. If it weren't for my parents' intervention, I'd probably still be trusting the wrong people. Just like I was the wrong person for Oliver to trust, and now we had to act out something that used to be as natural as breathing for us.
He sat across from me, cold and calculated, barely acknowledging me as he mapped out our relationship like a business plan. As if the only way he could bear being in my presence was with the constant shield of a contract protecting him from making the mistake of trusting me again.
Which begged the question—was I making a mistake trusting him? His professional shield might protect me from Ryan, or it might become a weapon Oliver could wield against me.
Too much was riding on the success of this plan for it to fall apart. My credibility, my dreams, and my future all teetered on this fragile balance of trust.
I couldn’t help but wonder—which of us was really in control of this situation? And what would happen when one of us inevitably went off-script?