Chapter 5 Mayhem & Matching Outfits

Clara’s morning started with two things she despised: being late and matching Julian Nightingale. She rushed into the glass-paneled building, heels clacking against marble like tiny warning shots, only to come face-to-face with her new worst-case scenario. There he stood. Julian. In her exact outfit. Not literally, thank God. But color for color, texture for texture—he wore a navy suit so precisely tailored and annoyingly handsome it made her want to sue him for aesthetic theft. Her navy blouse and pencil skirt looked less like an intentional fashion statement and more like the tragic echo of his designer choices. She stopped. He turned. They locked eyes. Then, slowly, he tilted his head and smirked. “Nice of you to coordinate with me, Bellamy. Bold.” Clara exhaled through her nose. “Trust me, if I wanted to match you, I’d be in therapy.” Julian walked beside her toward the elevator, holding a takeaway coffee in one hand and a file in the other. “You know, most people would be flattered to be seen as part of a ‘power couple’.” “I’d rather power-walk into traffic.” ⚡ By the time they reached the transition team meeting, Clara had already built five separate plans to fake a stomach flu. All five involved soup, a convincing cough, and the strategic use of makeup to create under-eye circles. But then Julian did the worst thing imaginable. He pulled out her presentation notes and handed them to her. Clara blinked. “Where did you get this?” “You left them in the printer tray yesterday. I made extra copies.” She stared at him like he’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket made of explosives. “Wait—did you snoop through my documents?” “I was trying to print something, your genius manifesto popped out first. I considered stealing it, framing it, and claiming credit, but alas—I have a soul.” “Oh good. I was starting to wonder.” He grinned. And for one horrifying second, she realized he wasn’t being smug. He was being... nice? Unacceptable. ⚡ Two hours later, Clara sat in a corner of the breakroom, stabbing her salad like it had personally betrayed her. “You’re being weird,” said Olivia, her friend and co-worker, sipping an iced coffee with a straw fat enough to qualify as a flotation device. “I’m not being weird.” “You’re stress-forking lettuce like it owes you money.” Clara dropped her fork. “Julian Nightingale is being... helpful. Helpful. Like, on purpose. I don’t trust it.” Olivia gasped. “Oh my God, are you catching feelings?” “No.” Clara hissed. “No, I’m catching red flags. I’m not stupid.” Olivia leaned in dramatically. “Are you sure? Because your cheeks are doing that thing where they flush slightly whenever he smiles—” “I’m just overheated!” “You’re eating cold kale, Clara.” Clara buried her face in her hands. “This is how it starts. First, you match clothes. Then he’s pulling out chairs and smiling like he’s not plotting world domination. Next thing you know, I’m starring in a rom-com and someone’s playing soft jazz in the background.” “I’d watch that,” Olivia said, unapologetic. “You would,” Clara muttered. ⚡ Julian was having his own crisis. Of the existential variety. Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he loathed someone who challenged him. Clara Bellamy was smart, sarcastic, and infuriating in all the ways that usually made him bored within five minutes. And yet here he was, three weeks into forced proximity, and he still wasn’t sick of her. That was... new. He watched her from across the conference table, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as she flipped through a finance report. Her mouth moved as she read silently, muttering little things under her breath like the paper had offended her entire bloodline. He had no business finding it adorable. Julian closed the report and stared at his untouched coffee. “You’re thinking too hard,” said Amara, his cousin, as she casually popped into the office uninvited. Julian jumped. “Jesus, Amara. Do you float through walls now?” “I knock. You just don’t notice.” She perched on the edge of his desk, looking too pleased. “You’re not supposed to be here.” “And yet I am. Fate works in mysterious ways.” “Please don’t start with the fate stuff again.” She tilted her head, her smile faintly mischievous. “I warned you about Miranda. I told you she isn’t your ending.” Julian groaned. “Miranda is fine.” “Fine,” Amara repeated, as if it tasted sour. “But she’s not her.” He didn’t ask who her was. Because he knew. ⚡ Later that night, Clara flopped onto her couch, kicked off her heels, and groaned into a throw pillow. She wasn’t falling for Julian. She wasn’t. She was just... noticing him. Noticing the way he remembered her coffee order, the way he handed over her notes without bragging about it, the way he stood just slightly in front of her when the boardroom got too full— Clara sat up straight. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.” She marched to the fridge, pulled out a tub of ice cream, and declared war. “I am going to friendzone this man so hard, his ancestors will feel it.”