The rhythmic thud of a pestle against a mortar, followed by the fragrant whisper of thyme and scotch bonnet, drifted up through the floorboards of the apartment. Maya, still half-asleep, recognized the signature sound of Caleb’s morning prep, the alchemy of spices already underway. It was a stark contrast to the clinking of champagne flutes and the manufactured laughter of the gallery opening from the night before, a world she’d momentarily forgotten. She stretched, the memory of her plastered smile aching more than her muscles. The performance at the gallery had been exhausting, a prolonged exercise in pretending a history that wasn’t exactly fake, but certainly wasn’t *that*. The way Caleb’s hand had rested on the small of her back, a possessive gesture that felt both alien and achingly familiar, had sent a jolt through her she hadn’t anticipated. And the way his eyes, dark and knowing, had met hers across a crowded room, a silent communication passing between them that said, *We’re in this together, for now.* It had been too easy to fall into the rhythm of it, too natural to let her guard down, even for a second, when surrounded by strangers. Pushing the unsettling thoughts away, Maya swung her legs off the bed. The cool air of the apartment felt crisp, a welcome antidote to the sticky warmth of her thoughts. She pulled on a loose t-shirt and sweats, her usual morning uniform. The small kitchen, usually her sanctuary, felt charged today. When she entered, Caleb was already there, stirring a pot of what smelled like oats, fortified with something tropical. He wore a faded t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a shower, and for a moment, the casual intimacy of the scene—him, cooking in *their* kitchen—felt too real, too close to the life they were supposedly faking. “Morning,” he grunted, not looking up, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t sound like the charming, attentive husband he’d played last night. He sounded like the Caleb she knew, the one who was perpetually in his own head, driven by the rhythm of his restaurant. “Morning,” she replied, grabbing a mug. The air between them was thick with unspoken things. “The gallery… it went fine.” He finally turned, a spoon still poised over the pot. “Fine? Maya, you were brilliant. You had Mrs. Davies practically eating out of your hand. She’s already asking about your next installation.” Maya felt a faint blush creep up her neck. Mrs. Davies was a formidable art patron, known for her discerning taste and her even more discerning purse. “I was just… playing the part.” Caleb chuckled, a low, easy sound that softened his features. “You’re a natural. Even with the whole ‘loving wife’ routine. Though I admit, I think you overdid it with the hand-holding. Pretty sure my circulation was cut off for a good twenty minutes.” His teasing was a shield, deflecting from the real undercurrents. She shot him a mock glare. “Someone had to sell the charade. You were too busy trying to look brooding and mysterious, like some lost poet.” “It works for me,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. He poured a generous serving of the oatmeal into two bowls. “Sit. You need energy. You’ve got a big day of… contemplating your next masterpiece, I assume.” They sat at the small, mismatched kitchen table, the clinking of their spoons the only sound for a few moments. The oatmeal was rich and sweet, infused with coconut and mango, a testament to Caleb’s culinary instincts even in the simplest of meals. “Seriously though,” Caleb said, breaking the silence, his tone more serious now. “You really impressed them. It’s good for your career. My family was… well, they were pleased to see us ‘getting along so well’.” The last part was delivered with a hint of irony. Maya picked at a piece of mango. “Your auntie still looked like she was trying to discern if I was secretly a spy for a rival catering company.” Caleb laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that made the room feel lighter. “That’s just Auntie Ronke. She doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t share her exact recipe for jollof rice. But even she admitted you have a ‘sparkle’ in your eyes now that she hasn’t seen in years.” Maya’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. A sparkle? She hadn’t felt particularly sparkling. Guarded, yes. Anxious, absolutely. But sparkling? She glanced at Caleb, who was watching her, a contemplative look on his face. He knew her, or at least he used to, better than almost anyone. The idea that he, or even his eagle-eyed aunt, could see through her performance, even a little, was unsettling. “Perhaps she needs new glasses,” Maya said, trying for levity, but her voice came out a little too flat. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he just kept looking at her, his dark eyes searching, like he was trying to read a story etched somewhere behind her sarcastic deflections. The silence stretched, becoming less comfortable, more charged. It was the kind of quiet that held a weight, the unspoken past, the precarious present. “Maya,” he started, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He reached across the table, his hand hovering, then gently covering hers. His touch was warm, a sudden, unexpected current. “Are you… okay?” The question was so simple, so direct, so utterly unscripted. It wasn’t about the visa, or the restaurant, or the performance. It was about *her*. The easy familiarity of his touch, the genuine concern in his eyes, threatened to dismantle the carefully constructed walls she’d reinforced around herself. This wasn’t part of the fake marriage. This was something real, something that echoed the bond they once shared, before the five years of radio silence. Her breath caught. She wanted to pull her hand away, to retreat, to deploy a witty retort that would make him back off. But she couldn’t. His gaze held hers, an unspoken plea for honesty in a life built on lies. Her throat felt tight, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if the

Chapter 10: The Unscripted Interruption