Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 157: Ten Minutes to Truth

Chapter 157: Ten Minutes to Truth

ADRIEN’S POV

An hour after Leo and Aria arrived, I made sure Isabella had eaten. It took coaxing—gentle words and spoonfuls of soup cooled just enough. And now, the color had returned faintly to her cheeks. Aria was humming beside her, slicing fruit into ridiculous heart shapes while Leo tried to steal the larger pieces. It was chaos. Loud, familial chaos. The kind that kept her grounded.

She was safe. Surrounded.

I stood.

Isabella glanced up, her voice soft. "You’re leaving?"

I nodded once. "They’ll watch you."

She gave me a tiny huff, barely audible.

I pressed a kiss to her temple. "I’ll be back soon. Try not to give them hell."

*****

As the doors shut behind me, I slid into the backseat of my car.

"Family house."

My driver nodded from the front and pulled away from the curb.

I took out my phone and dialed my mother

"Mother," I said when she picked up, "I’m coming home."

I hung up.

****

The car slowed to a stop in front of the sprawling Walton estate. My driver exited and opened my door as I spotted them—my mother and Clara—waiting by the entrance, sunlight brushing the stone walls behind them.

I stepped out of the car and walked up the stone path.

The moment I approached, my mother rushed forward. "Adrien—oh, Adrien—"

I caught her in an embrace as she wept into my shoulder. Her arms wrapped tight around me, the way they did when I was young and angry and couldn’t find words for the mess in my chest.

"This is my fault," she whispered. "She could have died, and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t—if I had just—"

"Stop." I pulled back gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You didn’t do this."

"I should’ve watched her. I should’ve known something was wrong—"

"It’s not your fault," I said. My voice was quiet. Final. "She’ll be fine."

She nodded quickly, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief, and I turned slightly—eyes falling on Clara.

She was smiling, lightly. Her posture relaxed, but her eyes were bright with unspoken things.

"I’m glad to see you," she said. "How’s... Isabella?"

I didn’t blink.

"She’s stable."

"That’s good," she said, too warm. "You look... exhausted."

I didn’t answer that. Instead, I reached for the door.

"It’s getting hot," I said to both women. "lets go inside."

My mother moved immediately.

Clara lingered, still watching me.

I paused. Then turned to her.

"See me in my study. One hour."

Her smile faltered—just for a second.

"Yes, of course."

I nodded, acknowledging Clara’s lingering stare, then strode past them into the cool, silent maw of the house. The grand foyer, usually buzzing with household staff or the faint scent of fresh flowers, was strangely hushed. My mother followed, still dabbing her eyes, while Clara drifted after her.

I bypassed the drawing-room and the sunlit conservatory, heading straight for the main staircase. Each step was a familiar echo on the polished wood, leading to the wing that housed the master suites. My own rooms were exactly as I’d left them — impeccably clean, starkly luxurious. I threw my phone onto the bedside table and began to unbutton my shirt. The fabric felt heavy, sticking to my skin.

The hot water of the shower was a welcome assault, scalding away the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I scrubbed vigorously, trying to wash away the scent of disinfectants and the lingering image of Isabella’s pale face. But the exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness, clung to me like a second skin. It wasn’t just physical; it was the mental strain of the last two days, the terrifying uncertainty, and the fierce protectiveness that had coiled itself around my heart.

When I emerged, a towel wrapped low around my waist, the mirror reflected a man who looked older than his years. Dark circles smudged beneath my eyes, and a muscle twitched in my jaw.

I dressed in fresh clothes – dark trousers, a crisp white shirt left unbuttoned at the collar – and ran a hand through my damp hair. The hour was nearly up.

My study was located on the ground floor, a sanctuary of mahogany and leather-bound books. The air was cool, faintly scented with old paper and polished wood. I walked to the large oak desk, poured myself a glass of whiskey from the decanter, and took a slow sip. The burn in my throat was a dull comfort.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Enter." My voice was devoid of inflection of stress.

Clara pushed the door open, closing it quietly behind her. She had changed, too. Gone was the polite-society dress; now she wore a tailored skirt suit of a deep emerald green, perfectly complementing her blonde hair. She looked composed, almost regal. Yet, her eyes, those same bright, unspoken eyes, immediately sought mine, dissecting.

She moved gracefully, stopping a polite distance from the desk. "Adrien. You wanted to see me." Her voice was smooth, betraying nothing.

"Clara." I leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her. "Tell me exactly what you put in the cucumber slices at the spa. And why you paid someone a huge amount of money to make sure Isabella used them."

She blinked. "Adrien—"

"Don’t lie."

Clara’s expression faltered before she placed a hand to her chest, a dramatic, almost theatrical gesture. Tears welled up in her eyes as she let out a shaky breath. "I-I just wanted her to try the product. That’s all. I never meant to hurt her, Adrien. I swear."

I stared at her, my expression unreadable.

"You didn’t think to test it on yourself first? On my mother? Why just Isabella?"

Her lips quivered, her eyes dropping to the floor before she looked up at me, full of sincerity. "I... I did use it, Adrien. That’s why I took the rose gel pads. In case anyone had a reaction."

I exhaled slowly, trying to suppress the irritation that built inside me. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t let her see the skepticism forming.

I stared at her for a moment. Silent.

Is she telling me the truth?

I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

I could feel the weight of the silence pressing down as I stared at her, wondering whether I should simply leave it. Or push further.

"You’re telling me you used it." I kept my voice neutral. "Fine. Bring me the solution you used, and the gel pads you’ve mentioned."

Her eyes widened, the tears thickening, but she nodded and stepped back. "You... you don’t believe me?"

"My belief is irrelevant, Clara," I said, my voice cutting through her distress. "I require evidence. Bring me the solution and the pads. Now."

The welling tears seemed to freeze, and her eyes, still bright, held a flicker of something colder, sharper, before she managed to re-school her features. She gave a small, stiff nod.

"Of course," she murmured, her voice thin. She turned on her heel and glided out of the study, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

I walked around the desk, picked up my glass of whiskey, and swirled the amber liquid, watching the light reflect through it. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

The minutes dragged, stretching into an eternity. I took a slow sip of the whiskey, the burn doing little to calm the knot of tension in my stomach. A soft knock sounded again, disturbing my train of thoughts.

"Enter."

Clara re-entered, her composure once more perfectly in place. In her hands, she held a packet of sachets, neatly stacked, and a sealed pouch of what looked like translucent gel pads. She presented them to me as if offering a prized artifact.

"Here," she said, her voice steady. "The calming cucumber solution. And the rose gel pads I used."

I didn’t waste any time as I took the sachets from her. My fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch, her expression carefully neutral. I held the packet up to the light, scrutinizing the label. It looked authentic, professional, a standard cosmetic product. But authenticity in appearance didn’t mean anything about the contents.

I pressed the intercom. "Charles. Bring me a cucumber. Sliced. And a clean glass bowl."

"Yes, sir."

When the butler brought them in, I took the bowl and set it on the table between us. Laid the slices inside. Then looked up at her.

"Pour the solution."

Clara hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze flicking between the bowl, the sachets, and my unyielding face. She picked up one of the sachets, her movements precise. With a delicate tearing motion, she opened it and began to pour the clear liquid over the cucumber slices.

The faint scent of aloe filled the room.

I checked my watch. "How long before the cucumbers are removed?"

"Ten minutes." She answered quickly.

I nodded, then set a timer for the full ten minutes. The quiet beep of the timer felt deafening as the seconds ticked by.

The tension in the room was thick, as though the very air was charged with unsaid things, her fear simmering just below the surface.

"Sit," I commanded.

She sat, her posture stiff and her hands wringing the hem of her sleeve. I didn’t speak again, merely watching her as the cucumbers began to soak in the solution.

Clara’s eyes flickered between the bowl and me. I didn’t look at her; my attention remained solely on the cucumbers. The solution was working. And when the timer hit ten minutes, I would know if the reaction she’d induced was real—or if she was lying.