Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 158: Ten Minutes to Truth [II]

Chapter 158: Ten Minutes to Truth [II]

The timer ticked down. Three minutes left.

Clara’s hands twisted in her lap, but she didn’t move. Her eyes, glossy with restrained tears, flicked between me and the bowl of cucumber slices now soaking quietly in the liquid she had brought.

"You’re really just going to sit there and wait to prove I meant to hurt her," she whispered. "Do you really think I’m that kind of person?"

I didn’t answer. My gaze stayed trained on her, unreadable.

"I told you already," she continued, voice cracking, "I used it on myself. I tested it. That’s why I had the gel pads too—just in case anyone felt a sting. I didn’t want to risk anything."

"Then why pay someone under the table?"

Her mouth opened—then closed. That flicker of panic was back, brief and sharp, flashing in her eyes before she could bury it again under a trembling pout.

"I... I didn’t want it traced back to me," she said, her voice barely audible.

"And why not?" I pressed. "If it was harmless, like you claim."

Clara swallowed hard. "Because I panicked. I knew how it would look... me giving something to your girlfriend, and then something goes wrong? I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me."

I leaned forward, voice quiet. "Clara, I don’t need you to be afraid of me. I need the truth."

"I’m telling you the truth," she said quickly. "I didn’t tamper with it. I didn’t touch it after giving it to the spa worker. I don’t know if someone swapped it or if she had a rare allergy, but I swear on my life—Adrien—I would never intentionally harm her."

There was something raw in her tone. Desperate, yes—but honest.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"If I wanted to harm Isabella, would I really be this... this scared right now?"

"You could be acting," I said coolly.

She looked up at me, eyes red-rimmed. "You know me better than that Adrien."

Silence.

A soft ding echoed through the room.

I turned to the bowl.

I picked up one of the slices with a set of silver tongs I’d placed nearby and dropped it onto a clean white napkin. Then another. I waited. Observed.

It looked perfectly normal, a vibrant green, slightly slick with the clear liquid. There was no discoloration, no bubbling, and no sign of any adverse reaction. No angry red spots, no tell-tale inflammation. The faint scent of aloe remained. It was exactly the same as when she had first poured it.

I set the slice back down gently, the small sound echoing in the quiet study. Then, slowly, I raised my eyes to Clara.

Her breath hitched. Her gaze was fixed on the cucumber slices, then on my face, searching for a verdict. The silence stretched, heavy with expectation.

"The solution appears... inert," I stated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "These cucumbers show no adverse reaction."

A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through Clara. Her shoulders relaxed fractionally, then tensed again as she waited for what came next. The relief that bloomed in her eyes was quickly overshadowed by a fresh wave of anxiety.

"I told you," she whispered, her voice still fragile. "I didn’t tamper with it."

"So you claim this is the exact same solution you gave to the spa worker for Isabella?" I pressed, not letting her off the hook.

She nodded rapidly, a desperate affirmation. "Yes. Exactly the same batch. I only had a few sachets left from my own supply."

My eyes narrowed.

"Charles," I called through the open door.

He appeared immediately.

"Bring me gloves. And the contact test kit from the lab drawer in the cellar storage."

"Yes, sir."

Clara stiffened. "Adrien—"

I turned to her. "You said this was safe. That you used it yourself. I’d like to know if it really is."

"I told you—"

"Your word isn’t enough."

Moments later, Charles returned. He carried a small, sterile tray. On it rested a pair of disposable nitrile gloves, a sealed packet containing what looked like several small, clear adhesive patches, and a digital microscope. He placed the tray on the table between us.

I pulled on the gloves with slow, deliberate movements, the crisp tearing sound of the plastic bag echoing in the room. Clara flinched with each sound.

"This kit is designed for hypoallergenic patch testing," I explained, more to myself than to her, my focus entirely on the task at hand. "It allows for controlled application and magnified observation of skin reactions over time."

I picked up the testing swab.

"Expose your arm."

She flinched. "What?"

"Expose your arm," I repeated, my voice even, leaving no room for argument. "The inner forearm, just above the wrist."

Clara stared at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "You... you want to test it on me?" Her voice rose, thin and reedy. "But why? The cucumbers... they showed nothing. I told you, I used it on myself before. It’s harmless!"

"Then you have nothing to fear," I countered, my gaze unwavering. "If it’s harmless, as you claim, then a controlled application on your skin should show the same. No reaction. No sting. No inflammation." I gestured pointedly at the tray. "The kit is designed for rapid, localized testing. We’ll know within minutes if there’s an immediate adverse effect."

Her face was pale, a desperate flush rising only on her cheeks. "This is ridiculous, Adrien! You’re putting me through this humiliation because you refuse to believe me. After all these years..."

"Roll up your sleeve."

Clara’s shoulders slumped. She looked away, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. With a shaky hand, she slowly pushed up the sleeve of her silk blouse, exposing a slender, pale forearm. Her skin was flawless, unblemished. She held it out hesitantly, her hand trembling.

I picked up one of the adhesive patches from the sterile packet. It was small, a transparent circle with a tiny, absorbent pad in the center. Carefully, using the silver tongs, I dipped the pad into the bowl of clear liquid, allowing it to soak for a moment. The solution clung to it, glistening.

Then, with precise, measured movements, I applied the wet patch to the inside of Clara’s forearm. The cool, damp sensation made her flinch, and she let out a small, involuntary gasp. I pressed it gently to ensure full contact, then retrieved the digital microscope.

"Hold still," I instructed, bending closer. The microscope’s lens hovered just above the patch, connected by a slender cable to a small screen on the table. The magnified image of Clara’s skin, with the clear patch adhered, now filled the monitor. Her pores, the fine hairs, the healthy, even tone – all were starkly visible.

Clara kept her arm rigidly still, her eyes fixed on the screen, then on my face. Her breathing was shallow, ragged. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the air conditioning and the faint, rhythmic whir of the microscope.

We waited.

Seconds stretched into a palpable tension, each one ticking by with agonizing slowness. I watched the screen intently, my brow furrowed in concentration, searching for the slightest change: a faint blush, a subtle swelling, the tell-tale rush of blood vessels turning crimson.

Clara’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her gaze flickered between the screen, which showed only her normal skin under the patch, and my unreadable expression. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, bitten raw.

Nothing.

No immediate redness. No irritation. No visible reaction at all. The patch remained clear, the skin beneath it calm and unblemished, just as it had been on the cucumber slices.

I straightened up slowly, pulling off the gloves. I looked at Clara, whose eyes were now wide with a fragile hope.

"It appears..." I began, my voice quiet, "to be non-reactive on your skin, at least within this immediate timeframe."

Clara let out a shaky breath, a sob escaping her lips. "See?" she whispered, tears streaming freely now. "I told you, Adrien. I told you. It’s a gentle formula! It’s harmless. I would never... I would never hurt her. Isabella must have... overreacted. Or perhaps she had an allergy."

I didn’t speak right away.

Clara was trembling now—barely holding herself together under the weight of what she thought was vindication. But I was still staring at the screen, at the image of her skin under that translucent patch. Still flawless. Still undisturbed.

I wanted to believe her.

And right now, there was nothing telling me not to.

I reached forward and turned off the monitor, the image vanishing in a blink. Then, I peeled the patch gently from her skin and dropped it onto the tray. My hands were slow, careful, and deliberate—trying not to startle her, though she’d already unraveled.

I walked to the bar, poured another inch of whiskey, and turned back to face her.

"You understand why I had to do this," I said finally.

She nodded, wiping at her cheeks with shaking fingers. "I do. I hate it. But I do."

Silence settled for a beat too long.

Then, quietly, "Adrien..."

I looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly.

Clara’s voice was softer now—raw, stripped of performance."I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I didn’t even know she’d react. And when she did, I panicked. I never wanted this to blow up into something bad. I thought I could just... slip it in, impress her maybe, get her to like something I introduced. Nothing more."

She hesitated, eyes darting toward me, full of something that looked suspiciously like shame.

"Please don’t look at me like that," she whispered. "Adrien, I know I messed up. I know I’m not perfect. But you think I’d risk your mother seeing something go wrong? Or you? I’m not that heartless."

Her voice cracked. And for a moment, I didn’t see the now matured Clara—I saw the girl I used to know. That little silly girl. The one who always tried too hard to be part of things. The one who doesn’t crumbled under pressure and tried to fix it with charm and too many apologies. My... old friend.

I exhaled, slow and heavy. The anger was still there, but so was something else. Something messier.

There was a beat of stillness. I stepped around the desk and leaned against the edge again, closer to her.

Her eyes searched mine — vulnerable, pleading.

And before I could stop myself, I opened my arms.

She blinked, stunned, but then moved — quickly, like she’d been waiting for permission to fall apart. Her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, her head pressing against my chest. I felt her tremble. Her breaths were shallow and uneven, shuddering out of her like she’d been holding them in for hours.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

I let her stay like that, just for a few seconds — long enough to acknowledge the girl I used to know.

I pulled away abruptly, stepping back and breaking the contact, my hands falling to my sides.

"You realize how dangerous that was."

She nodded, tearful, still clinging to the contact. "I do now."

I stepped back fully. The warmth was gone as quickly as it had come. "For now," I said, voice steady, "I believe you."

Clara’s head snapped up. "You do?"

"But if I find out otherwise—" my tone shifted, colder, "—if I find out there was more to this. You won’t like the outcome."

Her voice cracked. "I understand"

I stared at her for another long moment. Then finally gave a short nod. "Alright."

Clara stood, slowly rolling her sleeve back down with trembling fingers. "Thank you. I... I know I don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt."

I didn’t answer that.

"You can leave."

She stiffened, blinking. "Leave?"

"You’re no longer needed here."

Her lips parted, like she wanted to protest—but she didn’t. She just nodded again, this time tighter, and walked to the door.

She paused there. "Adrien?"

I looked up.

"I’m glad she’s okay."

Then she left, heels echoing down the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind her.