Inside the elevator, alone with Gabriel, Claire's heart is beating so madly she's afraid the man beside her could hear all of it. And it's so confusing: why must she feel this way? It's only work. It's only a job. And—as she keeps reminding herself even in her dark moments of honesty—it will end in less than a month. So she must always manage her own expectations. And yet. Here she is. With her boss, her fake fiancé. And he's still holding her hand.
"Uhh, Mr. Tan," Claire mutters, the faintest of whispers. "You're, uhh, you're…still holding my hand."
"Ohh," he says, and releases it with a jerk, as if he just woke up from a dream. But did she feel a reluctance to let go just right there? "I'm sorry."
Claire instantly regrets why she had to call him out like that. She could have just let him hold her hand. For as long as he wanted. You stupid girl. Why must you always open your mouth?
