Chapter 2 Secret Double Romance
# Chapter 2: Secret Double Romance
Managing two lives would be complicated for anyone, but when those lives include two different men who both believe they're in an exclusive relationship with you—well, that's a tightrope walk without a safety net.
My morning routine had become a ritual of transformation. As the sun rose, I would check my phone for any messages from Zane that Vera had received the night before, respond appropriately, then tuck that phone into a hidden compartment in my nightstand. Out would come Clara's phone, where I'd find Evan's predictable "Good morning, beautiful" text waiting for me.
Two phones, two men, two versions of myself.
"I don't know how you do it," my friend Alicia said over coffee one Tuesday morning. She was the only person who knew about my dual existence, and even she didn't understand the full extent of it.
I stirred my latte absently. "Do what?"
"Keep it all straight," she replied, lowering her voice even though we were alone in my kitchen. "The lies, the schedules, the personalities. Doesn't it exhaust you?"
I considered her question. Did it exhaust me? Sometimes, yes. But there was also an exhilaration to it—the rush of successfully navigating between worlds, of being exactly who each man needed me to be.
"It's not about lying," I explained. "It's about compartmentalizing. Clara and Vera are both me—just different aspects."
Alicia raised an eyebrow. "And which one is the real you?"
That was the question I couldn't answer, not even to myself.
"I should get to work," I said instead, rising to rinse my cup. "I have patients waiting."
At the hospital, I was fully Clara—focused, efficient, compassionate in a measured way. I performed a complex procedure, consulted on a difficult case, and mentored a nervous resident through his first solo diagnosis. By lunchtime, thoughts of Vera and Zane felt distant, like characters from a book I'd read long ago.
My phone vibrated as I was updating a patient chart. Evan.
*Lunch today? I'm near the hospital for a client meeting.*
I smiled. His thoughtfulness was one of the qualities that had drawn Clara to him from the beginning.
We met at a small café across from the hospital. Evan was already waiting, a portfolio of building plans on the table beside him.
"You look beautiful," he said as I sat down, and I knew he meant it even though I was wearing scrubs with my hair pulled back in a functional ponytail.
"Thank you," I replied, touched by the sincerity in his eyes. "How's the library project going?"
He launched into an explanation of his latest design modifications, his face animated with genuine passion. This was what Clara loved about Evan—his quiet enthusiasm for creating spaces that would serve others, his attention to detail, his patience.
"I've been thinking," he said as we finished our sandwiches. "Maybe we should look at places this weekend? Just to see what's out there for us."
"Places?" I echoed.
"For when we move in together," he clarified. "I know we said we'd use your apartment, but it might be nice to find somewhere that's ours from the beginning. A fresh start."
A fresh start. The phrase hung between us, laden with meaning. Part of me—Clara—yearned for exactly that. A chance to simplify, to choose one path and follow it with this good, kind man.
"That sounds wonderful," I said, reaching for his hand. "Let's do it."
His smile was radiant. "I'll set up some viewings. Maybe Sunday morning?"
I nodded, mentally checking my calendar. Sunday morning was safe. Vera rarely made appearances before noon on weekends.
As he walked me back to the hospital, Evan talked about the future with such certainty—weekend trips we would take, holidays we would host, the life we would build together. Clara responded enthusiastically, making plans and suggestions, while a small voice in the back of my mind wondered what Vera would think of these domestic dreams.
The afternoon passed in a blur of patients and paperwork. By six, I was exhausted but satisfied with the day's work. I changed out of my scrubs into Clara's modest blouse and slacks, said goodbye to my colleagues, and headed home with every intention of having a quiet evening.
Then Vera's phone buzzed from its hiding place.
*Tonight. The Crimson Door. 10 PM. I have a surprise for you.*
Zane's message sent a familiar thrill through me. The Crimson Door was an exclusive club, the kind of place where the music was louder, the drinks stronger, the crowd edgier than The Blue Room. Vera loved it there.
I should say no, I thought. I should get some rest. I have an early surgery tomorrow.
But already I could feel Vera stirring within me, hungry for excitement, for Zane's touch, for the liberation of the night.
*I'll be there,* I texted back.
By nine-thirty, Clara had been carefully packed away. Vera emerged in a black dress that clung like a shadow, hair wild, eyes rimmed with kohl. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror as I left and barely recognized the woman staring back.
The Crimson Door was pulsing with energy when I arrived. I bypassed the line, the bouncer recognizing me with a nod—one of the perks of being Zane's girl. Inside, the club was a kaleidoscope of colored lights and writhing bodies. I scanned the crowd for him, feeling the bass vibrate through my bones.
"Looking for someone?" His voice was suddenly in my ear, his arm slipping around my waist from behind.
I turned into his embrace, taking in the sight of him—dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes that seemed to see right through my facades, that dangerous smile that made Vera's heart race.
"Not anymore," I replied, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw.
He captured my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. "Come with me."
Zane led me through the crowd to a VIP section in the back. A bottle of expensive champagne waited in an ice bucket, alongside a small black box.
"What's this?" I asked as we settled onto a velvet couch, the music slightly muted in this secluded corner.
"Open it," he said, pouring champagne into two flutes.
Inside the box was a silver bracelet, delicate yet edgy, with a small charm in the shape of a crescent moon.
"Zane, it's beautiful," I breathed, genuinely surprised. Gifts weren't typically part of our relationship—we dealt in experiences, in moments, not tangible tokens.
He took the bracelet and fastened it around my wrist. "I saw it and thought of you," he said. "My night girl."
My night girl. The phrase both thrilled and unsettled me. It was accurate—Vera existed only after dark—but hearing him say it made my double life suddenly seem more real, more complicated.
"Thank you," I said, leaning in to kiss him. What had started as a simple thank you deepened quickly, Zane's hands tangling in my hair, my body responding to his touch with an intensity Clara never felt with Evan.
We spent hours at the club, dancing, drinking, losing ourselves in each other and the pulsing rhythm of the night. With Zane, there was no talk of the future, no plans beyond the next drink, the next song, the next kiss. It was liberating and terrifying all at once.
Later, at his loft apartment—an industrial space filled with motorcycle parts and abstract art—we lay tangled in his sheets, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
What was I thinking? That in less than twelve hours, Clara would be standing in an operating room, saving a life. That Evan was probably asleep in his neat apartment, dreaming of our future together. That I was living a lie so complete I sometimes wondered if either of my lives was real.
"Nothing important," I said, pressing a kiss to his chest.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and at the same moment, I heard the muffled sound of my Clara phone ringing from inside my purse across the room. A strange coincidence that made my stomach tighten.
Zane reached for his phone while I slipped from the bed, wrapping a sheet around me as I hurried to silence Clara's phone before he could hear it.
"Work emergency," Zane muttered, frowning at his screen. "I need to deal with this."
Relief washed over me as I retrieved Clara's phone, seeing Evan's name on the display. I declined the call and silenced the phone, then quickly checked for messages.
*Can't sleep thinking about our future. Call me if you're still up. Love you.*
Guilt twisted in my chest as I tucked the phone away. Behind me, Zane was pulling on jeans, distracted by whatever work crisis had erupted.
"I need to go handle this," he said apologetically. "Some issue with a client in a different time zone. You can stay if you want."
"I should probably head home anyway," I said, grateful for the excuse. "Early morning tomorrow."
As I dressed, my two phones felt like lead weights in my purse. For the first time, I had a visceral sense of how precarious my balancing act had become. What if Evan had called while Zane and I were together? What if Zane had seen the name on my screen?
I kissed Zane goodbye at his door, promising to text him tomorrow, then took a rideshare back to my apartment. As the city lights blurred past the window, I felt the familiar shift beginning—Vera receding, Clara emerging as dawn approached.
By the time I reached my bedroom, I was exhausted in a way that transcended physical tiredness. I carefully placed Vera's phone in its hiding spot, set Clara's on the charger, and removed Zane's bracelet, tucking it into a jewelry box where Evan would never see it.
As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I wondered how long I could keep spinning these separate worlds before they collided. The thought should have terrified me, but part of me—a part that was neither Clara nor Vera but something more fundamental—almost welcomed the idea of collision.
At least then I would know which life was real, which love was true, which woman I truly was.
