À Contre-Cœur

by meisjerauw

Summary:

À Contre-Cœur - a feeling that arrives uninvited, settling in the spaces you swore were closed.

It begins with tension, with glances that linger a second too long, with words that cut just as often as they hide something softer.
Two lives moving in opposite directions, colliding in ways neither expected, pulled into a slow dance of resistance and surrender.

It's the story of what happens when the heart moves first, when pride tries to keep pace and fails, when something fragile grows where only friction lived before.

Not chosen. Not planned. Just inevitable - à contre-cœur.

Chapter 1: One

Summary:

A few months ago I promised one of my readers on tumblr to write 'bad boy' joost. So here we are.

The evening had settled into Charlène’s bones like a fine, persistent dust. Another day, another rented studio with the chemical smell of cheap flash photography and the hollow compliments of a stylist who couldn’t remember her name. The bar, a dim cave tucked close to her apartment, welcomed her with its familiar embrace of neglect.

Her sanctuary was the quiet hum of a broken refrigerator and the stale scent of yesterday’s cigarettes. The red wine in her glass wasn’t a vintage, it was a lukewarm, acidic consolation prize. She drank it anyway, each sip a slow erasure of the hours spent holding a smile that felt plastered on. The real discomfort, however, was a private rebellion beneath her clothes. The structured bra, an essential contraption of wire and lace for the camera, had turned traitor. Its underwire was a cold, rigid finger pressing insistently against her ribcage, a reminder of the scaffolding required to hold her public shape together.

A faint grimace touched her lips. Her hand drifted upward, a fleeting, furtive movement to shift the offending strap. It was then her eyes met those of that new bartender, a gaunt man polishing the same glass for the third time. His glance wasn’t one of curiosity, but a flat, lingering observation, a proprietor noting a flaw in his sparse inventory. The message was clear: We don’t fidget here. We just disappear.

The air, suddenly, felt parched enough to crack. Charlène’s breath caught, then released in a silent, defeated stream. Abandoning the mission, her hand retreated from her collarbone not to her glass, but to the heavy wool of her trench coat. With a slow, deliberate tug, she drew the two sides together like closing a curtain, swallowing the glimpse of silk and skin, sealing the performed self back inside its casing. The only performance left was that of being no one at all, a shadow at the bar dissolving into the comforting gloom. She became a still life: a woman, a coat, a glass of wine that had long since stopped pretending to be anything but bitter.

The thought arrived, unbidden and bitter, cutting through the haze of the cheap wine. Her sister Eleanor was supposed to be here. The one solid plank in the rickety bridge of her evenings. But, of course, the text had come: the little one was sick. And Pierre, Eleanor’s husband, was, as always, "too strained, too busy, just not up for it." As if fatherhood was a casual hobby and not a fundamental promise. As if Eleanor’s entire career hadn’t dissolved into the soft, demanding tyranny of motherhood she now faced alone.

A familiar, cold dislike coiled in Charlène’s gut. She hated Pierre. Hated the way his name felt in her mind, a short, sharp syllable of contempt. He was a petty, small-souled man whose very presence in a room seemed to thin the air. She could picture him with perfect, nauseating clarity: the dismissive wave of his hand, the way he weaponized his own mediocrity as an excuse. He had taken her bright, laughing sister and slowly, brick by brick, walled her into a life of quiet apology.

She had watched it happen. Had bitten her tongue until she tasted copper. "It’s not my life," she would mutter to herself, a sacred, resentful mantra. "Not my choice." She policed the borders of her own silence fiercely, offering Eleanor a sanctuary for complaints over coffee but never crossing the line into outright condemnation. It was a form of love, she supposed, this strained, powerless respect for a bad decision. But it left her here, alone in this stale bar, with nothing but the ghost of a canceled plan and the sour understanding that some forms of ruin came with wedding bands and signed mortgages. Her sister’s world had shrunk to the dimensions of a sick child’s bedroom and a husband’s fragile ego. And her own world, by proxy, felt smaller, lonelier for it.

A sharp gesture, two fingers raised, brought the young bartender scurrying. He reminded her of an eager, underfed puppy — all clumsy limbs and transparent intentions. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. His eyes held a flicker of hopeful, boyish interest that made her feel ancient, a dusty relic in a museum of youthful folly. Her twenty-nine-year-old soul, weary and cynical, recoiled. It was a sad commentary on her romantic life that this was the most attention she’d garnered in weeks, and a sadder testament to her standards that she’d sooner drink alone forever.

He placed the fresh glass before her with a smile meant to be charming. "Merci," she said, the word clipped and final as a slamming door. From the corner of her eye, she saw his mouth open, a new, hopeful sentence forming. She cut him off with a glance — a flat, irritated look that stripped any fantasy bare. He deflated, exhaled, and retreated to his post. Charlène allowed her own shoulders to slump, a minor surrender to the solitude.

She drank, already calculating the dull, familiar throb that would greet her tomorrow morning. A headache was just the interest on the debt of forgetting. Would she want to be twenty again? The French had invented many wonderful things, but not a time machine. The thought was a dry, internal joke. A soft, humorless hmph of air escaped her, a sound swallowed instantly by the bar’s gloom.

It was then the space beside her was violently occupied. Not with a person settling, but with a force plummeting. A man dropped onto the neighboring stool with a weight that seemed to carry the entire disagreeable world with him. He muttered something low and guttural — a language that scraped against the soft French in the air. German, maybe? It was foreign, abrupt, and utterly intrusive.

What the hell? The thought was a white-hot spike. The bar was a graveyard of empty seats. Why plant himself right here, in her fragile bubble of misery?

She instinctively leaned away, creating a sliver of defensive space. The smell hit her first — not just alcohol, but the sharp, peaty scent of good whisky already consumed, mixed with night air and something like damp wool. He was a silhouette in black: a hoodie pulled low, shadows where a face should be. A phantom of poor manners.

Then he spoke to the bartender, his voice a rough, low baritone that cut through the murmur. "Whisky. Ice." The English was fluent, but carved by a heavy, unmistakable Dutch accent. It rolled the 'r' in 'whisky' and clipped the sentence short, leaving no room for the bartender's puppy-dog enthusiasm.

Charlène stared rigidly ahead, her knuckles pale around her wine glass. The atmosphere had shifted. The quiet despair was now charged, edged with the unpredictable energy of a stranger who didn't follow the rules of polite solitude.

The instinct was primal and immediate: to gather her coat, her purse, her dignity, and retreat to the farthest shadowed corner. Her muscles tensed for the move. But then, a fiercer, more stubborn thought crystallized. Why should she? What right did this murmuring, whisky-scented intrusion have to displace her? This was her miserable sanctuary, claimed first. If the bar had been pulsing with life, shoulder to shoulder, it would be one thing — a simple matter of urban survival. But it was a desert. His choice of seat, directly in her orbit, was deliberate, or at the very least, profoundly antisocial. A scowl settled on her features, etching itself deeper than the day’s makeup. She would not budge.

Her gaze, refusing to look at his shadowed face, found a new anchor: his hands. They were wrapped around the heavy lowball glass, fingers tapping a slow, absent rhythm against the condensation. She used the pretext of studying her own wine to study him. The tattoos on his knuckles and fingers were stark against his skin — numbers. Years, most likely. A cold, inked chronology. In her world, fed by a lifetime of cinema and true-crime documentaries, such markings were a shorthand. They spoke of allegiance, of memory etched in pain, of a life lived on edges she only observed from a very safe distance. Hands and faces were billboards for stories you didn’t want to read.

She was so lost in this forensic analysis of his knuckles, constructing a whole fictional past of street corners and whispered threats, that she failed to realize her stare had become fixed, obvious. The realization of her own rudeness came too late. Her internal monologue had just landed on the contradictory observation that his hands, despite the ink, looked strangely cared-for — the nails clean, the skin not roughened — when he turned.

He looked directly at her.

It was so sudden she flinched. Her eyes, wide and caught, scrambled away, fixing desperately on a sticky ring on the bar top. She fumbled with her wine glass, her grip suddenly clumsy. The entire visual exchange lasted less than two seconds, but it burned. She had seen enough: a flash of hair so pale it was nearly white in the bar’s gloom, and eyes of a startling, clear blue that held neither threat nor apology, just a flat, assessing curiosity. The stereotype that snapped into place in her rattled mind wasn’t ‘criminal’. It was ‘Dutch’. Blunt, bright, and currently dissecting her with the same detached interest she’d just applied to his hands.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him dip his head slightly, turning it toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and gravelly, carved by the whisky and that distinct accent. "Is this some French thing? To stare at people with such... disdain?"

A wave of heat, equal parts fury and raw shame, flooded her cheeks. She exhaled sharply through her nose, looking away. In rapid, muttered French, she let the words spill under her breath, shaking her head faintly. "Si peu nombreux mais partout sous les pieds." (So few of them but everywhere underfoot.)

From beside her came a short, dry laugh, unmistakably laced with intoxication. "Ah," he said, the sound closer now. "That is definitely a French thing. To insult someone and not expect them to understand." He leaned in, just a fraction, and she caught the scent of peat and something citrusy. A faint, amused smirk was audible in his next words, spoken more quietly. "So. What gave me away?"

The shame that had warmed her face now shot straight to the tips of her ears, burning. She sat utterly still, caught. Her first, panicked instinct was to play the ultimate card of a Parisian confronted by an English speaker: to blank her face, to shrug in feigned incomprehension. To build a wall of pretended ignorance and retreat behind it. She stared fixedly at her wine, her mind scrambling for an exit that didn't involve standing up and admitting defeat.

She had hoped, with the brittle optimism of the deeply annoyed, that her silence would be a wall. That if she refused to acknowledge the intrusion, it would cease to exist. But she could feel the weight of his gaze, a physical pressure on the side of her face. When she finally, defiantly, turned her head back, she saw it: the faint, telltale sway in his posture, the slight blur in his otherwise sharp blue eyes. Drunk. Talking to a strange, drunk man in a bar was the prologue to every cautionary tale she’d ever ignored.

Yet, before the sensible thought could fully form, her mouth was already opening. Her English was fluent, a professional necessity, but it carried the melodic, unmistakable cadence of French. "You look… typical," she said, her voice cooler than she felt. "The accent. The blue eyes. The blonde." She gestured vaguely in his direction, a dismissive flick of her wrist.

He didn't just laugh, he barked out a short, surprised sound of amusement that seemed too loud for the quiet room. Then he leaned in, his eyes locking onto hers with an unnerving directness. "At least my blonde is not fake," he said, his gaze flicking pointedly to her hairline, where a dark, subtle shadow of her natural roots contrasted against the platinum of her long, styled hair.

Her hand flew to her short fringe, fingers brushing the hairs on her forehead in an instinctive, betraying gesture. Anger, hot and immediate, surged through the warm haze of the wine. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right?

He seemed to drink in her reaction, a satisfied, crooked smile playing on his lips as he took another swallow of whisky. Yes, she dyed her hair. Yes, her natural dark chestnut grew back with stubborn speed. But she liked it. It was hers. His jab shouldn't have landed, but it did, striking some raw, professional nerve about authenticity and artifice.

And the nearly four glasses of wine, now singing in her veins, took the reins. She turned her whole body toward him on the stool, her posture rigid with indignation. Looking him directly in those too-blue eyes, she let the words she’d been biting back all evening loose in a low, sharp torrent of her native tongue.

"Va te faire foutre, espèce de connard arrogant." (Go fuck yourself, you arrogant asshole.)

He blinked, his eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise, but it was quickly eclipsed by a look of pure, delighted fascination. He laughed before firing back, his Dutch sharp and pointed.

The anger in her throat boiled over. She swiveled fully to face him.

"Ah, so the famous Dutch directness is just bad manners and a lack of personal space?" she spat.

He leaned in, his blue eyes glinting. "And the famous French elegance is just staring at strangers like they're stains on your expensive coat?" he retorted.

They were no longer muttering. Their voices rose, sharpening in the empty bar.

"You sit here reeking of whisky, in a place where people come to be alone. It's tragic."

"You sit here drowning in cheap wine and self-pity. That is tragic." He shot back, gesturing to her glass.

"At least my vices are subtle. You look like a cartoon of a 'bad boy' with your... your juvenile hand tattoos." She waved dismissively at his knuckles.

"And you look like a painting that's been left in the rain. All the original colors are bleeding through." His gaze flicked again to her dark roots.

The insults were precise now, aimed at the vulnerabilities they'd each so carelessly exposed. The bartender had retreated entirely.

"Your accent is so thick I need a translator to understand your insults!"

"Your personality is so thin, I needed a microscope to find it!"

In her fury, Charlène made a wide, slashing gesture with her hand. It connected squarely with the base of her nearly empty wine glass.

The world seemed to hold its breath for one suspended second as the glass wobbled, tipped, and then plummeted from the edge of the bar.

The shatter was catastrophic — a high, violent explosion of sound that devoured every other noise in the room. A splash of deep red bloomed like a sudden wound on the tile floor, surrounded by a galaxy of glittering, dangerous shards.

The fight died, strangled by the silence that followed. Charlène stared, her breath caught in her throat, at the physical wreckage now lying between them. The storm of words had ended, leaving only the stark, undeniable evidence of its passage.

***

The cold Parisian air hit Charlène like a slap, a brutal contrast to the stale warmth of the bar. It was sharp with the scent of rain on ancient stone and the vague, sweet decay of fallen leaves from the lone tree by the curb. Behind them, the bar’s door was decisively shut, the muffled sound of the lock clicking into place a final, humiliating punctuation to the evening.

Of course they’d been thrown out. The shattered glass, the shouting — it was inevitable. Yet, a fresh wave of hot, petty anger washed over her. She liked this miserable bar. It was hers. Now, she’d be remembered as the unhinged blonde who started screaming matches with foreign drunks and broke things. The bartender’s terrified face flashed in her mind. Névrosée. Psycho. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet street.

Without looking at the man beside her — the cause of it all — she took two deliberate steps away, creating a canyon of damp pavement between them. Her fingers dove into the abyss of her bag, frantic and unseeing, searching for the solid rectangle of her phone. It was a prop, a shield, something to do with her hands that wasn’t shaking.

From the corner of her vision, a sudden, familiar flick-click-hiss. The sound of a lighter. Her eyes lifted, drawn by the flare of orange light in the dim blue evening.

Their gazes collided.

He was lighting a cigarette, his head tilted down, one hand cupped against the faint breeze to protect the flame. His hood had fallen back, revealing the full shock of his pale, almost white-blond hair. The fire illuminated the sharp planes of his face for a split second — the straight line of his nose, the focused set of his mouth — before it died, leaving only the ember’s glow. But his eyes, that startling Nordic blue, were already locked on hers over his still-cupped hands. He looked at her not with anger, but with a deep, unsettling curiosity, as if she were a complicated equation he’d just found scribbled on a wall.

A traitorous shiver, quick and electric, raced down her spine. She stiffened, forcing her expression into one of detached annoyance. She broke the stare first, looking back down into her bag as if the mysteries of its contents were the most compelling thing on the street. Her fingers finally closed around her phone, but she didn’t pull it out. She just stood there, holding onto it in the dark, feeling the ghost of that shared look like a physical touch on her skin. The silence between them was no longer filled with shouting. It was vast, heavy, and humming with something entirely new.

Her fingers, clumsy with residual adrenaline and the evening's wine, finally closed around her phone. The screen’s sudden glow was a harsh, artificial moon in the dark street, illuminating the notification: one new message from André. A flicker of something like normalcy — a friend, a plan, an escape from this realitprompted her to unlock it.

A lazy plume of smoke drifted into her periphery. “You need a taxi? Or something?” His voice was casual, almost bored, the gravelly tone softened by smoke. He asked it as if the last ten minutes had been a minor disagreement over a football score, not a screaming match that ended in shattered glass and eviction.

Her head snapped up. She met his eyes, a flat, furious stare. “Va te faire foutre,” she spat, the venom automatic. Then she drove the point home: “And you can shove your taxi right up your ass.”

He merely raised his eyebrows, spreading his hands in a ‘suit yourself’ gesture before rolling his eyes skyward. His entire posture screamed a world-weary I was just being polite, don’t flatter yourself. He turned his attention back to the quiet street, taking another long, unhurried drag on his cigarette, a statue of infuriating nonchalance.

Left simmering, Charlène looked back at her phone. The screen had gone dark. She tapped it again. André: Hey, you okay? Lunch tomorrow? I have news.

Simple words. A lifeline. But the letters swam before her eyes. She couldn’t corral her thoughts into coherence. News? What news? Her brain was a reverberating chamber, echoing only with the sound of breaking glass, the phantom pressure of his blue stare in the lighter's flare, and the profound, skin-crawling humiliation of standing exiled on the cold pavement. She stared at the message, seeing nothing, understanding less, paralyzed by the sheer, messy wreckage of the night and the silent, smoking architect of it standing two meters away.

She let out a sharp, frustrated breath and shoved the phone back into her bag. Enough. Turning on her heel, she began walking towards the refuge of her apartment, the familiar click of her boots on the pavement a welcome rhythm.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the night, landing squarely between her shoulder blades. Casual, insistent. “What’s your name?”

Charlène stopped. She turned her head halfway back over her shoulder, her body still angled toward escape. Without breaking her stride-in-place, she lifted her hands and raised her middle fingers in a flawless, unambiguous salute. Even from several paces away, in the dim yellow light of a streetlamp, she saw his eyes roll dramatically, a pale flash of exasperation.

Satisfied, she turned forward again and resumed walking. He could go to hell. He wasn’t getting her name.

But as she took the next few steps, a strange vacuum opened up inside her chest. The sharp, sustaining edge of her anger vanished, evaporating like the last wisp of his cigarette smoke in the damp air. It left behind nothing but a hollow, ringing fatigue. Her shoulders, which had been held rigid, slumped slightly under her coat. The performance was over, the audience of one was dismissed, and now there was only the quiet walk home and the echo of her own stupidity in the empty street. The fight had been the last spark in a dying fire, and now there were only cold ashes.

***

The weak autumn sun did little to warm the pavement, but the small café table was their island. Charlène sat with one leg crossed over the other, the tip of her cigarette glowing a dull orange as she took a slow drag. The smoke swirled and dissolved into the crisp Parisian air. Before her, steam rose in delicate tendrils from a cup of jasmine tea, its floral scent a clean counterpoint to the tobacco.

Across from her, André held court, his hands animated as he narrated the theatrical events of yesterday’s shoot. As a photographer, he was less a fly on the wall and more a sympathetic archivist of the industry’s daily absurdities.

“…and then the stylist, can you believe it, tried to argue that the puce-colored scarf was ‘visionary’ and not, as everyone with eyes could see, the color of a bruised eggplant. The model — the new Lithuanian girl, what’s her name — she looked like she was about to cry or commit murder. Maybe both.”

Charlène laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that surprised her as it left her lips. She took a sip of her tea, the hot liquid soothing. “And the designer? Did he finally look up from his phone?”

“Only to complain about the coffee,” André sighed dramatically, warming to his audience. “So, crisis one: existential despair over a scarf. Crisis two: an unjustly foamy cappuccino. It was a long afternoon.”

“What happened with the scarf?” she asked, tapping ash into the small tray.

“Compromise. We shot it twisted into a bizarre, headband-like configuration. It now looks less like a scarf and more like a head wound. Very avant-garde.” He waved a dismissive hand, then eyed her. “You’re looking very… pensive today. For you. The glasses are a good look, very ‘I have more important things to do than fight with contacts’. Which, for the record, I support.”

She offered a half-smile, avoiding the implicit question about her state of mind by gesturing with her cigarette. “It was either this or going out blind. So, did the Lithuanian girl survive?”

André continued his gossipy debrief, and Charlène listened, asked the right questions, laughed in the right places. The rhythm was familiar, the script well-rehearsed. Here, in this chair, with André, she could almost perform the role of the slightly cynical, amused model without the usual hollow feeling behind it.

“And what were these famous news?” Charlène asked, stubbing out her cigarette. The mundane gossip had been a pleasant distraction, but a thread of curiosity about André’s earlier message remained.

André’s face lit up. “Ah! Right!” He leaned forward, his hands immediately taking flight to illustrate his words. “Okay, so, listen. I have a friend, who has a friend, who knows this producer in Cologne…”

Charlène couldn’t help a small, knowing smile. André’s network was impressive. “Get to the heart of it, please. We’ll be here until sunset with all your ‘friends of friends’.”

“Fine, fine,” he conceded, but his enthusiasm was undimmed. “A colleague from Berlin called. He’s doing some PR for a musician — a rapper, I think — from the Netherlands. The guy wants to shoot some promo and merchandise visuals here in Paris. Someone told him French photographers have ‘a certain eye’.” André puffed out his chest slightly, clearly taking this as a personal compliment to his entire nation’s artistic sensibility. “So, my colleague asked if I could handle the shoot and source a model who fits a… how did he put it… ‘a specific, non-cliché Parisian vibe’. And I immediately thought —”

“Wait, Netherlands?” The words shot out of Charlène’s mouth, sharp and cold, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her pleasant expression vanished, replaced by a scowl. “God, don’t they ever stay in their own country? It’s always something with them. Do they have a national allergy to staying put?”

The change was so sudden, so venomous, that André physically recoiled. His hands froze in mid-air. His mouth fell open in genuine, unvarnished shock. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision. He hadn’t seen Charlène snap like this in years — not with this kind of raw, personal irritation.

The force of her own outburst seemed to hit her a moment later. She saw his stunned face, the curious glance from the elderly woman at the next table. A hot flush of shame crawled up her neck. What are you doing? she screamed at herself internally.

She immediately deflated, her shoulders slumping. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice dropping back to its normal register. She picked up her tea cup, her fingers trembling slightly, and took a deliberately slow sip, avoiding his eyes. She scanned the few other café patrons, hoping her little scene had gone largely unnoticed. “That was… uncalled for. Long night. Please, continue.” The words were calm, but the air between them now crackled with unasked questions.

André scratched the back of his head, the motion slow and bewildered. A strange, heavy pause settled over the table, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic.

Then, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned in, his usual theatricality gone. His voice dropped to a low, intimate register. “You know what I’m going to ask,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “You might as well just tell me what that was. Because that,” he gestured vaguely at the air where her outburst had hung, “was not about a nation’s tourism habits.”

Charlène sighed, a long, weary sound. She stared into her tea, watching the pale leaves settle at the bottom. She didn’t understand it herself — the sudden, visceral lurch in her stomach at the mere mention of the place. “I… met a man last night. At the bar. He was Dutch. And he was… insufferable. We had a… disagreement.” The words were brittle, offering the barest skeleton of the truth, stripped of all its chaotic, shouting, glass-shattering flesh.

André’s expression shifted from curiosity to concern. He straightened up a little. “Did he give you trouble? Are you okay?” The protective edge in his voice was genuine.

She waved a dismissive hand, a quick, sharp motion. “No, no trouble. It’s fine. He was just an annoying drunk. It’s nothing.” She forced a thin smile, eager to brick over the crack in her composure. “Really. Forget it. Tell me more about this shoot. What’s the ‘non-cliché Parisian vibe’? Do I need to start chain-smoking Gauloises and reread Sartre?” She attempted her old, dry humor, steering them back to the safe, professional shores of gossip and work.

André studied her for a beat longer, clearly not fully convinced but willing to retreat. He nodded slowly, picking up the thread she offered. “Well, according to the brief, it means ‘not standing in front of the Eiffel Tower’. So, think more gritty alleyways, faded metro stations, that sort of thing.” He launched back into the details, but his eyes occasionally flicked back to her face, watching for any new flicker of that unexplained storm.

André continued outlining the logistics — the proposed dates, the vague creative direction mentioning "urban melancholy" and "authentic texture" — and concluded with a casual flourish. "So, I confirmed as the photographer this morning," he said, then a sly, triumphant grin spread across his face. "And I put your name forward as the model. Consider it booked."

Charlène choked on her jasmine tea. A sharp cough racked her frame as she thumped her chest, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You did what?" she sputtered, her voice a mixture of shock and rising irritation. "André, you cannot make these decisions for me! I don't know anything concrete! The style, the aesthetic… what if it's trashy? There are a hundred details to clarify, and you just… you just decided?" Her words tumbled out, a frantic attempt to regain control over a situation that had just been wrested from her.

André merely waved a dismissive hand, unfazed by her outburst. "When have I ever led you to a bad job? Name one time." He arched an eyebrow, calling her bluff.

She fell silent, scowling. He hadn't. That was the infuriating truth. His taste was impeccable, his professional instincts sharp. She could trust him. But still.

He saw her hesitation, the conflict between pride and pragmatism tightening her jaw. He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He played his final, undeniable card. "Let me tell you what he's paying. For two days." He named a figure.

Charlène's furious retort died on her lips. Her eyebrows, which had been knitted together in annoyance, shot up towards her hairline. The number was not just good, it was transformative. It was three months of rent. It was the ability to say no to the next five "niche brand" shoots offering payment in "exposure" and cheap clothes.

André knew. He knew about the perpetual tightness in her budget, the careful calculations over every cup of coffee. He knew exactly where to apply pressure.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them. The fight drained out of her posture, replaced by a weary, pragmatic slump. She looked away, out at the passersby, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. The principle of the thing — his high-handedness, the Dutch connection — crumbled against the sheer, solid weight of the number he had uttered.

She didn't say yes. She didn't need to. Her silence was a white flag, and André's slow, satisfied smile showed he knew he'd won. The battle was over before it truly began, surrendered not to his argument, but to the stark, unglamorous arithmetic of survival.

A stretch of silence followed the unspoken agreement, filled only with the clink of her spoon as she stirred her now-lukewartea. Finally, without looking up, her voice carefully neutral, she asked, "What do you know about him? This... rapper."

André leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. "Chaotic. A lot of energy on and off stage, from what I've heard. But sharp. Knows his worth, knows what he wants. He's a big deal there, apparently. Was at Eurovision last year, but something went sideways. Some scandal or incident, the details are fuzzy."

It meant nothing to her. Rap was not a genre that found its way into her quiet apartment, and Eurovision was a glittery memory from a decade ago, if that. She gave a slight, noncommittal shrug.

André exhaled a laugh, a gleam of gossip in his eye. "And judging by the comments on his socials? The man is a hot mess in the best way, according to his fans. The girls are absolutely feral for him. A proper 'hot piece of work', as they say."

Charlène rolled her eyes skyward, a reflexive dismissal of such frivolity. Yet, against her will, a faint, wry smile touched her lips. The description — chaotic, a hot mess — felt unsettlingly, annoyingly familiar. It painted a public picture that mirrored her private, bruising encounter: unpredictable, intense, and leaving a trail of disrupted calm in his wake. The professional opportunity now had a face, a reputation, and a disconcerting echo of the previous night's disaster.

André clicked his tongue. “I’m just talking, talking. I should just show you.” He waved a hand and began scrolling through his phone.

Charlène took another sip of her tea, the floral taste suddenly bland. She waited, her mind a careful blank, constructing a polite, professional interest.

“Ah, here. His Instagram,” André announced, turning the screen towards her.

She lifted her gaze.

And the world tilted.

Staring back at her from the bright rectangle was the same face that had been inches from hers last night, lit by the flicker of a lighter. Those same piercing blue eyes, now crinkled with a performer’s smile in one photo, intense and focused in another. The shock of pale hair. The line of his jaw she’d wanted to slap. It was him.

Her own eyes flew wide open. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin cold. She jerked her head up to stare at André, her composure shattering.

The words tore out of her, too loud for the quiet café. It wasn’t a question, it was a strangled accusation against the universe.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

Chapter 2: Two

They walked quickly, almost at a jog, their footsteps slapping against the wet pavement as a fine, cold rain began to mist the air. It clung to Charlène’s heated cheeks, a feeble counterpoint to the simmering frustration within. André, half a step behind, struggled to keep up with her furious pace.

“Are you absolutely certain it was him?” André pressed again, his voice strained as he dodged a puddle. “It just seems so… absurd. The Joost Klein I’ve read about is chaotic, sure, but in a creative way. A showman. Not some… drunken lout picking fights in a dive bar.”

Charlène whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “So, you’re calling me a liar now? Or just delusional?”

“I’m saying maybe you’re mistaken! Maybe it was just some random guy who looked like him!”

“He had the tattoos, André! The same face from your phone! Who else would it be?” Her voice rose, competing with the soft patter of rain. “Or do you think I’m so desperate I’m hallucinating Dutch celebrities in my local bar?”

“I think you had a bad night and a few glasses of wine, and now you’re connecting dots that aren’t there!” he shot back, his own patience fraying. “This is a major professional opportunity, Charlène. I need to know if this is just a… a personal aversion you’re inventing.”

“Inventing?” She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a cyclist to swerve around them with a muttered curse. “He insulted my hair. He provoked me until I screamed at him. We got thrown out because of him! What part of that sounds invented?”

André blinked, the new detail hitting him. “Thrown out? You didn’t mention that part.”

A flicker of shame crossed her face, quickly masked by defiance. “It’s irrelevant. The point is, it was him. And he was insufferable.”

André ran a hand through his damp hair, his earlier skepticism softening into concerned realization. The story had just gained a concrete, embarrassing anchor. “Oh my god, Charlène… thrown out? Okay. Okay, I believe you.”

But his belief did little to soothe her. It only made the professional trap she was in feel more inescapably, infuriatingly real. She turned and resumed walking, the argument leaving a bitter aftertaste sharper than the morning’s tea. The rain fell a little harder, soaking into her coat, a physical echo of the deep discomfort now drenching her.

The memory played on a vicious loop behind Charlène’s eyes: the guttural insults, her own sharp retorts, the shattered glass, and the defiant, twin middle fingers she’d given him instead of her name. A hot wave of shame, immediately followed by a colder, harder surge of anger, washed over her. He was a fraud. A carefully curated public image of chaotic charm, masking a rude, provocative drunk in a dive bar. The cognitive dissonance was infuriating.

“I can’t work with him,” she stated flatly, the words leaving no room for debate. “You need to find another model. Today.”

André stopped walking, turning to face her fully in the drizzle. “Charlène, be reasonable. Think of the fee. You said yourself—”

“I know what I said!” she interrupted, her voice tight. “I need the money. But I have principles. I won’t spend two days pretending for someone like that.”

“This isn’t about principles, it’s about professionalism!” André countered, his tone shifting from pleading to firm. “You don’t refuse a job of this caliber because of a personal… misunderstanding. Especially not after you’ve already been confirmed!”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “I was confirmed? You confirmed me! Without asking! That’s the whole point! You don’t get to make that decision and then lecture me on professionalism!”

The rain began to soak through their coats, but neither moved. The argument had crystallized, no longer about Joost Klein, but about agency and presumption.

“I was trying to help you!” André insisted, throwing his hands up.

“You were trying tomanage me!” she shot back. “Like I’m just another part of the shoot to be arranged — the lighting, the location, the model. Well, this model has a say. And she says no.”

They stood glaring at each other on the glistening street, the earlier camaraderie evaporated, replaced by a stalemate of wounded pride and pragmatic desperation. The lucrative, impossible job hung between them, and the ghost of a Dutch rapper’s smirk seemed to linger in the Parisian rain.

The walk continued in a heavy silence, broken only by the soft hiss of tires on wet pavement and the rhythmic tapping of the rain. Charlène’s anger had cooled into a hard, tremulous knot in her stomach. She felt cornered, outmaneuvered by circumstances and her own precarious finances.

After a long block, André spoke again, his voice deliberately calm, a peace offering. “Listen. The people who recommended Joost to me… I trust them. They’re serious. They say he’s professional where it counts. Good at his work. Everyone who’s collaborated with him has been satisfied.” He glanced at her profile, a stony mask staring ahead. “This isn’t about defending him. It’s about the fact that the professional feedback exists. It’s… contradictory to your experience.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, the words hollow. “It wasn’t just a misunderstanding. He was deliberately provoking. It was… unpleasant. I don’t want to see him again.”

André sighed, a sound of genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry. And I do understand, more than you think. But this opportunity… it’s a platform, Charlène. Joost is popular. These images will be seen. By a lot of people. Other brands, other photographers… if they see what you can do with a project like this, it could change things for you. They’ll come to you.”

He was right. The logic was irrefutable, a cold, clear path out of the niche-brand purgatory. She thought of the rent, of the endless cycle of castings for obscurity. She said nothing, but her silence was no longer one of pure refusal, it was the quiet of furious calculation.

André sensed the subtle shift. He pressed his advantage gently. “You could just try it. One day. A few hours. If you feel uncomfortable — truly uncomfortable — for even a second, we stop. I swear to you. I won’t let anyone disrespect my models. Not even a client like that.” He let the promise hang in the damp air between them.

Charlène exhaled, a long, shaky breath that seemed to release some of the tension from her shoulders. She kept walking, staring at the rain-slicked cobblestones, saying nothing. André didn’t push. He simply walked beside her, waiting, giving her the space to surrender to the inevitable, pragmatic truth he had laid so carefully before her.

***

The door to her sister's apartment had barely clicked shut when a small, warm torpedo launched from the living room. "Auntie Charlène!" Gabriel squealed, wrapping his arms tightly around her legs with enough force to make her sway.

Instinctively, her hand came down to rest on his soft, dark hair, pulling him close against her. "Hey, favorite nephew," she murmured, the tension from the walk and the argument with André beginning to melt from her shoulders.

From the kitchen, Eleanor appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel, a tired but genuine smile on her face. "I thought I heard the door."

"Just me," Charlène said, smiling back, genuinely happy to see her sister in a way that felt uncomplicated. She crouched down to Gabriel's eye level, her hands on his small shoulders. "I heard a certain little boy wasn't feeling well. I had to come and see for myself."

Gabriel grinned, a gap-toothed smile. "I missed you."

Her heart, so often a clenched fist these days, softened. She loved her nephew. He was a quiet, observant child, a balm to her spirit. While the idea of children of her own felt like a distant, fraught planet, Gabriel was a safe, joyful moon to orbit. "Well," she said, her voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper, "I heard a sick boy might need a present to help him feel better."

His eyes went wide with instant, luminous joy. Charlène rummaged in her bag, pushing past her phone and wallet, and pulled out a brightly colored box. A toy fire engine. Gabriel snatched it from her hands with a gasp, turning it over to examine every decal and plastic ladder.

"Gabriel," Eleanor's voice held a gentle warning from the doorway. "What do you say to your aunt?"

The boy didn't hesitate. He threw his arms around Charlène's neck, planting a sticky, enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, aunt Charlène!" he breathed, his attention already fully consumed by the new treasure. As quickly as he had arrived, he rocketed back toward the living room to tear into the packaging.

A real smile, untouched by irony or fatigue, touched Charlène's lips as she watched him go. She stood, finally shrugging off her damp coat to hang it on the hook by the door, the simple, domestic act a small anchor in the churning sea of her professional dilemma.

The quiet in Eleanor's kitchen was a tangible relief. No television blaring, no low grumble of Pierre's voice from the other room. His absence was a door left open, letting in calm air. Charlène sank into a chair, the familiar wood creaking softly under her weight.

Across from her, Eleanor moved with a tired grace, filling the kettle. Charlène rested her forehead in her hands, her fingers pressing into her scalp as if to push the thoughts out. The loop was merciless: Joost’s sneering face on the phone screen, the impossible sum of money, André’s final, pragmatic plea. A few hours. But those hours felt like a sentence. The man from the bar was all sharp edges and provocation. How did that become a professional collaborator? The dissonance made her head ache.

A mug of tea appeared on the table before her with a soft click. She looked up. Eleanor had settled opposite, her own cup steaming, a quiet understanding in her eyes.

“You’re somewhere far away,” Eleanor said, not unkindly.

“Work,” Charlène replied, the word a hollow catch-all for the mess. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic.

Eleanor smiled, a small, weary thing. “You always worry so much before. And then the pictures are perfect. You always look… untouchable.”

A flicker of gratitude, sharp and warm, cut through the anxiety. “Thanks, El,” Charlène murmured. Her sister’s faith was an old, sturdy coat — worn in, always there. It didn’t solve the problem of Joost Klein, but for a moment, in the quiet, steam-filled kitchen, it made the problem feel slightly more distant, something that existed outside these four safe walls.

But the need to confess it, to pour the bizarre reality out of her own head and into the safe container of her sister’s listening, became overwhelming. The words started slowly, then spilled out in a rushed, tangled stream.

“There was a man,” she began, her eyes fixed on her tea. “Last night, at the bar. Drunk, Dutch, impossibly rude. We… screamed at each other. Got us thrown out.” She glanced up, expecting judgment, but saw only attentive curiosity on Eleanor’s face.

Encouraged, she continued, her voice gaining a frantic energy. She described the hollow anger that followed. Then, she took a breath and launched into the second, impossible act: André’s lunch, the lucrative job, the photo on the phone.

“…and then André shows me a picture, and it’s him. The same man. The drunk from the bar is some famous Dutch rapper. And André, without asking me, has already agreed for me to be the model on his shoot.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. Her spoon, halfway to her mouth, lowered slowly. “Soo… The man who insulted you in the bar is the client?”

“Oui!” Charlène exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “And André says he’s ‘professional,’ that it’s a huge opportunity, that I should just try it for a few hours. But El, you didn’t see him. He was… mean. It felt personal. How do I stand in front of a camera with someone who looked at me like I was something stuck to his shoe?”

Eleanor listened, asking careful questions. “What did he actually say?” “How did André react when you told him?” “How much money are they really paying?” Her questions weren’t dismissive, they were an attempt to map the strange territory of the problem.

As Charlène answered, reliving the humiliation and the pressure, a curious thing happened. Speaking it aloud to her practical, grounded sister began to strip the event of some of its surreal, emotional power. It was becoming a story with details — a location, an amount of money, a professional conflict — instead of just a personal nightmare.

Eleanor finally sat back, sipping her tea thoughtfully. “It’s a terrible situation,” she said, her voice calm. “But André isn’t wrong about the opportunity. And the man in the bar was drunk, in a bad mood, maybe. The man at a professional shoot might be… different. Not better, necessarily, but different.”

She wasn’t offering a magical solution. She was offering perspective. And for the first time since seeing that photo on André’s phone, Charlène felt the tight knot of panic in her chest loosen just a fraction, making room for something else — dread, yes, but also a sliver of grim, professional curiosity.

Eleanor’s brow furrowed in concentration. “What’s his name again?”

“Joost Klein,” Charlène supplied, the name still feeling foreign and sharp on her tongue.

“Joost Klein…” Eleanor repeated slowly, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as she searched her memory. Then it clicked. Her eyes snapped back to Charlène, wider now. “Wait. The Eurovision one? From last year?”

Charlène gave a single, curt nod. “That’s what André said. I don’t follow it.”

“I do,” Eleanor said, and of course she did. Her sister loved the glittering, chaotic spectacle of it every year. She leaned forward, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “There was a scandal. Right before the final. They disqualified him. The reports said he’d… hit a female camera operator. Or shoved her. It was everywhere.”

A cold ripple passed through Charlène. Hit a woman?

“But,” Eleanor continued, holding up a finger, “it went to court. And the charges were dropped. Completely. He wrote something later about it being a terrible situation, that the whole thing was the worst experience of his life. The official story fell apart.”

The information landed in the quiet kitchen with a profound thud. Charlène stared at her sister, the steam from her forgotten tea curling between them. The image of the provocative, sneering drunk in the bar fractured, and behind it she glimpsed something else entirely: a man who had been at the center of an international scandal, publicly vilified, and then legally vindicated. The "hot mess" André described took on a new, darker, and more complicated dimension.

Her righteous anger, so solid and justifiable a moment ago, now felt unstable. It wasn’t replaced by sympathy, but by a deeper, more profound confusion. The man who had needled her in a bar wasn’t just some arrogant tourist. He was someone who had stood in a firestorm of global scrutiny and condemnation. What did that do to a person? The question unwound inside her, leaving her more tangled than before.

"So they just... dropped it?" Charlène asked, her voice low.

Eleanor shrugged, a gesture of helplessness in the face of distant bureaucracy. "No evidence. What else could they do?" She took a sip of her tea, her expression turning contemplative. "I read some commentary afterward. Some people thought it was political. Something he said in an interview that rubbed the wrong people the wrong way. Eurovision always pretends it's not political," she added with a cynical sigh. "But less and less so, these days."

The information swirled in Charlène's head — a chaotic mix of barroom aggression, professional opportunity, and now international scandal. It was too much. Her instinct, honed by a life of avoiding drama, was to never condemn without proof. And here, the proof was conspicuously absent, the official story retracted. It left her in a moral and emotional limbo. She couldn't justify her own visceral anger with facts, nor could she muster any sympathy for the man who had provoked her. He was no longer just a "bad guy",  he was a question mark wrapped in a controversy, wearing the face of her potential ruin or salvation.

She fell silent, staring into the middle distance. There was nothing to say. No clean judgment to make. Just a messy, complicated reality she was now contractually bound to enter, armed with nothing but her fraying pride and a confusing new layer of someone else's past.

The fragile peace of the kitchen shattered with the sound of the front door opening and closing with a definitive thud. Charlène watched the relaxed smile vanish from Eleanor’s face as if wiped away by an unseen hand, replaced by a tight, careful neutrality. The pleasant warmth that had filled the room seemed to drain out instantly.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by the rustle of a coat being carelessly dropped. A moment later, Pierre walked into the kitchen. He was nearing forty but carried the entitled petulance of a teenager. His eyes landed on Charlène, and a thin, sarcastic smile stretched across his face.

"Well. If it isn't my famous sister-in-law," he said, his voice dripping with false cheer. "Making another charity appearance? We should start charging admission."

"Pierre, dont," Eleanor said quietly, not looking at him, her voice a plea wrapped in exhaustion.

He ignored her, leaning against the doorframe. "What's the occasion this time? Did another photographer realize you're not twenty anymore? Or just here to sample our groceries? Your lifestyle must be expensive to maintain on… what do they pay you for those pictures?"

A hot, familiar fury surged through Charlène, cutting through the confused numbness about Joost. Her blood didn't just boil, it felt like it was turning to steam in her veins. Her fingers, still wrapped around her teacup, clenched so hard her knuckles turned white. She said nothing, just met his gaze with a look of pure, icy contempt, all the while screaming inside. The professional and personal humiliations of the day had just found their perfect, vile mirror in her own family.

Charlène held her silence like a shield. Engaging with Pierre would mean descending into his swamp, and she refused to give him that satisfaction. She stared at a tiny crack in the table’s wood grain, her jaw clamped shut.

“Pierre, that’s enough! Stop it right now. She is my sister. My family,” Eleanor said, her voice rising with a rare, sharp edge.

“And this is my house,” Pierre shot back, his tone dismissive. “I’m just stating facts. Or are we not allowed to talk about money? Is that another one of your family’s delicate little rules?”

The argument escalated quickly, their voices tangling in the small kitchen — Eleanor’s pleading, Pierre’s needling condescension. Charlène dropped her head, her gaze fixed on her cold tea. She tried to disconnect, to make the sounds just noise, but each barbed word from Pierre about “freeloaders” and “failed ambitions” was a needle. The real pain wasn’t for herself, it was the agonizing clarity with which she saw her sister’s life. This was Eleanor’s daily reality: this belittling, this walking on eggshells.

A familiar, cold mantra cycled in her mind, the only thing that kept her from exploding: It’s not your life. It’s not your business. She hasn’t asked for help. She repeated it internally, a lifeline to keep her in her chair, to stop her from throwing the teacup at Pierre’s smug face. She focused on her own breathing, on the pressure of her nails against her palms, building a fragile wall between herself and the ugly reality of the marriage unfolding before her. The chaos of her own professional dilemma suddenly felt distant, replaced by this more intimate, more heartbreaking storm. She just had to sit through it, and then she could leave. That was the only power she had here.

Charlène listened, trying to sink into the white noise of their argument, to make the words meaningless. But then she felt it — a shift in the air, a presence. She lifted her head.

In the kitchen doorway stood Gabriel. He was perfectly still, clutching his new fire truck to his chest. His small face was pale, his eyes wide and overly bright, reflecting the harsh overhead light. He wasn't crying, he was just watching, his gaze darting between his mother's strained face and his father's sneering one. This was his normal. This was the soundtrack to his childhood.

A sharp, physical pain lanced through Charlène's chest, so acute it stole her breath. It wasn't just anger now, it was a devastating, hollow ache. This bright, quiet boy who had hugged her with such pure joy was now a silent witness to this ugliness. He saw his father disrespect his mother. He heard the contempt. And he would keep hearing it, day after day, until it shaped the very core of him.

The professional anxiety, the pressure from André — it all shrank, collapsing into a tiny, insignificant point. None of it mattered in the face of this. Here was the real, unglamorous tragedy: a smart woman diminished, and a sweet child being taught that love sounded like this. She wanted to scoop him up, to cover his ears, to scream at Pierre until he understood the damage he was doing. But the old, powerless mantra echoed in her skull: It's not your life. Not your choice.

Yet, as she looked at Gabriel's too-bright eyes, the mantra felt like a coward's excuse. She sat frozen, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest, forced to bear witness not just to an argument, but to the slow, daily breaking of two people she loved.

***

The day of the shoot arrived with the grey, inevitable weight of a dreaded appointment. Charlène stood in the center of André's studio, a vast, white space that felt more like an operating theater than a creative venue. André buzzed around her, adjusting a large softbox with a surgeon's precision. He always insisted on doing the lighting himself, trusting no one else's eye.

She was nervous, a live wire of anxiety humming just beneath her skin, but she worked hard to transmute it into what she hoped looked like intense focus. Her posture was rigid, her gaze fixed on a distant point on the wall, seeing nothing.

"And relax your shoulders. You look like you're awaiting execution," André called from behind a light stand, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

She rolled her eyes, a brief flicker of her old self. "I'm fine."

"You're not. You're in your head," he said, walking over to her. He spoke quietly, for her ears only. "It's under control. You're psyching yourself out. He might not even remember it was you. It was dark, you were both... emotional."

She gave him a flat, disbelieving look. "Does he even know? Who the model is?"

André let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Probably not. The contact was through the German colleague. The details were just... confirmed. It wasn't a conversation about personalities."

Charlène shook her head slowly. With each passing minute, the certainty that this was a catastrophic mistake solidified. There was no universe where this encounter didn't end in disaster.

André saw the genuine distress in her eyes, the way her fingers subtly clenched at her sides. His tone softened from producer to friend. "Listen. You walk in, you do the job. You're a professional. He's a professional. That's it. If anything feels off, we stop. But give it a chance. For you." He gave her arm a brief, reassuring squeeze before turning back to his equipment, leaving her alone again in the blinding white silence, waiting for the door to open and the past to walk in.

The thought struck her with a new, paralyzing clarity: what if he took one look at her and refused? She had been the volatile one, the one who shattered a glass. She was, in the cold light of this professional space, a liability. Being rejected by him would be a deeper cut than quitting herself — a public confirmation of her unprofessionalism that would follow her far longer than any lost fee.

The metallic groan of the studio door hinge cut through her thoughts. She and André turned in unison.

A woman with a sleek black braid and clever, oversized glasses entered, smiling politely. And right behind her, carrying a large, unmarked cardboard box, was Joost.

Charlène’s breath locked in her throat. She forced her lungs to expand, willing her posture into one of casual readiness. André moved forward, his voice a warm, professional buffer. "Welcome, welcome."

Joost nodded, offering a brief, closed-mouth smile as he carried the box — likely containing curated wardrobe — to a prep table. His movements were efficient, focused on the task. While he was distracted, André turned and gestured for Charlène to join them. She crossed the floor, hyper-aware of the click of her heels.

"And this is Marleen," André said, placing a hand lightly on the stylist's shoulder. "The visionary behind today's looks."

Marleen extended her hand, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes behind her glasses. "Hi, I've been looking at your polaroids. You have a fantastic profile for this."

"Charlène," she replied, taking the offered hand. The compliment, so specific and work-focused, was a lifeline. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to seeing the concepts." The warmth she felt was real; here was a collaborator, not a ghost from a disastrous night.

Then Joost approached. He and André shook hands, exchanging a few quiet words she couldn't hear. It was all so normal. So blandly professional. He then turned to her, his hand extending.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to that point of contact — his gaze, the same startling Nordic blue, but now clear and assessing, not clouded by alcohol or mockery. The studio lights reflected in them like chips of ice.

"Joost," he said. His voice was different — flatter, more contained, stripped of the goading energy from the bar.

She took his hand. "Charlène."

His handshake was firm, brief, but not aggressive. Yet, as their palms connected, she saw it — a microscopic tightening around his eyes, a fleeting, intense focus that seemed to scan her face, comparing the woman before him to a memory. It was there and gone in a nanosecond. The very corner of his mouth gave the faintest, involuntary twitch.

He was still looking at her as she expertly broke the handshake and turned her attention toward André, seeking an anchor.

André's eyes met hers instantly. In that shared glance, a frantic, silent conversation passed. He had seen the micro-expression, the pause. But Joost had said nothing. He had not recoiled, not laughed, not made a scene. The hope that flickered between them was fragile and desperate: Perhaps the professional mask is strong enough. Perhaps he will choose to forget. The shoot, for now, was still on.

Marleen provided a welcome distraction, moving to the table and opening the cardboard box. She began laying out pieces with a practiced efficiency: heavyweight t-shirts with blurred graphic prints, a cropped hoodie with an industrial-looking zipper, wide-leg shorts, and a short skirt. "André told me you're a size S for tops, M for bottoms," Marleen said, holding up a shirt to the light to examine its texture.

Charlène nodded, stepping closer. André knew her measurements better than almost anyone; it was a small, professional intimacy that now felt grounding.

"If anything doesn't sit right, we can swap things tomorrow," Marleen added, her tone pragmatic. "But I think we'll be fine."

"I'm sure it will be perfect," Charlène replied, and found herself meaning it. She liked Marleen's direct, creative energy. Focusing on the stylist — on the fabrics, the cuts, the practical puzzle of fitting looks — was a lifeline. It pulled her attention away from the unusually quiet man lingering in the periphery.

A familiar, professional spirit clicked into place within her. This was her element: the translation of clothing into a story, the silent collaboration before the camera. This, she loved. And the underlying, potent thought that this specific job would finally pay her real money only sharpened her focus, turning her nerves into a clear, determined energy. For the first time since entering the studio, she wasn't just waiting for disaster, she was preparing to work.

While Marleen laid out garments with a curator’s precision, Charlène’s world had narrowed to the conversation behind her. The rustle of fabric, the clink of a hanger — it all faded into a dull buzz beneath the clear, dangerous sound of their voices. André was in his element, chatting easily as he adjusted his lens. Joost’s responses were low, measured, a stark contrast to the slurred provocation she remembered.

Then the question came, slicing through the studio’s white noise: “You work with many models?” Joost asked. The inquiry felt too casual, a hunter’s idle check of the wind.

Her spine straightened. She stared hard at a loose thread on the cuff of the shirt Marleen had just handed her, her fingers freezing around the fabric.

André’s laugh was warm, untroubled. “Here and there. But Charlène,” he said, and she could hear the fond, proud smile in his voice, “she’s my best. A true professional. Loves the work. Rare these days.”

A silent, screaming plea erupted in her mind. André, stop. For the love of God, shut up. You’re handing him the knife. She stood utterly still, her back a rigid wall, imagining Joost’s face. The humiliation of being praised so warmly to the one person who’d seen her utterly unraveled was a uniquely exquisite torture.

The response wasn’t words. It was a sound — a low, soft exhale of amusement that was somehow more intimate and knowing than a laugh. “Ah,” Joost said, the single syllable loaded with a world of implication. “Let’s see, then.”

The phrase was a verdict waiting to be passed. A chill, sharp and clean, shot down her arms. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the coppery tang of blood, using the pain to ground herself. She counted three heartbeats, each a dull thunder in her ears, before she willed her head to turn.

He was already watching her. His gaze wasn’t casual, it was a direct, unwavering line connecting them across the bright space. Her own breath left her in a faint, unstoppable sigh.

His blue eyes were narrowed, not with anger, but with a piercing, analytical focus. He was dissecting her, comparing the woman before him to the furious, wine-soaked phantom from the bar. She felt utterly transparent. Did he see the professional, or the hypocrite? The model, or the mess? In that suspended second, she didn’t know which version of herself she was even rooting for.

Then he moved. Just a slight tilt of his head, an almost imperceptible shift. And there it was again — that tiny, betraying twitch at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile. It was a recognition. A secret he alone remembered.

The connection snapped. She wrenched her gaze away, turning back to the rack of clothes as if seeking refuge. A hot-cold flush swept over her skin. It doesn’t matter, she told herself fiercely, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Let him look. Let him think whatever he wants. He just needs to see the model. The professional. That’s all that exists here.

But the mantra felt thin, a paper shield against the sharp reality of his knowing, amused stare that seemed to have already seen straight through the professional armor to the trembling, furious woman beneath. The rest of his thoughts were a void she refused to contemplate, even as they seemed to echo loudly in the now-silent studio.

Marleen's gaze, which had been analytically sweeping the rack of clothes, settled on Charlène's face. Her expression shifted from appraisal to genuine, unfiltered admiration. "Wait," she said, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the studio. She took a half-step closer, her head tilting. "I have to tell you, I am completely taken with your makeup. Not just today — I scrolled through your portfolio last night. That editorial with the graphic liner that looked cracked? And the way you do your blush here, just under the eyes... it's phenomenal. Who is your artist?"

The question, so specific and perceptive, landed like a surprise gift. A warm flush, entirely separate from anxiety, crept up Charlène's neck. This was her secret craft, her invisible contribution to every image. "That's... thank you," she said, her voice softer. "It's me. I do it all myself. For every job, every day too."

Marleen's eyes widened behind her bold glasses. She didn't just look surprised; she looked genuinely impressed. "You're kidding. The blending on that monochromatic look? You achieved that with your own hands?" The questions that followed weren't polite small talk; they were a skilled professional recognizing another. She asked about cream versus powder formulas, about the specific placement of highlighter to mimic studio lighting.

As Charlène answered, explaining her process for a dewy finish or a matte lip, a forgotten part of her woke up. This wasn't about being a clothes hanger or a mannequin, this was about being an artist. The validation was a solid, warm weight in her chest, pushing back against the cold knot of dread. "Really, thank you for noticing," she said, and the words carried the weight of years of unseen effort.

Then Marleen leaned in, her voice dropping to a confidential, excited whisper. "Listen, this is going to sound forward, but... do you think you could do it on someone else? I have a test shoot next week with a new face, and the mood board has this exact energy. I'd kill to have that same lived-in, artistic touch."

Charlène's breath caught. The request was terrifying and electrifying. "I've... I've only ever done my own face," she confessed, her mind already racing through the logistics, the different bone structures. But the spark of challenge, the sheer professional opportunity, was irresistible. "But yes. Absolutely, I could. I'd be honored to try."

Marleen's face broke into a brilliant, triumphant smile. "Perfect! Let's swap Instagrams right now. I'll send you the references." She was already swiping her screen with eager fingers.

"Of course," Charlène replied, her own smile feeling real and unforced. She turned toward the table where her phone lay, the movement fluid with a newfound confidence. But as she reached for it, her peripheral vision caught a shift in the room.

André was checking a light meter. Joost was no longer beside him. He was standing a few meters away, silent and still, leaning against a light stand. And he was watching them. Not with the earlier analytical scrutiny, but with a focused, quiet intensity. His arms were crossed, his head slightly cocked, as if he were observing a fascinating and unexpected scene unfold.

The warm glow of Marleen's recognition met the ice of his silent observation. For a heartbeat, Charlène felt utterly exposed, as if her hard-won professional pride was just another performance for him to dissect. She quickly averted her eyes, snatching her phone and clutching it like a talisman. The two sensations warred within her: the exhilarating high of being seen for her skill, and the unnerving chill of being studied by the one person who had seen her at her worst. The studio no longer felt just like a workplace, it felt like a stage where multiple versions of herself were being judged at once.

Notes:

do we need Joost’s pov? ;)

Chapter 3: Three

Notes:

I haven't slept but I finished the chapter and I surprisingly like it very much. If I was naming the chapter this would be called "joost the ragebaiter" for sure. Also! If you still haven't seen the reference for Charlène's appearance, here's my tumblr where I post things like that: https://meisjerauw.tumblr.com/?source=share

Marleen’s voice pulled her back from the precipice of his gaze. “So, look,” she said, tapping the table where she had neatly divided the clothing into two distinct groups. “This side,” she indicated a pile of graphic tees and hoodies with a bold, printed logo, “is the official tour merchandise. What fans buy. Clean, iconic shots. Very important.”

Her finger then moved to the other pile — a curated selection of deconstructed blazers, skirts, and layered tanks in muted, high-end fabrics. “And this side is the… vibe clothing. Not for sale. Pieces I’ve sourced or customized. More editorial. It’s for my portfolio, for socials, for the aesthetic universe of the project.” She spoke with the calm authority of a general outlining a battle plan.

Charlène listened intently, clinging to the practical details like a lifeline. This was language she understood: a brief, a division of labor, a clear expectation. This is work. Just work.

“The merch we shoot today,” Marleen continued, her tone breezy. “The editorial vibe pieces we’ll do tomorrow. And those,” she added, as if mentioning the weather, “will be the shots with Joost.”

The words landed not with a thud, but with a silent, icy splash that seemed to freeze the blood in Charlène’s veins. She felt the color drain from her face, a cold numbness spreading from her core to her fingertips. She carefully schooled her features into what she hoped was mild, professional inquiry.

“With Joost?” she asked, her voice miraculously steady, almost detached.

“Mhm,” Marleen confirmed, already shuffling through the merch tees. She didn’t look up, completely missing the stricken look on Charlène’s face. “Just a few quick duo shots. For context, for story. It’ll be fast.”

Fast. The word echoed hollowly. There was nothing fast about being locked in a frame with him, under lights, pretending a synergy that didn’t exist. Marleen, blissfully unaware, pressed two of the logo tees into her hands. “For now, let’s focus on the merchandise.”

Charlène nodded, a sharp, mechanical movement. She turned and walked toward the dressing room, her steps measured and precise. Only when the door clicked shut behind her, in the small, silent space filled with the faint smell of clean cotton and stale perfume, did she allow herself to close her eyes. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of a clothing rack, the garishly printed tee-shirts a blur of color in her clenched hands. The professional armor held, but inside, the carefully managed chaos of the day had just been given a new, terrifying deadline: tomorrow.

***

Nearly an hour passed. The studio had settled into a rhythm: the soft, rapid-fire click of André’s shutter, the low murmur of his directions, the rustle of fabric as Charlène moved. Marleen orchestrated it all with a quiet, confident precision, adjusting a sleeve here, tucking a strand of hair there. She showed Charlène a few reference images on her iPad — moody, cinematic shots that favored tension and introspection over obvious smiles. Charlène absorbed them instantly, her mind pulling from the archives of Marleen’s own Instagram aesthetic she’d studied: the stark shadows, the unflinching gazes, the artful drape of clothing that told a story of casual disaffection.

She fell into the work with a focus that was both a relief and an escape. Her body remembered its language — the tilt of a chin to catch the light, the way to let a too-large hoodie hang off one shoulder to suggest both comfort and armor. Every few minutes, her eyes, following the line of André’s lens, would flicker to the periphery, to Joost.

He hadn’t looked at her once.

He was slouched in a worn armchair by the high studio window, one leg thrown over the other. The pale daylight outlined him in a cool silhouette. He was absorbed in his phone, scrolling with a detached laziness. He didn’t watch the monitor, didn’t comment on a pose, didn’t seem to register that the woman being photographed was the face of his merchandise. He looked like a spectator who’d wandered into the wrong room and decided to wait it out.

A strange, flat feeling settled in her stomach. It wasn’t disappointment — she refused to name it that. It was more like the quiet after a storm you’d braced for, leaving you oddly untethered. She let the feeling fuel her. If he was going to ignore her, she would become utterly un-ignorable within the frame. She poured every ounce of her concentration into the shift of her weight, the emptiness in her eyes that Marleen’s references demanded, the specific drape of the branded fabric.

“Yes, just like that,” Marleen murmured, her voice a satisfied hum. “Hold that. Perfect.” The praise was professional, technical, and it was everything Charlène needed. She was doing her job, and doing it well. The silent man by the window was just part of the furniture. For now, the work was enough.

The word caught her eye, again and again, pulling her from the pure mechanics of the pose. Unity. It was printed in that elegant, looping script across the chest of the t-shirt she wore, then again on the sleeve of the hoodie waiting on the rack. It wasn't just a brand name, it felt like a statement. And then she remembered — the tattoo on his hand, visible when he’d reached for his whisky glass. The same script. The same word etched permanently into his skin.

As she held a pose, her body angled toward André’s lens but her mind drifting, the question took root. Unity. What did it mean to a man like him? To someone who could switch from a snarling drunk in a dive bar to this detached, silent figure in a studio? Was it for his fans? A political message tied to the Eurovision scandal her sister mentioned? Or something more personal, a fragile ideal clung to after a very public fracture?

A spark of genuine, human curiosity ignited, cutting through her professional focus and her lingering resentment. She wasn't just looking at a merchandise graphic anymore, she was looking at a clue. Tonight, she decided, after the last shot was taken, after she’d left this charged silence behind, she would look it up. She would type his name and that word into a search bar and see what the world — or he himself — had to say about it. She needed to understand what kind of unity a person like him believed in, or desperately hoped for.

Lost in thought about the cryptic word, she completely missed the shift in the room. She didn't notice him rise from his chair or approach Marleen. André took a few final shots and straightened up, and Charlène relaxed her pose.

She only tuned back in when she heard Marleen's voice, slightly louder, say, "Well, take a look for yourself. See what we're getting."

He sighed, an audible sound of mild inconvenience, but walked over to the table where André's laptop displayed the freshly captured images. Charlène watched him, her gaze unwavering. He leaned over the screen, scrolling slowly with one finger, his expression unreadable. Then, his eyes lifted from the photos and immediately locked with hers across the studio.

He straightened up and walked toward her, closing the distance with a few deliberate steps. He stopped directly in front of her, his gaze holding hers captive as he spoke. "Can you take that out?" he asked, his voice low, nodding toward her septum ring.

Her first instinct was to scowl. Why now? After an hour of shooting? Her eyes flicked over his shoulder to André, who gave her a tight, urgent nod. Just do it.

She looked back at Joost, her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

André exhaled heavily behind him. For her, altering her appearance wasn't the issue, clients requested changes all the time. But normal clients did it before the shoot, to maintain consistency. Not after. It meant extra editing, wasted time, potential reshoots.

André tried to signal her again, and she barely heard him whisper her name, a strained plea.

But she was looking at Joost. He smirked and took another half-step closer, invading her space. He tilted his head, his gaze penetrating. "It's distracting," he stated, his tone clinical. "It pulls focus. I'm selling clothes, not... questionable decorations on your pretty face." He said the last part quieter, lower, the words meant for her alone.

A shiver ran down her spine — not from fear or cold, but from a surge of pure, white-hot anger. There it was again, in his voice: the provocation, the sarcasm, the challenge. He was testing her, probing her boundaries. She felt her ears burn, grateful for the curtain of her hair.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard, the metallic taste sharp on her tongue. Still holding his gaze, she reached up and, with deliberate slowness, unhooked the faux septum clip from her nose. She had the real piercing, but used clips for shoots for this exact reason.

He let out a soft, knowing laugh. He leaned in even closer, his breath a whisper against her cheek. "So. Not just the blonde is fake, huh?"

A muscle in her jaw twitched violently. She was breathing heavily now, her teeth clenched so tight her temples ached. So he remembered. He remembered her, the bar, their fight. She tilted her head forward slightly, glaring at him from under her brow.

She held the small metal clip between her fingers, acutely aware she had nowhere to put it. The stupid designer pants had no pockets. She'd have to walk to the table, to break this standoff, to concede.

He understood her dilemma, she could see it in his face. The corner of his mouth twitched again, and she hated him for how his professional mask kept slipping to reveal the smug, triumphant man beneath.

Then, he extended his hand toward her, palm down, an offering and a command in one gesture.

She had to do something. This silent stalemate was becoming absurd. With a surge of bitter defeat, she capitulated. She placed the tiny clip onto the back of his hand, her fingertips brushing briefly against his warm skin before she snatched her hand back as if burned.

They both understood. He had won this round.

He made sure she saw it in his eyes — that glint of victory. He gave her a final, infuriating smirk, turned, and walked away. And she watched, her blood turning to ice, as he casually slipped her septum clip into his own pocket.

In that moment, she wanted to break something. Preferably his neck.

But she exhaled, a long, shaky breath that emptied her lungs. She had lost the battle. But the war, she vowed silently, her eyes burning into his retreating back, was far from over.

The feeling lingered like a bad taste in her mouth — the sensation of having been toyed with, reduced from a person to a prop. He’d made a spectacle of her in the most subtle, demeaning way, and then laughed at what had gotten under her skin. Nothing had happened, really. Marleen and André hadn’t understood the subtext, the private war waged in whispers and a stolen piece of metal. But she felt it, a deep, humiliating sting that no professional praise could completely numb.

Yet, she refused to retreat. For the next hour, she poured every ounce of focus into the work. She became a silhouette against the white cyclorama, a study in detached coolness for the merchandise. She didn’t look at him once, though she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure, a hot spot boring into her skin. Her entire world narrowed to the black circle of André’s lens. It was safe there. It demanded nothing but performance.

At the end, Marleen suggested a quick behind-the-scenes video for her Instagram stories. Charlène agreed, forcing a relaxed smile as Marleen filmed her adjusting the hood of a sweatshirt, a brief, casual clip of the process. Later, as she changed back into her own clothes in the quiet dressing room, her phone buzzed. A notification: +48 new followers. A small, undeniable warmth cut through the chill of her anger. It was a validation, separate from him. It mattered.

Now, she stood on the street outside the studio, the heavy door shut firmly behind her. The late afternoon had turned sharp and grey, a cold wind cutting down the boulevard. She hunched her shoulders against it, pulling her coat tighter as she lit a cigarette. The first drag was harsh and welcome. She watched the traffic, the anonymous flow of people, letting the professional adrenaline seep away, leaving only the raw, unsettled feeling and the dull dread of tomorrow’s shoot — the one where she’d have to share the frame with him. The tiny victory of new followers glowed in her pocket, a small, defiant ember against the gathering cold.

The studio door groaned open behind her, disrupting the fragile solitude she’d carved out on the cold sidewalk. A few seconds later, a tall, familiar silhouette materialized at the edge of her vision. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Joost. A sharp, irritated sigh escaped her, her breath forming a cloud that was instantly shredded by the wind. For God’s sake. She’d thought — hoped — their interaction was finished for the day.

He didn’t speak. He simply stood there, a silent, imposing presence beside her, sharing the bleak pavement. The silence wasn’t companionable, it was a weight, an intrusion. After a moment of this charged quiet, she turned her head away, a clear, physical dismissal.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, she heard the rustle of a cigarette box, the decisive scrape of a Zippo wheel, and then the distinct, warmer scent of his smoke began to weave with hers in the frigid air. The act felt profoundly arrogant — a claim staked on her moment of retreat.

Fine. If he was going to invade her space, she would break his silence. She kept her eyes fixed on the blur of passing headlights, her voice flat and clear, carrying the sharp edge of the cold.

“So you do remember.” It wasn’t a question.

He took a slow drag, the ember flaring in the dim light. When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble, laced with dry amusement. “I was drunk,” he stated, as if clarifying a minor technicality. “Not unconscious.”

The simplicity of the admission was a gut punch. It confirmed everything. He had known exactly who she was from the moment he walked into the studio. Maybe, even before. Every lingering look, every pointed comment, the whole humiliating pantomime with the septum ring — it had all been a calculated move. He had recognized her, and he had deliberately used that knowledge to undermine her, to test her composure, to remind her of her place.

The realization settled over her like the deepening chill. The power dynamic was brutally clear and entirely in his favor. She was the contractor, the hired face. He was the client, the boss, the one signing the checks that she desperately needed. He could poke and prod, and her only professional recourse was to take it. The unfairness of it was a bitter pill that coated her throat, making it hard to breathe around the smoke and the rising tide of her own powerlessness. She stood there, rigid, staring into the night, acutely aware of him beside her — a man who held all the cards and had just shown her his hand, smirking all the while.

She decided to take the high road, to show she was above his petty games. Still staring straight ahead at the grimy brick wall across the street, she forced her voice into a tone of cool, professional detachment. “Look,” she said, the words crisp in the cold air. “I don’t want anything to interfere with our collaboration or the results of the shoot.” She was being the bigger person. Reasonable. Mature.

He said nothing.

Frustrated by his silence, she turned her head to look at him, to see if he was even listening.

He was laughing. A low, genuine chuckle that shook his shoulders.

Her eyes widened. She waited a beat, two, for the laughter to subside. When it didn’t fully, she bit out, “What is so funny?”

He wiped a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye, the smirk still playing on his lips. “Nothing is interfering for me,” he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “It’s you. You are a grown woman, almost thirty, and you’re behaving like a sulking teenager who got her phone taken away.”

She boiled over. The professional facade shattered. “Me?” she spat, her hands flying up in furious gesture. “You are the one acting like a complete asshole, humiliating me in front of my colleagues! You— you—” She stumbled over her words, the anger too thick, too incoherent to form a proper sentence.

He just watched her. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t get angry in return. He simply observed her unraveling with that infuriating, silent smile, his head tilted as if studying a fascinating specimen. And then she saw it — the look in his eyes. It wasn’t just amusement. It was pure, unadulterated I told you so. A smug confirmation that she was exactly as childish as he’d accused her of being. He had baited her, and she had leaped at the hook with a spectacular, emotional display, proving his point for him.

A low, guttural sound of pure frustration and defeat escaped her. She shook her head, dropping her gaze to the wet pavement, exhaling a shuddering breath. Her fingers, clenched around the strap of her bag, trembled with the aftershocks of her rage. She was trying so hard to calm down, to reassemble her dignity.

And there it was. Again. He had provoked her, and she had given him exactly what he wanted. A raw, unfiltered reaction. No one, no one, had ever gotten under her skin so completely, so effortlessly. The humiliation of losing control was almost worse than the original insult. She stood there, utterly defeated, the cold wind doing nothing to cool the shame burning her from the inside out.

She lifted her head, and her gaze was cold, like steel after a long winter. The fire of her anger was gone, banked into something harder and more controlled. She looked him directly in those infuriatingly clear blue eyes.

“I don’t care what you’re trying to prove,” she stated, her voice devoid of all warmth, a flat statement of fact. “But you will stop humiliating me in a professional setting.”

He rolled his eyes, a lazy, dismissive gesture that made her want to claw them out of his skull. Instead, she took a long, deliberate drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring brightly.

He sighed, as if explaining something simple to a very slow child. “You have an ego that’s far too big if you think I care enough to ‘lower myself’ to insult you,” he said calmly, flicking ash onto the pavement. “I don’t waste energy on that.”

She closed her eyes. A silent count bloomed in her mind. One. Two. Three. She could feel the tremor in her hands, the furious retort clawing at the back of her throat. Four. Five. She exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from her shoulders, imagining it leaving with the smoke from her lungs.

When she opened her eyes, they were placid pools. Blank. He would not get another reaction. He would not see another crack. The storm was locked behind a dam of her own will.

At least, that’s what she thought. She stood there, a statue of forced calm, the chill of the evening and the chill in her heart finally in perfect, brittle harmony.

She shook her head, turning away, and muttered the words under her breath, meant only for herself and the biting wind: “Rude asshole.”

He heard. A short, sharp laugh escaped him, followed by a theatrical look of mock surprise. “What’s this? Are we back to French customs and manners already?”

She turned back to him, her movements slow and deliberate. She looked him dead in the eye, her voice a low, clear blade in the twilight. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry. He just… smiled. A fascinated, captivated smile. He was enjoying this. Reveling in it. The way her composure frayed at the edges, the raw, unfiltered emotion that flashed in her eyes — it was a spectacle to him, and he was a delighted audience of one. He was drawing her out, pulling her strings, and her reactions were his reward. The angrier she got, the more he seemed to feed on it, a dynamic that left her feeling both furious and utterly exposed.

She was finished. The last thread of her composure had snapped. She wasn’t going to stand there for another second, a target for his mocking amusement. She took a final, searing drag from her cigarette, the burn in her lungs a welcome punishment, and crushed the butt under her heel with a violence that sent a small spray of sparks skittering across the damp pavement. She turned sharply, the wool of her coat whipping around her calves, already calculating the fastest route to the metro, to silence, to anywhere he wasn’t.

"Wait."

The word, soft but carrying, stopped her as effectively as a hand on her arm. She didn't want to turn. Every cell in her body screamed to keep walking. But some stubborn, defiant part of her made her glance over her shoulder.

He hadn't moved. He was simply holding out his hand, palm flat and open like an offering. In the center, glinting dully under the sickly yellow streetlight, was her septum ring. The cheap little piece of metal she’d completely, blessedly forgotten in the wake of her humiliation.

Her eyes flicked from the ring to his face. His expression was unreadable. She took a step back toward him, her movement stiff, and reached out to take it.

"Your fake jewelry," he said, the words dropping into the space between them. They weren't loud, but they were perfectly shaped to slice through her.

Something in her chest shattered. All the carefully reconstructed walls of professionalism she’d been desperately patching together crumbled at once.

"I have a hole!"

The words ripped from her throat, raw and too loud, a guttural, foreign cry of protest. They echoed for a terrible second in the quiet street. She hadn't meant to shout. She'd meant to state a fact — I have the piercing. I have the hole for it — but her fury and her fractured English conspired against her. The phrasing was horrifying. Juvenile. Crude.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. A wave of scorching heat, so intense it felt like a fever, erupted from her core and flooded her face, her neck, the tips of her ears. She could feel the blush, a painful, living stain on her skin. Her hand, still outstretched, trembled visibly.

She snatched the ring from his palm, her nails scraping against his skin in her haste. As she did, she saw his reaction.

He wasn't just smiling. His entire body was a masterpiece of suppressed laughter. His shoulders shook silently. He had bitten down hard on his lower lip, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes, those unbearably bright blue eyes, were squeezed shut for a second, watery with the effort of containment. He was holding it in by a thread, and the strain of it was painted across every feature.

A choked, strangled sound — half-cough, half-snort — escaped him. He cleared his throat, his voice rough with the laughter he was swallowing. "I don't doubt that for a second," he finally managed, the words infused with a wealth of terrible, shared meaning.

"Shut up," she breathed, the command barely audible, stripped of all force by her utter mortification. "You know what I meant."

But the damage was cosmic. In her mind, she wasn't just embarrassed, she was annihilated. The pavement beneath her feet should have vaporized. The indifferent Parisian night should have swallowed her whole. She didn't believe in any higher power, but in that moment of absolute, soul-crushing exposure, she would have bargained with any devil, any god, any force in the universe to be teleported away, to be erased from this moment and from his memory. She stood frozen, clutching the stupid metal clip, wishing with every fiber of her being that she could simply stop existing. She had reached the precipice, and there was nowhere left to fall.

Before she could even surface from the drowning wave of her own shame, he finished his cigarette with one last, slow drag. He turned to her, his expression now one of bland, almost theatrical dismissal. "Let's be clear," he said, his voice crisp in the cold air. "I definitely have no desire to discuss your... holes."

With that, he turned on his heel and began walking back toward the studio entrance. "So see you tomorrow. Unfortunately," he called over his shoulder without looking back. The casualness of it, the sheer gall, was the final spark.

As he started climbing the steps, Charlène reached her absolute boiling point. A low, guttural sound of pure frustration — a mix of humiliated groan and furious growl — escaped her. Then, acting on an impulse far older than reason, she drew back her arm and hurled the cheap septum clip at his retreating back.

It was a pathetic projectile. She didn't feel it hit him, of course, but a second later, there was a distinct, sharp tink of metal bouncing off the tile step near his feet.

He stopped.

He froze mid-stride, then slowly, deliberately, turned around. He looked down at the glittering piece of metal on the step, then slowly raised his head to look at her.

His mouth actually fell open a little. Not in anger, but in genuine, unvarnished shock. Then, a slow, fascinated smile spread across his face. "Wow," he breathed, the word full of a perverse admiration. He actually laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "Did you just... throw it at me?"

Charlène pressed her lips into a thin, white line, shoving her trembling hands deep into her coat pockets. She looked away, then back, her chin tilted up in defiance that couldn't hide her childish embarrassment. "No," she muttered, the lie weak and transparent.

He shook his head, that infuriating smile still in place. "Grown woman, by the way," he remarked, as if reminding her of a forgotten fact.

That stung. She snapped her gaze back to him, her eyes blazing. "You're almost thirty, too!"

His smile turned into a smirk of pure, unadulterated victory. "I'm younger than you," he stated, as if delivering a checkmate. He was. And he knew it would needle her.

She almost stamped her foot, clenching her fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. She narrowed her eyes into slits. "Va te faire foutre," she spat with all the venom she possessed.

Then she spun around and stormed off down the street, her boots striking the pavement like gunshots. And from behind her, rolling down the steps and chasing her all the way to the corner, she heard it: his laughter. Rich, loud, and utterly victorious.

He'd won. Again.

***

The café was a strange, half-empty cocoon of anonymity, deliberately chosen. Lately, his face had become a currency he was tired of spending — recognized at petrol stations, in corner shops, even as he just stood waiting to cross a street. The low hum of being perceived was becoming a constant, grating noise. Here, in this bland place with its generic art and soft jazz, he could finally unclench his jaw.

Across from him, Marleen dissected the day’s shoot with the precision of a skilled surgeon. Her voice was a familiar, grounding timbre. "André is solid," she said, pointing her fork for emphasis. "Knows exactly what he wants, moves quickly. No ego. He promised the first selects tonight so we can confirm the grading direction."

Joost nodded, stabbing a piece of roasted vegetable without interest. His appetite had vanished hours ago, replaced by a low-grade, irritable static. "He’s fine. Knows how to be quiet." In his world, a collaborator who didn't require emotional maintenance or constant validation was a rare gem.

Marleen finished her pasta, took a long swallow of her tonic water, and sank back into the deep booth. Her observant eyes, usually hidden behind her whimsical glasses but now sharp in the dim light, studied him. She watched the way he pushed food around his plate, the restless energy in his fingers that contrasted with his slumped posture.

"Charlène is very good," she stated, not as a question, but as a fact laid on the table between them. "What did you think of her? In front of the camera."

A muscle in Joost’s jaw tightened. He schooled his features into a mask of bland appraisal. "She’s fine. Does what she’s told." The words tasted like ash. Fine was a pitiful descriptor for the chaotic, frustrating presence that had occupied his thoughts since last night. The little, ill-mannered bitch had already taken up too much space in his head today. He wanted to end the line of questioning, to box her back into the category of 'hired professional' and be done with it. The last thing he needed was to dissect her before trying to sleep.

Marleen, ever perceptive, wasn’t having it. She tilted her head, a silent signal that she’d caught the flicker in his expression. "Why the sudden editorial note about the septum ring? It was a clip-on. It took two seconds to remove. But you made it a... production."

He shrugged, a practiced gesture of casual indifference. "It looked cheap in the shots. Distracting." The justification sounded hollow even to him.

Marleen let out a soft, knowing hmph, a sound that conveyed volumes of disbelief.

"What?" he snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than intended.

"It's nothing," she said, swirling her drink. "Just a feeling. There was a... charge. Between you two. Like you’d already had a conversation no one else was privy to."

Joost felt a scowl threatening to break through his carefully constructed nonchalance. He forced a dismissive roll of his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. I'd never seen her before." The lie was easier than the truth. Telling Marleen the story — the bar, the screaming, the shattered glass, undignified mess of it — would be to give it legitimacy. It would transform a meaningless, drunken clash with a stranger into a thing, a narrative. And Charlène, with her fake blonde hair and her real fury, did not deserve to become a narrative in his life. She was an annoyance, a blip, a variable in a work equation that had proven unexpectedly prickly.

He looked down at his ruined plate, his desire to be anywhere else becoming a physical ache. He just wanted to finish this meal, return to the sterile quiet of his hotel room, and let the numbness of exhaustion swallow the memory of her — the way her eyes had flashed when he’d taken the ring, the shocking heat of her blush, the utterly ridiculous, childish violence of her throwing it at him. She was a complication. And the most infuriating part was that she clearly, passionately, wished he didn’t exist either. It should have made it simpler. Instead, it made the silence between them in the studio scream. He pushed his plate away, the conversation closed in his mind. Some things weren't worth the energy they took to explain.

He was tired. She was irrelevant. End of story.

***

The evening had settled into a fragile, carb-loaded peace. Charlène lay sprawled across her bed, the dim light from her bedside lamp pooling around her. One leg was hooked over the other, and nestled in the hollow of her stomach was an open bag of salt-and-vinegar chips — her ultimate comfort, her reward for surviving the professional and personal gauntlet of the day. You’ve earned this, she told herself, crunching defiantly. You endured him. You deserve the whole damn bag.

Her phone glowed in her other hand, a portal to her self-assigned mission. She was deep in the digital trenches of Joost Klein’s Instagram. He’d held knowledge over her like a knife all day, wielding snippets of their humiliating past with cold precision. Fair was fair. She needed to understand the weapon, to study the hand that held it.

Earlier, she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of articles, her browser a mosaic of translated Dutch interviews and scandal recaps. Now, she scrolled with a lazy, analytical focus. Not as a fan, but as a strategist. Concert shots where his energy seemed to fracture the edges of the frame. Moody studio clips. Cryptic captions in Dutch and broken English. She was building a profile, trying to reverse-engineer the man from the curated myth. She scrolled past the usual fare until a carousel from a year ago caught her eye: Canada.

She reached for another handful of chips and scrolled the carousel, her eyes glued to a photo of him posing on the street showing off his bicep with a cigarette between his teeth. As she lifted her hand, the movement was too abrupt. A cascade of chips escaped, scattering like salty confetti across her chest and the rumpled duvet. "Merde," she mumbled, her focus broken.

In the clumsy, fumbling dance that followed — trying to salvage the chips before they ground into the sheets — her phone, pinched between her fingers, became a traitor. It slipped. Her hand shot out in a panicked grab, her fingers splaying across the bright screen. She felt the unmistakable, soft tap-tap of contact.

Annoyed, she brushed the crumbs away, muttering at her own butterfingers. Crisis averted, she settled back against the pillows and retrieved her phone, ready to resume her study.

The Canadian photos. And there, beneath the post, pulsing with horrific finality, was a small, red heart. Liked by charlene.delaramee.

Time stopped. The crunch of a chip in her mouth turned to dust.

A cold, electric shock shot from her core to her fingertips. "Putain de merde," the curse ripped from her, hollow and sharp. Her eyes, wide with dawning horror, were locked on the tiny icon. It might as well have been a spotlight. "No. No, no, no, oh God, no." The words were a breathless litany of denial.

With a jerky movement of revulsion, she flung the phone away from her. It bounced on the duvet, the accusing screen face-up. She couldn't look. A low, guttural groan of utter agony was torn from her throat as she collapsed forward, pressing her burning forehead into the cool mattress. You complete and utter disaster. You walking, talking catastrophe.

The humiliation was exquisite, multidimensional. It wasn't just a like. It was a pathetic like. An accidental like. After a day of fierce, if losing, battles, this was a surrender by clumsy, crumb-fingered proxy. It was the digital equivalent of tripping and falling at his feet.

Her mind became a frantic, silent prayer wheel. Please. Let him have gotten a hundred likes tonight. Let his notifications be a flood. Let him be drunk, or distracted, or simply not care. Let it disappear. Let me disappear. Just let this one, stupid, microscopic action be swallowed by the vast, uncaring internet and never, ever be seen.

She lay there, forehead against the fabric, feeling the ghost of the chip grease on her fingers and the much heavier, stickier weight of her own spectacularly bad luck.

While she was groaning, pitying herself, and cursing her existence, a cold, logical thought slithered into her mind. She and Marleen were already following each other. Instagram loved that. It would absolutely, algorithmically, push a notification about a "potential friend" right to the top of his feed. Several minutes passed, and just as this realization was cementing itself into a full-blown panic, her phone buzzed with a new notification.

Her stomach lurched. A foolish, desperate hope flickered — maybe it was André, maybe it was a spam email. She sat up straight in bed and snatched the phone.

@joostklein sent you a message.

She groaned aloud, a sound of pure despair. A sudden, violent hatred for all social media bloomed in her chest. She tapped the notification, and the direct message thread opened.

joostklein: Stalking?

A single word. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, confusing rhythm. The stress felt disproportionate, and she didn't understand why. She waited a minute. Two. Not wanting to seem like she was waiting, even though she knew how transparent that was. She gathered her thoughts, her thumbs hovering.

charlene.delaramee: Only in your wet dreams.

The reply was almost immediate.

joostklein: My wet dreams are different. You’re definitely not in them.

She grimaced.

charlene.delaramee: Ew, gross.

He waited a beat.

joostklein: You stalking my profile in the middle of the night is what's gross.

She cursed him out loud, her face hot.

charlene.delaramee: You have a very high opinion of yourself. I'm not one of your teenage fans. I'm just researching a client and his needs.

There was a pause. A long one. She thought he’d given up, and a small, triumphant smile touched her lips.

joostklein: Is that why you liked my photo from last year? Digging deep into the archives.

She’d been ready for this.

charlene.delaramee: When the client is a special kind of asshole, due diligence takes longer. I was hoping for better material further back.

She settled back against her pillows, waiting.

joostklein: Strange, for a woman who screams at strangers for no reason, to go looking for things in people she could only dream of.

joostklein: But again, maybe that is a french thing.

She bit her lip, her grip on the phone tightening.

charlene.delaramee: I don't know what kind of women you're used to, but of course i'll defend myself when my personal space is violated. Did you expect me to swoon just because you say words into a microphone and take your shirt off on stage?

She had never hit the send button with such aggressive finality.

He was silent. Nothing. This time, it really felt like the conversation was over.

Then, a new bubble appeared.

joostklein: You're definitely not the kind of woman i'm used to.

The message caught her off guard, derailing her anger. She stared at the screen, her fingers hovering, unsure what to say. The momentum of the fight was gone. She typed quickly.

charlene.delaramee: Good. I won't be mocked.

His reply was simple, final.

joostklein: Yeah. Good.

And that was it. No more bubbles.

Charlène set the phone down on the bed beside her, staring at the blank wall opposite. A strange, heavy sensation settled in her chest and throat. She should have felt victorious. She’d held her own. Instead, she felt a deeper, more confusing weight. The argument had ended not with a bang, but with a quiet, unsettling admission that left the ground between them feeling less solid, and far more complicated, than before.

She sat on the edge of her bed for what felt like an eternity, motionless, her gaze fixed on the blank white wall. Her fingers traced the textured pattern of her phone case over and over, a useless, fidgeting rhythm. The entire, excruciating day — the shoot, the silent war in the studio, the street corner confrontation, the humiliating digital slip — had crystallized inside her. It wasn't just a memory, it was a hard, foreign knot lodged beneath her ribs. He was the puzzle, and she was furious that he’d been dumped in her lap without her consent. She hadn't ordered a complicated, infuriating man with provocative blue eyes and a talent for finding every single one of her raw nerves. She wanted a simple job. A paycheck. Not this.

With a sharp, frustrated motion, she pushed herself off the bed. Action was needed. Physical, cleansing action. She stormed to the kitchen, swept the remaining chip crumbs into the bin with a vengeance. In the bathroom, she scrubbed her face with cold water until her skin stung, slathering on night cream as if she could seal her pores against the evening’s intrusions. She brushed her teeth with a ferocity meant to scour away the taste of salty snacks and bitter words.

Back in the kitchen, she brewed a cup of potent green tea — the astringent, grassy kind her sister loathed. She carried the steaming mug back to bed like a shield, curling around its warmth. The simple, domestic ritual was supposed to ground her, to reassert the boundaries of her quiet, solitary life.

But her attention was a traitor. It kept drifting, pulled by a gravitational force, to the dark, silent phone on the pillow beside her. It seemed to hum with a potential energy all its own. She let out a growl of self-disgust, snatched it up, and unlocked the screen.

Two notifications. Both from joostklein.

Her heart did a strange, hard stutter against her breastbone. joostklein: Started following you. And below it: Liked your post.

She opened the app, her thumb moving with a dreadful certainty. The liked post loaded. It was from almost a year ago: a series for a small, avant-garde lingerie brand. The images were monochrome, shadow and lace, more about architecture and form than overt sensuality. She remembered the feel of the cool studio air, the click of the shutter, the powerful, serene ownership she’d felt over her own body in that moment. She was proud of that work. It was art.

A slow, creeping heat flooded the base of her neck, rising to the delicate shells of her ears. This wasn't the blush of shame — she refused to be shamed by her own work. This was the fever-flush of exposure. In any other context, a like from a man on those photos might have felt like a compliment, a recognition of that artistry and allure.

But this was from Joost. He had seen this. He had deliberately sought it out, scrolled back through a year of her life to find it, and placed a digital marker on it. It felt like reconnaissance. An analysis. A quiet, “I see this, too. I am noting the contrast between this woman and the one screaming in the street.”

It was the most intimate form of mockery.

With a sharp exhale, she powered the phone off and slammed it face-down on the nightstand. No. She would not engage. She would not give him the reaction he was so clearly mining for. She took a large, scalding gulp of tea, the bitterness a welcome punishment on her tongue. She stared resolutely at the wall.

But the silence in the room was now a tense, waiting thing. The dark phone was a hole in her periphery, a vortex sucking in her resolve. Every second she ignored it felt like a score for him. The compulsion was a physical itch in her palms, a tightness in her jaw.

“Fuck!” The curse ripped from her, loud in the quiet apartment. In one fluid, angry motion, she grabbed the phone, woke it up, navigated directly to his profile — a path already becoming familiar — and with a stab of her finger, pressed Follow.

She didn't feel triumphant. She felt gutted. The action was a surrender, an admission that his move had required a counter-move. The circuit was now closed. A silent, digital bridge stretched between their devices, and across it flowed a current of pure, unresolved tension. She dropped the phone onto the duvet as if it were radioactive, wrapping both hands tightly around her mug, seeking an anchor in the real, physical world. But the connection was made. The game, whatever it was, was undeniably, terrifyingly, on.

Notes:

Do you like the story? :) Leave kudos and comments! Thank you <3

Chapter 4: Four

Charlène stood close enough to Joost that she could feel the faint, disconcerting warmth of his body through the space between them, a silent violation of her personal bubble. Marleen fussed with a strand of his pale hair, her fingers quick and professional. They were both trapped in Marleen's carefully constructed, deconstructed looks. Charlène wore a plain black Adidas longsleeve and a short, ruffled skirt with that single, elegant word - Unity - sprawled across the front. Knee-high white socks and clunky loafers completed the look, a mix of schoolgirl and street style. Beside her, Joost was a study in contrasts: oversized camouflage shorts with the same Unity script, a soft-focus teddy bear on his grey tee, and heavy, brutalist sneakers. The clothing was a dialogue they themselves couldn't seem to have.

Marleen stepped away. Joost shifted, settling into his stance. Charlène, however, retreated inward. They had been at this for thirty minutes, and it was a slog. There was no rhythm, no invisible thread connecting them. Every time André directed them closer, the space between their bodies became a visible, awkward chasm. Their poses were stiff, their touches - when required - perfunctory and cold. A heavy, silent frustration had replaced the previous day's explosive energy. André and Marleen spoke in hushed tones, their worry evident but unvoiced.

Charlène's mind was a prison of yesterday. The ping of the Instagram notification, the stark red heart on her intimate photos, the unsettling finality of his last messages. It played on a loop, mixing with the visceral memory of the bar, his laughter, the scent of whisky and rain. She was so lost in the recursive maze of it that André's voice calling her name was just distant static.

A sharp, deliberate nudge against her ribs - not rough, but firm - jolted her back to the present. She flinched, her head snapping toward Joost. Their eyes met. For a fleeting second, there was no smirk, no sarcasm. Just a focused, probing curiosity in his blue gaze, as if he was trying to read the thoughts scrolling behind her eyes.

"Charlène!" André's voice cut through, sharper now with concern.

She broke the stare, turning toward her friend. His face was etched with a silent question. Are you crumbling?

"I'm fine," she said, the words automatic and thin.

From beside her, Joost leaned in. His voice was a low, intimate rasp meant only for her, the sarcasm a familiar blade. "What's the matter? Too many layers today?" He didn't gesture to their clothes. He didn't need to. The reference to the near-naked, powerful images he'd 'liked' hung in the air between them, a shared secret. Is this modest costume stifling the real you I saw?

She turned her head slowly and looked at him from beneath her fringe. Her gaze was flat, a wall of impassive ice. She let the silence stretch, let his words hang and decay in the studio's bright, unforgiving light. She said nothing.

And in his eyes, she saw it - a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked. He'd braced for a retort, sharpened his next quip in anticipation. Her silent, resolute refusal to play the game by his old rules had disarmed him. The tension between them didn't dissipate, it transformed, thickening into something new, more complex, and utterly, terrifyingly quiet. The battle lines had just been redrawn in silence.

André let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before gripping his camera again. He looked at Marleen, then back at Charlène, his expression a mix of professional concern and personal frustration. "I need to change the lens, swap the memory card, and re-angle that key light," he announced, his voice deliberately neutral, creating an exit. "It'll take a few minutes."

Marleen, ever the diplomat, immediately seized the lifeline. "Yes, perfect. I have a few other styling ideas to run by you, André. And maybe," she added, her gaze gentle but firm on Charlène, "we could all use a tiny breather. Just to reset."

Charlène exhaled, the sound shaky. She hated appearing weak, incapable of doing the simple job of standing still. Even more, she hated admitting, even silently, that he was the variable throwing her off. But if a break was being offered... she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave a short, sharp nod, stepped out of the marked floor area, and walked directly to the rack where her heavy wool coat hung.

"Just a quick smoke," she said, not waiting for a reply, her voice tight. "Five minutes." She didn't even bother putting her arms properly in the sleeves, just flung the coat over her shoulders like a cape over the carefully curated Adidas and ruffled skirt. She needed air that wasn't recycled studio air. She needed nicotine and solitude. Just a few minutes to collect the scattered pieces of her composure and reassemble them into something resembling a professional. Pushing the heavy door open, she escaped into the cold corridor, leaving the charged silence of the studio behind, clinging to the desperate hope that the cold outside would freeze the chaos in her mind.

***

Joost watched the door swing shut behind Charlène, the heavy sound echoing in the now-too-quiet studio. Only then did he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, feeling the tight knots in his shoulders loosen just a fraction as she disappeared from his line of sight. The space felt immediately less charged, less like a minefield. He walked slowly to the armchair by the window and sank into it with a weary sigh, the canvas of the chair groaning under his weight.

He let his gaze drift around the studio - the sterile lights, the scattered equipment - until it landed on Marleen. She was staring right at him, her arms crossed, her eyes sharp enough to bore a hole through his carefully constructed nonchalance. He frowned, a silent question in his raised eyebrow.

Seeing that André was preoccupied with his camera, Marleen closed the distance quickly. She stopped in front of his chair, looking down at him with an expression of deep displeasure.

"What?" he asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of feigned innocence.

"What did you do?" she asked, her voice low and deliberate, each word weighted.

His eyes widened in genuine, affronted surprise. He looked at her as if she'd just sprouted a second head. "What are you talking about?"

She jerked her thumb toward the door. "That. Her. Yesterday, she was sharp, focused, professional. Today she's a ghost. You look at each other like you're sharing a secret no one else knows the password to. You either said something or did something." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I made the mistake of believing you last night when you said you'd never met. But this?" She gestured between the empty space Charlène had occupied and him. "This is not the energy of strangers. This is the energy of a settled score that nobody won. So, what happened?"

Joost felt a familiar, defensive irritation rise in his chest. He was tired, he was working, and he didn't owe anyone an explanation for a personal... whatever it was. "Nothing happened," he insisted, his voice flat. "She's just in her head. Maybe she can't handle the job. How is that my problem?"

Marleen's expression didn't change. She just stared at him, her disbelief a tangible force in the space between them. He had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through him, past the professional client facade, all the way back to the sticky floor of a Parisian dive bar.

"Joost," she pressed, her tone shifting from interrogation to explanation. "I am not asking as your friend right now. I am telling you as the creative director of this project. You saw the selects last night. She was brilliant. Flawless. You've seen her portfolio. Her only obstacle is visibility. She is not the variable here. You are."

He said nothing. He couldn't. Because last night, alone in his hotel room, he had scrolled through the images Marleen had forwarded. The shots were clean, powerful. Charlène had transformed the simple merch into something with edge and attitude. She had been perfect. And now, trapped in her accusatory gaze, his mind betrayed him, flickering from those professional shots to the others. The ones he'd found himself scrolling to afterward. The ones from a year ago. In that intricate lace. Not vulgar or brash, but captivating, sensual. God, she looked beautiful. Hot. He'd fallen asleep with that image imprinted on the back of his eyelids, a fact he'd take to his grave before admitting to anyone.

He was so lost in the unwelcome, vivid recollection that he didn't see her move until a sharp, purposeful kick connected with his shin.

"Agh! What the fuck, Marleen!" he snapped, glaring at her.

She didn't flinch. She stood over him, a silhouette of absolute professional resolve. "Fix it," she stated, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I don't care how you do it. Apologize, bait her, charm her, or just stop whatever game this is. But you fix this atmospheric poison. I need these shots." She leaned in a final inch, her words dropping to a fierce, undeniable whisper. "I need her."

The command hung in the air, stripping the interaction of all personal history. This was about the work. And she was right. He looked away from her, his jaw working, gaze fixed on the door through which Charlène had disappeared. He didn't nod. He didn't agree aloud. But the stubborn set of his shoulders slumped, just slightly, in silent, resentful surrender. The problem - and the haunting, complicated image of its solution - was now his alone to solve.

He swallowed his pride - that stubborn, grating part of him that wanted to stay in the chair and let her come crawling back when she was ready. He pushed himself up, the muscles in his back protesting. A final glance at Marleen - she was still standing sentinel - and he grabbed his hoodie from the back of a chair, shoving his arms into it as he strode toward the studio door.

The stairwell was cool and quiet, the sound of his own footsteps echoing. He slowed as he neared the building's main glass entrance door.

Through the smudged pane, he saw her.

She was sitting on the low concrete step next to the doorway, her form curled in on itself. Her coat pooled around her like a discarded shadow, the hem trailing in a damp patch on the ground. One arm was wrapped tightly around her knees, pulling them to her chest, while the other hand held a cigarette, the smoke rising in a thin, resigned line. She wasn't the fury from the bar a week ago. She wasn't even the defiant, sharp-tongued woman from the shoot yesterday. Right now, she looked small. Not fragile, but diminished. Like a long, steady rain that had been falling for days. Depressive. Exhausted.

But he was Dutch. He was from a land shaped by wind and constant, misting rain. He understood the patience of bad weather. He knew how to move through it without letting it soak you to the bone.

Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the sharp air. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, a few feet away, the door sighing shut behind him. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant city murmur and the soft crackle of her cigarette burning down. He watched the way she refused to look up, the tense line of her shoulders under the thin fabric of her top. This wasn't a battle anymore. It was a ceasefire in a war neither of them had wanted to fight, and the aftermath was just... damp. And quiet.

But he needed a result. He needed a satisfied Marleen. He needed yesterday's Charlène - angry, charged, a live wire he could grab onto. And he knew exactly how to get her back to that state. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He couldn't admit that this version of her - small, quiet, folded into herself - made him think. Made him analyze. It was easier to provoke than to ponder.

He closed the final few feet and sat down on the cold concrete step beside her, leaving a careful inch of space between them. He heard her sharp exhale, saw her head turn slightly in his periphery. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers, a portrait of pure, strained exhaustion.

He smiled. The game was on. "Are you crying?" he asked, his voice a mock-concerned drawl. "Don't worry. I'm sure this isn't your first bad shoot. Probably won't be your last."

She didn't look at him. She waited a beat, two, the silence stretching until it was its own kind of reply. Then, her voice was flat, devoid of its usual fire. "Is that what you tell yourself when you release another terrible song?"

His smile widened. There she is. Come on, girl. Get up. Get angry. Her words were barbs, but they bounced off him today, they lacked the heat he was hunting for. "Seems my songs are still better than your naked pictures," he retorted, his tone deliberately light, casual. "Considering I'm the one paying you, and not the other way around."

He watched her closely. He saw it - the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the fingers holding the cigarette. A tiny crack in the wall. Good. He was on the right path. Just a little more.

"It must be hard," he continued, leaning back on his elbows, feigning a casual ease he didn't feel. "Spending all that time painting your face, bleaching your hair, posing in lace for nothing. To still end up here, freezing on a step, smoking cheap cigarettes for a paycheck from someone you clearly despise." He let the words hang, cruel and precise. "Almost tragic, really."

He was trying to ignite the blaze. But as he watched her, waiting for the explosion, he felt a strange, hollow pull in his own chest. The victory, if it came, suddenly tasted like ash.

She slowly turned her head toward him. She took a long, deliberate drag from her cigarette, the smoke streaming out through her slightly parted lips as she held his gaze. Her eyes were dark and utterly calm.

"Why are you so obsessed with those photos?" she asked, her voice unnervingly level.

He opened his mouth, a slick retort already forming on his tongue about artistry versus desperation. But she didn't let him speak.

"Or are you just upset," she continued, tilting her head, "that all the women who are actually interested in you haven't even turned eighteen yet? And those pictures are the only thing you can actually... enjoy?" A soft, humorless hmph escaped her. "You can jerk off to them if it makes you feel better. I won't be offended."

Then, in one fluid motion, she stubbed out her cigarette on the concrete, stood up, and brushed a stray piece of ash from her skirt. She looked down at him, still sitting on the step, a statue of cold finality.

"I really won't," she added, her tone devoid of any emotion - no anger, no triumph, just a simple, devastating statement of fact.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back into the building. The glass door hissed shut behind her, sealing him out in the cold.

For a moment, he couldn't move. A violent, churning maelstrom erupted inside his chest - a toxic cocktail of white-hot anger, icy shame, and a profound, disorienting sense of helplessness. His own provocations felt childish now, pathetic little sticks poking a beast that had just calmly eviscerated him. She hadn't just won, she had dissected him with surgical precision, exposed a raw nerve he didn't even want to acknowledge, and then walked away without a second glance. He clenched his jaw so hard a sharp pain shot up his temple. The taste of his own defeat was metallic and sour on his tongue. She had crushed him. And she hadn't even looked back to see the damage.

***

Back in the studio, standing beside him under the hot lights, the air was different. Charlène was alight. The cold, vicious exchange on the steps hadn't drained her, it had plugged her into a socket. She burned with a cool, controlled energy that dominated the frame. She hadn't suspected his provocation might have been deliberate fuel, she simply rode the high of having, for once, struck a nerve that actually seemed to vibrate.

He hadn't replied. That was the key. He had just sat there on the step, silenced. Even if her words had been a tactical strike, meant only to wound and show her own sharp edges, they had clearly landed. The thought warmed her from the inside, a private, glowing coal.

Marleen was visibly relieved, her instructions now punctuated with genuine smiles and nods of approval. Joost, beside her, was a study in quiet efficiency. He followed Marleen's directions to the letter, his movements precise but stripped of any earlier swagger or mocking commentary. He was a professional instrument, tuned and played.

And Charlène couldn't help but savor it. Every time she caught his eye - which was less often now, as he seemed to focus on a point just over André's shoulder - she saw the faint echo of her own words. She had meant it to shock, to embarrass, to flip the script of his own crassness back onto him. Seeing his subdued demeanor now felt like proof. She had scored a direct hit.

She moved with a newfound grace, her poses flowing naturally, her expressions holding a subtle, knowing challenge whenever she angled her body toward his. The synergy they'd lacked before began to click. Not from warmth, but from a shared, charged understanding. She was winning, and for the first time in this bizarre, antagonistic dance, she was certain she'd found a vulnerable spot in his armor and pressed down, hard. The taste of it was sweet and powerful, and it shone out of her, making every shot crackle with an energy that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with a quiet, personal victory.

Charlène felt every nerve in her body drawn taut, but now it wasn't the tension of anxiety - it was the high-strung, singing wire of pure, undiluted power. Marleen and André whispered over the camera monitor, their hushed excitement a buzzing in the periphery. A slow, triumphant smile curved her lips. She was alight, burning from within with a cold, blue flame. And Joost's silence, his uncharacteristic compliance beside her, was the perfect kindling. He was retreating, and she was advancing. The victory from the steps was a living thing inside her chest.

Marleen materialized before them, her eyes alight with a new vision. She began to sculpt the air with her hands. "Crouch here, beside her." He obeyed, sinking down effortlessly, a panther settling into a watchful pose. Charlène remained standing, a column of stillness, her hands deliberately slack at her sides. André dropped to the floor, his camera becoming an extension of his eye. The composition was brutal in its simplicity: Joost's face, all sharp angles and guarded eyes, was perfectly framed at the level of her hips. The word Unity on her skirt was a stark, unavoidable command between them.

He played his part for the camera - a crooked smirk, a theatrical gesture toward the lettering. Charlène, with a calculated, minimal movement, tugged up the hem of her longsleeve, exposing a deliberate sliver of skin above her skirt. It wasn't seduction, it was editing. Removing visual noise to sharpen the point: the word, and the man fixated on it.

Her gaze remained downward, a queen surveying a subject. She tracked the proximity of his body to hers, the way the heat of him seemed to warp the air. Then, his head tilted up.

Their eyes locked.

The world outside the frame dissolved. All she heard was the rapid, frantic machine-gun click-click-click of André's shutter. In Joost's blue eyes, the defensive wall was gone. In its place was something raw and unguarded - a hesitation, a silent, questioning pause. Is this the move?

She answered with the barest tilt of her chin. A sovereign's permission.

She shifted her stance, planting one foot forward, claiming more space, more dominance.

He moved like water. In one fluid, unbroken motion, he sank fully to his knees on the hard studio floor beside her. His fingers, warm and definite, encircled her calf just below the knee, his grip not gentle, but possessive. Then, he turned his head and pressed his cheek against her thigh. Not a nuzzle, but a claiming. His skin burned through the thin cotton of her skirt, right against the bold script of Unity. For the camera, he maintained a lazy, playful expression, but the contact was anything but casual.

"Yes! God, yes! That's the shot!" Marleen's voice was a breathless mantra from somewhere far away.

But Charlène had tunneled out of the studio. Her universe had collapsed to two points of searing contact: the solid pressure of his cheekbone against her flesh, and the ring of his fingers around her leg. Then, his thumb moved. It stroked upward, a slow, deliberate pass, finding the elastic edge of her knee-high sock. He toyed with it, a subtle, intimate flicker.

A jolt of pure lightning arced up her leg, exploding in the pit of her stomach. It was involuntary, devastating.

He felt it. She saw the knowledge flash in his eyes, which had flicked up to hers. His fingers tightened in response, a silent I know, before his thumb pressed firmly, deliberately, into the sensitive hollow behind her knee. A soft, traitorous gasp escaped her lips.

Through the electric haze, she saw Marleen's ecstatic face, a blur of approval. Don't move. This is perfect.

With a surge of will that felt like conquering a mountain, Charlène raised her hand. If this was the performance, she would own the climax. She placed her palm on the crown of his head. His hair was softer than she expected. Then, she curled her fingers, fisting the pale strands, and pulled. Not hard, but with definitive authority, pressing his face more firmly against her, molding him to the shape of her thigh.

It was a perfect, brutal, beautiful image. Her face was out of frame, the story was the skirt, the word, the submission. Unity.

But the roaring in her ears, the frantic beat of her heart, the delicious, terrifying sense of absolute dominance - that was all hers. He was on his knees. He had put himself there, but she was the one holding him down. And the dark, thrilling pleasure of it was a secret only her body knew, humming beneath the surface of the perfect, still pose.

***

She really, really didn't want to go. It was her most sincere desire of the evening - to go home, scrub off the makeup, wrap herself in a blanket, and never see his face again. But when Marleen, her eyes pleading, practically begged her to come to some bar with them to celebrate the end of the shoot and the job in general, and when André chimed in with his gentle, reassuring "Come on, it'll be fine," Charlène relented. She didn't want to be rude. She liked Marleen. They had already agreed to work together again. With Marleen, it was easy. She was pleasant.

So, she agreed. She tried to ignore Joost, who lingered nearby on the walk to the bar, but she kept catching his glances. After what had happened in the studio, they hadn't spoken, but she felt something had shifted. It was as if his bold, brash nature had deflated, settled. She was curious about how he had felt in that moment, if he had felt the same electric charge she had, but of course, she had no intention of asking.

Now, the four of them sat at a corner table in a dimly lit bar. It was past midnight. Charlène had drunk... a lot. She had initially wanted to relax, but then she lost her sense of measure, and now she felt warmth spreading in her chest, her arms and legs becoming pleasantly light. And she was laughing. Laughing a lot. Marleen was telling funny stories from her life and work. André joined in with his own tales, including ones he and Charlène shared. She nodded along, adding details. And even when Joost cracked a joke, she laughed, ignoring the pointed looks he threw her way afterward. She was simply having a good time, even if it was with the help of alcohol.

The alcohol acted as a soft filter, blurring the sharp edges of the day. The studio lights, his touch on her leg, the silent battle of wills - all of it receded, replaced by the warm glow of the bar lights and the easy camaraderie with Marleen and André. For a few hours, she could almost pretend he was just another colleague, that the tension between them was a figment of her imagination fueled by stress and fatigue.

But beneath the laughter and the pleasant buzz, a part of her remained acutely aware of his presence across the table. Every time their eyes met briefly over a raised glass or during a burst of shared laughter, she felt a flicker of that same charged awareness from the studio. It was a quiet, unsettling hum beneath the surface of the evening's forced merriment, a reminder that some lines, once crossed, could never be fully erased, even by the haze of alcohol and the late hour.

André beside her laughed loudly, a booming, unguarded sound. He was very drunk. She knew him - this wasn't his usual state. He rarely let himself go this far, but she could see he was genuinely happy. When André drank to excess, it was from joy, not from the same hollow need that sometimes drove her. She knew he was thrilled with their work, with her work. This job would bring them both a decent fee and, more importantly, a sliver of recognition. He was truly celebrating. And with each passing minute, she saw the words beginning to slur, the effort it took for him to string a sentence together. She held her own glass and smiled fondly at him.

Meanwhile, Marleen, also pleasantly tipsy, was animatedly recounting a hilarious story from a shoot months ago, her hands painting pictures in the air. Charlène listened and chuckled softly, the sound easy and light.

Her gaze drifted.

It landed on Joost. He was sitting next to Marleen, lazily slumped against the back of the booth, his eyes downcast. He was holding something, turning it over and over in his fingers. Charlène squinted.

Then her eyes flew wide open. It was her nose clip. The one she'd thrown at him. Oh, for God's sake. You utter idiot. You took it. You kept it.

She clicked her tongue in exasperation and rolled her eyes skyward, a flush of mingled annoyance and something else warming her neck.

As if sensing her stare, Joost lifted his head. He looked at Marleen, who was still talking, then slowly, deliberately, turned his gaze to Charlène.

Their eyes met across the table.

The sound of Marleen's voice faded into a distant buzz. The background noise of the bar dissolved. Charlène's breath hitched in her throat.

The corner of his mouth twitched. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly, a silent reprimand. His smirk widened into a full, knowing grin.

She rolled her eyes again, this time a performative display of dismissal, and hid her own involuntary smile behind the rim of her glass, taking a quick sip to mask the sudden, treacherous curve of her lips. The little metal clip glinted in his hand, a tiny, shared secret in the noisy, oblivious bar.

***

Standing in the bar's cramped bathroom, Charlène leaned against the sink and studied her reflection. The air was thick and warm, her head spun pleasantly, but she felt surprisingly, dangerously relaxed. All her sharp edges felt softened, blurred by the alcohol. She splashed cool water on the back of her neck, gasping softly as it trickled under her collar, a feeble attempt to anchor herself.

Stepping out into the dim hallway, she stopped short.

Joost was there. Leaning against the wall, as if he'd been waiting.

She frowned, the pleasant haze thinning. "What are you-"

"I'll walk you home," he stated, cutting off her question.

She blinked, processing. "What?"

"André is... better now. Marleen is getting him home. They already left in a taxi."

Confusion clouded her fuzzy thoughts. "How will Marleen get to the hotel?"

"Our hotel is next to André's apartment," he said calmly, his voice low and even in the quiet corridor.

Then she remembered - André's occasional complaints about the noise from the expensive hotel across the street. She exhaled, a slow, resigned sound, and nodded. "Fine. But I don't need an escort. I can manage." She turned to retrieve her coat.

He followed her. "It wasn't an offer. It's late. It's dark."

"I don't need your help," she insisted, shrugging into her coat. "I know my city." Technically, Paris wasn't her city - she wasn't born here - but she'd lived here long enough to claim it. He didn't need to know that.

He let out a soft, dismissive sound. "I don't doubt your knowledge of the city. But you're not the only one who knows it." His gaze held hers, and there was no mockery in it now. He was hinting at the whispers of Parisian alleyways, the shadows where a lone, tipsy woman might be more than just lost.

She pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose. She glanced at her phone. The metro was closed. A taxi felt like an admission of defeat. She always walked if it wasn't too far. She looked at him from under her brow, a reluctant, silent calculation passing behind her eyes. Finally, she gave a single, curt nod. This wasn't about their feud. This was pragmatism.

He nodded back, an acknowledgement of the truce.

She scanned the now mostly empty bar. "What about the bill?"

"Taken care of," he said shortly.

Of course he paid. She rolled her eyes and headed for the exit, knowing he would follow. "You don't have to be so smug about it," she tossed over her shoulder as they pushed out into the biting night air.

He clicked his tongue. "You asked. I answered."

"Shut up," she muttered, pulling her coat tighter.

"Don't be a bitch," he replied, his voice flat, not angry, just stating a condition of their uneasy peace as they fell into step on the deserted street.

***

She didn't know why he had climbed the stairs. The old European building had no elevator, its narrow, worn steps smelling of damp plaster and distant cooking. But here he was, on her landing, in the dim light of a single, flickering bulb. It was surreal, seeing him in this space that was so intimately hers. She felt no alarm, though she knew she should. She was simply too tired, the alcohol and emotional whiplash of the day having flattened her defenses.

She leaned back against her own front door, the wood solid and familiar against her spine, and watched him. They stood in silence. He swayed slightly, his blinks slow and heavy, and she was abruptly thrown back to that first night in the bar. He was drunk now, as he was then. Drunk and undoubtedly exhausted. Yet here he was.

He braced a hand against the wall beside her head, not crowding her, but steadying himself. The corridor was tomb-quiet, the light murky. She felt certain he could hear the frantic, traitorous rhythm of her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't know why she hadn't said goodnight and slipped inside. She equally couldn't fathom why he hadn't turned and walked back down the five flights of stairs. The charged silence stretched, thicker than the darkness in the stairwell, filled with everything they hadn't screamed at each other and the unsettling, unfamiliar quiet that had settled in its place.

She turned her head toward him, her temple still resting against the cool wood of the door. Their eyes met again. He looked far too serious, his usual mocking edge sanded down by fatigue and drink, but she didn't have the energy to analyze it.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet, almost lost in the narrow space. "I didn't mean it. What I said about your songs being terrible."

He blinked slowly, processing. Then he let out a soft, understanding hmph as he remembered their exchange on the steps.

"I haven't even heard them," she continued, her gaze dropping for a second before finding his again. "So it was stupid of me to say that."

He gave a low, quiet laugh, looking away at the stained wall across the landing. "Good. That's good you haven't. I was definitely tempted a few times to sing 'Ome Robert' right in your face."

Charlène didn't understand the reference but guessed it was one of his tracks. She rolled her eyes, a faint, tired smile touching her lips. "I don't even want to know what that's about."

He nodded, his own smile brief and wry. "You really don't."

The faint echo of his laugh faded, leaving a deeper, more potent silence. And their eyes found each other once more, the pretense of conversation gone, leaving only the heavy, unspoken reality of the dim hallway and his hand still braced on the wall beside her head.

He shifted, closing that last inch of space between them. She looked up at him, her head still against the door, the angle making him seem even taller, more imposing, yet his expression held no threat. He studied her face - the tired lines around her eyes, the faint trace of smudged makeup, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed.

Then, his voice, lower and more earnest than she'd ever heard it, cut through the quiet. "I didn't mean it either. What I said about your work being bad. That you were bad at it."

Her lips twitched, forming a small, involuntary, and surprisingly gentle smile.

He continued, his gaze unwavering. "I saw your portfolio. And the shots from yesterday for the merch. They're... really good. You're really good at what you do."

The simple, unadorned compliment, coming from him, felt monumental. Her smile softened, reaching her eyes for the first time all evening, not out of triumph, but from a place of genuine, weary appreciation.

Several seconds stretched between them, filled not with tension, but with a strange, fragile calm. The silence was a blanket, smothering the remnants of their earlier battles.

Finally, she whispered, the word barely audible in the still hallway. "Thank you."

Then he grimaced, letting out a low groan as if the words were being physically dragged out of him. "And god, you looked so fucking hot in those Instagram pictures."

Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening in pure, unvarnished shock. A burst of laughter escaped her, and she immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling the sound to avoid waking the neighbors. The action was instinctive, girlish, completely at odds with the sharp-edged woman he usually faced.

He exhaled too, a huff of self-deprecating laughter, and a crooked smile finally broke through.

She caught her breath, lowering her hand, her own smile lingering. "You're drunk," she whispered, her voice laced with amused disbelief. "You're going to regret saying that tomorrow."

He nodded, pressing his lips together in a tight, acknowledging line. "I already do." He paused, his blue eyes holding hers in the dim light. "I get... very honest when I'm drunk. As you've unfortunately witnessed." The allusion to their first meeting in the bar was clear, reframing that entire chaotic night in a new, startling light.

She bit her lip, struggling to contain another wave of laughter as she looked into his eyes, seeing the same bewildering mix of sincerity and self-mockery reflected back at her. The air between them was no longer charged with hostility, but with something far more disarming and dangerously warm.

She nodded along, a wry, playful smile touching her lips, eager to keep the strange, new lightness between them alive. "Yeah, unfortunately, I've been a witness to that. I guess the only dignified way out of this sea of shame is to just never lay eyes on each other again." She meant it as a joke, a continuation of their fragile, tipsy truce.

He looked at her, his head tilted, nodding slowly. But his gaze held a knowing, almost weary depth that had nothing to do with humor. A lazy, resigned smile played on his mouth. "Yeah, well. That works out perfectly, then." He paused, letting the words hang in the quiet hallway. "Because we really won't."

All the playful energy vanished from her face in an instant, wiped clean by a cold wave of disbelief. She stared at him, her mind scrambling to reassemble his words into a different meaning. "What?" The word was a short, sharp exhale. She gave a little shake of her head, as if she hadn't heard him correctly, trying to cling to the pretense that this was still part of the banter. But a faint, traitorous squeak had edged into her voice, betraying her.

He let out a long, slow breath, dipping his head for a moment as if gathering himself. When he looked back up, she searched his face desperately. There was no sarcasm there. No teasing glint in his blue eyes. Even the faint smile on his lips seemed disconnected, a ghost of an expression that didn't belong. "Marleen is staying," he explained, his voice unnervingly calm. "She has a few more projects here. My part is done. I'm flying out tomorrow."

He attempted a wider smile, but it was a hollow gesture. It didn't touch the corners of his eyes, which remained flat and serious. It was a smile of finality.

Her own smile, what was left of it, died completely. Her eyes, wide and suddenly alert, darted across his features - the line of his jaw, his mouth, the unwavering directness of his stare - looking for the crack, the sign that this was another one of his cruel jokes.

"It's probably for the best," he added, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational. "You won't have to be forced to look at someone you clearly hate so much ever again."

She looked away sharply, her eyelids fluttering in a rapid, confused blink. So that's why he insisted on walking me home. That's why he climbed all these stairs. Not for... anything else. Just to say goodbye. The realization didn't settle, it crashed into her, a cold, heavy weight in her stomach. The fragile warmth of his confession, the shared, stifled laughter, it all curdled in an instant, exposed as a fleeting, meaningless moment.

It took her several heartbeats, several slow breaths of the dusty hallway air, to reassemble her composure. She built it out of ice and pride. When she looked back at him, her gaze was cool, detached, the vulnerability from moments ago locked away behind a wall of glass. She nodded once, a sharp, mechanical movement. "Yes," she stated, her voice devoid of all warmth. "That is for the best."

He nodded in return, a mirror of her own cold gesture, and finally looked away, breaking the connection.

And then, every sensory detail of the world rushed in at once, each one a separate assault. The solid oak of the door behind her was no longer a support but a hard, unyielding prison wall against her spine. The single, flickering bulb in the sconce overhead now pulsed with a maddening, strobe-like rhythm, casting jagged shadows. The narrow corridor felt like a refrigerated tunnel, the cold seeping through the soles of her shoes and climbing up her legs. Her once-comfortable coat became a straitjacket, the wool suddenly coarse and constricting, squeezing her shoulders and chest. The fragile bubble of connection had popped, leaving only the sterile, uncomfortable reality of a hallway at night, and a man who was already, in every way that mattered, gone.

They stood in silence, not looking at each other. Charlène's fingers tightened around the straps of her bag until her knuckles turned white. She couldn't make herself move or speak. She didn't understand why this sudden emptiness felt so profound. This was the moment she had been waiting for since they'd met - for him to be gone. And now that it was here, she somehow... didn't want it. And most of all, why did he have to tell her? Why not just disappear? As if he needed to see it for himself.

She jerked her head toward him. And he was already looking at her. Why was he always looking at her?

The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out, her voice low and rough. "You know I don't hate you."

He let out a quiet, low laugh. Then he nodded. "Yeah, you do."

She shook her head, not even understanding her own denial.

He leaned in closer, a faint, sad smile on his lips, and nodded again, as if convincing himself. "Yeah, Charlène. You do."

She let out a soft, disbelieving sound. No one had ever said her name like that. With that accent, stretching and softening the syllables until it sounded almost like a different word. She huffed a quiet laugh and corrected his pronunciation.

He tilted his head, looking at her with a gaze that said, I know. He'd said it like that on purpose.

But as the faint echo of their laughter faded, his expression grew serious again. "It was... fun working with you. You're very funny when you're angry."

She rolled her eyes, the familiar defense rising. "I've never worked with a bigger asshole than you."

He nodded, as if accepting a compliment. "Thank you."

She bit her lip.

He extended his hand. She looked down at it, exhaled slowly, and took it. His grip was firm, solid. They were looking at each other again.

Then, he shifted his hand, his fingers sliding up to wrap around her forearm, just below the sleeve of her coat. Her fingers instinctively did the same, mirroring his grip on his own arm. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate line across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. His blue eyes glittered, locked on her green ones. The world seemed to stop, the flickering light, the distant city sounds, the chill - all of it dissolved into that single point of contact.

And then, he let go. The connection severed.

He stepped back. Her foot instinctively shifted forward half an inch, as if to follow, but she caught herself, freezing in place.

He nodded a few times, almost to himself. "Goodbye," he said, the word final.

She clenched her jaw but forced herself to answer. "Goodbye."

He turned sharply and started down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the hollow stairwell, growing fainter with each step.

Charlène closed her eyes, lowered her forehead against the cool wood of her door, and let out a long, shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The tremor in her hands, hidden in her pockets, felt like the only real thing in the suddenly vast and silent corridor.

Chapter 5: Five

The world came back in pieces: a violent, relentless pounding, a shrill doorbell, and a deep, sickening throb behind her eyes. Charlène groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows in the dark. The room swayed. Outside the window, the light was a dull, bruised grey. In the pitch black of her bedroom, she had no idea what time it was, what day it was. A wave of nausea rolled through her, so potent she could almost taste the stale alcohol in the air of the room itself.

The assault on her door didn't stop. With a monumental effort, she swung her legs out of bed, the floor tilting beneath her feet. She stumbled to the door, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

When she wrenched it open, a blur of anxious movement resolved into her sister, Eleanor. Eleanor's eyes swept over her- the rumpled clothes from yesterday, the smudged mascara, the pallor of her skin.

"Mon Dieu, Charlène! What happened? Are you alright?" Eleanor's voice was sharp with concern as she ushered herself in, closing the door against the hallway.

Charlène blinked slowly, struggling to bring her sister's face into focus. "What... what time is it?" she managed, her voice a dry croak.

Eleanor looked stunned. "It's almost five. In the evening."

Five? Charlène's eyes widened. A whole day, gone. Swallowed by sleep and the aftermath of the bar. God, I slept through everything.

Eleanor was already shrugging off her coat and shoes, her worry filling the small entryway. "I've been calling you all day! I was getting worried, so I came over. What is going on?"

Charlène leaned her throbbing head against the cool wall. She tried to assemble the fragments. The shoot. The bar. The laughter. The hallway. His hand on her wrist. His goodbye. "Nothing... nothing happened," she whispered, the lie tasting as sour as her mouth felt. "The shoot was long yesterday. We... we went out after. I drank too much. Got home very late. I just... crashed."

Muttering under her breath, Eleanor marched into the kitchen, and Charlène shuffled after her like a ghost. "I was worried sick," Eleanor said, filling a glass with water. "Half the day, no answer."

"I'm sorry," Charlène mumbled, accepting the water. "I was just... exhausted. I didn't hear the phone."

Eleanor nodded, her expression softening, but then she added gently, "It's Saturday. Gabriel was... disappointed."

The words were a physical blow. Charlène shut her eyes, a fresh wave of guilt cutting through the hangover haze. Saturday. Their day. The one day a week she reliably spent with her nephew, giving Eleanor a few precious hours of respite. It was a ritual, a promise. And she'd forgotten. Completely erased it.

"Oh, El, I'm so sorry," she breathed, the shame acute. "I... I completely lost track. Can I... can I come tomorrow? Make it up to him?"

Eleanor's smile was warm, forgiving. "Of course you can. He'll be thrilled."

But as her sister's concern eased, Charlène felt the emptiness in the apartment yawn wider. The headache, the nausea, the guilt about Gabriel - they were all just surfaces, symptoms of a deeper, colder hollowness that had taken root in her chest the moment she heard the footsteps fading down the stairs.

Charlène shook her head, trying to physically dispel the thoughts pressing in through the fog of her hangover. Eleanor watched her, and a soft, knowing sigh escaped her lips.

"Go take a shower," Eleanor said, her voice shifting from worried sister to practical caretaker. "I'll make you something to eat."

A faint, grateful smile touched Charlène's lips as she nodded. Some things never changed. The older sister would always be the older sister, even when both of them were grown women with their own complicated lives. The simple, domestic command was a lifeline - a clear, manageable task in the swirling disorder of her mind and body.

She moved toward the bathroom, the promise of hot water and the scent of food from the kitchen feeling like the first sane and solid things she'd been offered all day.

About half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom. Her body was wrapped in steam, her hair clean, heavy, and dripping, smelling distinctly of her own shampoo - not the lingering, unfamiliar scent of someone else's cologne. She had tied her robe tightly around her waist. Her face was scrubbed clean of yesterday's smeared makeup, her teeth brushed, though the phantom, metallic taste of alcohol still lingered at the back of her tongue.

She returned to the kitchen, where a plate of food and a steaming mug of tea awaited her. At the table across from her spot, Eleanor sat with her legs curled under her, sipping her own tea and scrolling through her phone.

Charlène sat down. Eleanor set her phone aside. "Feeling better?"

Charlène nodded, picking up her fork. "Thank you for this."

Eleanor shrugged, a gentle, chiding look in her eyes. "If you bothered to keep real food in this apartment, I could have made something better. But it's just eggs and rice today."

Charlène let out a soft, genuine laugh - the first real sound of lightness since she'd woken up - and began to eat. The simple, warm food was a quiet anchor in the quiet storm of her thoughts.

While Charlène ate, she felt Eleanor's gaze on her - not intrusive, but quiet, observant, the kind that sees through the walls of her usual nonchalance. When her sister finally asked, "Did you have fun last night?" the question landed like a pebble in still water, sending ripples through Charlène's fragile composure. She nearly choked on a mouthful of rice.

"What?"

"Judging by the state of you, and the fact you slept through an entire day," Eleanor said, her tone light but her eyes sharp, "it must have been quite a night."

Charlène took a slow sip of tea, using the mug to hide her face for a second. She manufactured a shrug, a casual lift of her shoulders that felt as heavy as stone. "It was... fine. Not bad. We had drinks. It was... a nice time." The words were ash in her mouth.

"How much did you drink?" Eleanor pressed gently. "And how did you get home?"

The image flashed, unbidden: his hand on her forearm in the dim hallway, the rough pad of his thumb on her inner wrist. "I'm fine," Charlène said too quickly, the words tumbling out. "André walked me home. Everything was fine."

Eleanor studied her, that quiet, knowing look that could unravel her completely. After a moment that stretched into eternity, she simply nodded and went back to her tea.

Charlène looked down at her plate, the eggs congealing, the rice losing its steam. She couldn't tell the truth. Because the truth was a void. Nothing happened. A man walked her home. A man she argued with. A man who left. That was all. So why did the lie - André's name instead of his - feel like a betrayal of something she couldn't even name?

It was too private. A secret not of events, but of atmosphere. The charged silence in the stairwell wasn't something you could recount. The exact pressure of his grip wasn't a fact, it was a phantom imprint on her skin. The way he'd said her name, stretching the vowels with his accent, was a sound that existed only in the archive of that single, suspended moment.

She couldn't say that after the door clicked shut behind her, she didn't move. She had slid down the wood until she was sitting on the cold floor of her own hallway, her back against the door, as if guarding an exit he'd already taken. Her mind, still fuzzy with wine and exhaustion, had been a storm of static - fragments of insults, even the feel of his hair in her fist, the blue of his eyes in the bad light, the finality of "goodbye." A torrent of words that refused to form a single coherent thought, just a dizzying, sickening swirl.

She couldn't admit that she had eventually crawled to her bedroom, shedding her coat like a second skin. She had stared at the ceiling, watching the dark grey of night slowly bleed into the cold, pale blue of dawn, her eyes dry and burning because she couldn't bring herself to close them. To close them was to let the reel play again. To sleep was to surrender to the chaos.

So she simply sat there, pushing food around her plate, holding the warm mug with hands that didn't tremble because she willed them not to. She kept the secret because it was a secret of nothing. A hollow, aching nothing that had, somehow, changed the composition of the air in her lungs and the weight of the silence in her apartment. The confession was too immense in its emptiness to ever be spoken aloud.

***

The late afternoon sun slanted through the living room window, painting a warm stripe across the chaos of plastic tracks scattered on the floor. Charlène sat in the middle of it, legs tucked beneath her, surrounded by the quiet industry of childhood. The rhythmic click-click of connecting train pieces was a soothing, metronomic sound.

Gabriel knelt beside her, his small tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to slot a bridge support into place. When Eleanor had first seen the sprawling new train set Charlène had pulled from a bag, she'd sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "You spoil him, you know." Her voice held no real reproach, only a sister's weary fondness.

Charlène had merely waved a dismissive hand, her eyes already back on Gabriel's eager face. She didn't care. If spoiling him meant seeing this pure, unfiltered focus, this escape from the quiet anxiety he sometimes carried, then she would buy every train in Paris.

Now, with Eleanor taking a rare moment of solitude in the kitchen, the faint clink of a cup being set down the only sign of her presence, Charlène could finally exhale. This was the penance she needed. Not for the hangover, but for the forgotten Saturday, for the hollow space that had opened inside her and made her unreliable.

Her gaze drifted to the kitchen doorway. She watched Eleanor move slowly, methodically wiping a counter that was already clean. The last few months had carved subtle new lines into her sister's face, not of age, but of a perpetual, low-grade exhaustion. First grade had been a seismic shift - the logistics, the emotions, the constant mental load. Eleanor's job demanded more. The house demanded everything. And Pierre... Pierre was a void. A presence that took up space and oxygen but contributed nothing, leaving a silent, crushing pressure in his wake. A hot, familiar coil of contempt tightened in Charlène's stomach, her jaw clenching until she forced it to relax. She wouldn't let her anger at him poison this afternoon.

"Aunt Charlène! Look!" Gabriel's voice, bright with triumph, pulled her back. He held up a completed section of the oval, his small hands steady. "It connects!"

The dark thoughts scattered like shadows before light. She leaned forward, a genuine smile breaking through. "You did it! That's perfect engineering. See? The curve is just right." She tapped the plastic rail gently.

He beamed, the proud, uncomplicated joy in his face a balm. He shuffled closer, his small shoulder brushing her arm as they both reached for the next piece. For the next hour, the universe narrowed to the geometry of tracks and the quiet shared purpose of building a world that made sense. Here, on the sun-dappled floor, there were no confusing Dutchmen, no cryptic goodbyes, no professional humiliations. There was only the click of plastic, the weight of a small head occasionally resting against her shoulder, and the simple, profound act of building something together, piece by piece.

A soft smile played on Charlène's lips as she watched Gabriel push the train along its newly assembled track, his little hands conducting its journey with great seriousness. She leaned in closer, the scent of childhood and carpet dust filling her senses.

"So, tell me about school," she asked, her voice gentle. "Do you like it? Have you made any friends?"

Gabriel, his eyes still fixed on the engine, began to talk in the stop-start, winding way of small children. He told her about playing, about learning to read, his words tumbling out. "And at recess, I play with two boys," he declared, a note of pride in his voice.

Charlène listened, asking questions, painting a picture of his little world. "And your teacher? Do you like her?"

He nodded vigorously. "She's cool. One time," he continued, his focus drifting slightly from the train, "Papa forgot to pick me up. She sat and played with me until Mama came from work."

Charlène's smile vanished. It didn't fall, it was extinguished. Gabriel kept playing, but the light ease had left his small shoulders. She saw he wasn't smiling either.

A wave of regret washed over her. Why did I ask? She shook her head slightly, cursing herself internally for opening a door to a sadness he shouldn't have to carry.

But she was quick. With a practiced shift, she pointed to a tunnel. "Look! Do you think the fast train can get through there before the cargo one?" she asked, her voice regaining its bright curiosity, pulling his attention back into the safe, controlled world of plastic and pretend.

As he eagerly took the bait, launching into a race commentary, Charlène's mind was a storm of cold, sharp clarity. The casual neglect, the unthinking cruelty of making a child feel forgotten - it solidified into a hard, dark promise in her chest. She watched Gabriel's concentrated face, his temporary sadness already forgotten in the thrill of the game.

One day, she swore to herself, the thought a silent, venomous vow in the sunny room, I am going to end Pierre. Not with violence, but with exposure. With consequences. She would find a way to make him pay for every forgotten pickup, every sigh of burden he forced onto her sister, every shadow he cast over this sweet, serious boy. The promise was a cold stone in her stomach, a counterweight to the warmth of the child beside her.

Charlène poured every ounce of her focus into making the afternoon perfect for Gabriel. She knew an aunt could never replace a father, but she could be a constant. She could be present. She could create memories and moments of pure, uncomplicated joy that would, brick by brick, build a fortress of good feelings around him.

They played a little longer, until Gabriel suddenly looked up, his eyes sparkling with a new idea. "I want to show you something!"

At her encouraging nod, he scrambled to his feet and darted to his room, returning moments later with a well-handled notebook clutched to his chest. He stood close beside her, opening it with careful reverence to show pages filled with carefully practiced numbers.

Her heart clenched. She saw it in his eyes - that hungry, hopeful search for approval. A child's need for validation stretches beyond a mother's love, it's a reaching out to the wider world, a desire to be seen and praised by it. He was growing, connecting with people, and he needed that reinforcement.

She pulled him into a one-armed hug, holding the notebook steady with her other hand. "Look at that!" she said, her voice warm with genuine admiration. "You're doing so well! These are perfect."

He beamed, a wide, gap-toothed smile of pure triumph. "Mama helped me," he confided, a note of pride for his mother in his voice.

Charlène smoothed his hair. "Your mama is wonderful," she said softly, meaning it. The joyful light in his eyes was everything. It was enough. In this quiet moment, with the weight of his small body leaning trustingly against hers and the evidence of his growth held in her hands, the chaotic noise of her own life fell completely, blessedly silent.

Eleanor appeared in the living room doorway. Charlène looked up and saw her sister watching them, a soft, contented smile on her face. Gabriel followed her gaze and grinned when he saw his mother.

"Supper's warm, little man," Eleanor said gently. "Go and eat at the table."

He nodded, gave Charlène one last happy glance, and scampered to the kitchen. Charlène got up from the floor, her joints protesting slightly, and followed Eleanor into the warm, savoury-smelling kitchen.

As Gabriel settled at the small table with his bowl, Eleanor turned to Charlène. "Are you hungry?" she asked, her voice low.

Charlène shook her head. She had no appetite. The emptiness inside her wasn't the kind that food could fill.

Eleanor let out a soft sigh, not of frustration, but of understanding. She leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms. Charlène mirrored her posture, leaning beside her.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet, diligent sounds of Gabriel eating his soup. No words were needed. In the quiet kitchen, with the fading light and the simple, domestic soundtrack of her nephew's supper, there was a fragile, perfect peace. It was a peace built on unspoken understanding, on shared blood, on the mutual, weary knowledge of life's complications. For a few minutes, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her sister, Charlène could simply exist, without performance or pretense, anchored in the quiet, steadfast reality of family.

But the fragile peace in the warm, soup-scented kitchen didn't just end, it was annihilated. The sound of the front door opening was slow, deliberate, a violation in itself. Then came the familiar, hated sounds: keys dumped with a clatter on the hall table, the heavy rustle of a coat being shrugged off and left in a heap. Eleanor's body went rigid a second before she let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand such evenings. Charlène didn't need to look. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a cold wave of disgust washing away the last of the afternoon's warmth. Pierre. Of course.

His footsteps were a dull, threatening percussion on the floorboards. He filled the kitchen doorway before he fully entered, his presence an immediate pollutant in the air. His face, perpetually set in lines of grievance, scanned the room and landed on Charlène like a stain.

Eleanor spoke first, her voice a thin, automatic filament of civility. "You're home."

He grunted, a sound devoid of acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving Charlène. "What's she doing here?" The pronoun was a weapon, stripping her of name and relation.

Charlène felt the anger, hot and metallic, rise from her gut. She forced it down, her voice emerging flat and cold. "Visiting my family."

"This is my home," he corrected, a nasty smirk twisting his mouth. "You're here so often I'll have to start locking up the valuables."

"Pierre, please," Eleanor cut in, her voice tight. She took a half-step, her eyes pleading with him. A silent message: Not in front of Gabriel. Not now.

He dismissed her with a flick of his gaze, his focus a laser on Charlène. "No, really. To what do we owe the honour? Another modelling gig fall through?" The sneer in his voice was palpable.

She clenched her teeth, her fingers curling into her palms. "I don't want anything from you. What 'valuables'? You look about as prosperous as a public bench." The retort was out before she could stop it, the need to wound him overriding her caution for Gabriel's sake.

He barked a laugh, the sound ugly in the quiet kitchen. He took a step closer, invading the space. Charlène could smell the stale coffee and cheap cologne on him. "At least I have a real job. I don't make a living by pouting in my underwear or spreading my legs for a camera."

The vulgarity hung in the air, toxic and shocking. A small, distressed sound escaped Eleanor. Charlène saw red. Her vision tunneled, the edges going dark with fury.

"Pierre, that's enough!" Eleanor's voice was sharper now, laced with a fear that turned to desperation. She reached out, her hand fluttering toward his arm in a futile attempt to pull him back, to break the spell of his aggression.

He moved faster than Charlène expected. His hand shot out and grabbed Eleanor's wrist, not with passion, but with a cold, brutal efficiency. He shoved her arm away from him as if swatting a fly. "Don't you touch me."

The movement was a catalyst.

From the corner of her eye, Charlène saw a small blur of motion. Gabriel, his little face, a mask of confusion and terror, launched himself from his chair. "No, Papa! Don't!" he cried, his small hands clutching at his father's forearm.

For a heart-stopping second, everything froze. Then Pierre, his irritation now a white-hot rage at this interruption, snarled and shoved the boy back. It wasn't a gentle push, it was a jarring, forceful thrust that sent Gabriel stumbling backward. He hit the edge of the table, his breath leaving him in a soft oof, but he stayed on his feet, his eyes wide with a new, deeper fear.

Something in Charlène snapped. A primal, protective wire, humming taut since she'd first seen her sister's fading smile, finally broke. Eleanor's pain was one thing. But this - this violence against a child, against Gabriel - was an unforgivable line crossed.

She didn't remember moving. One moment she was by the counter, the next she was between Pierre and the boy, her hands on his chest, shoving him back with all her strength. "Get away from him!" Her voice was a guttural scream she didn't recognize.

Behind her, she heard Eleanor scramble for Gabriel, pulling him into the shelter of her body.

Pierre's rage found a new, perfect target. His eyes, dark and utterly devoid of empathy, locked onto Charlène. "You," he hissed. His hand, large and crushing, shot out and seized her by the upper arm. His fingers, strong from a lifetime of petty labour, dug into the muscle and bone with vicious intent. A sharp, electric pain lanced through her, and a gasp was torn from her lips.

He used his grip as a lever, hurling her backwards. Her lower back connected with the unyielding, sharp corner of the kitchen countertop. The impact was a bright explosion of agony that stole the air from her lungs, radiating up her spine and down her legs. Stars danced at the edge of her vision.

Instinctively, her hands flew to the vice clamped on her arm, her nails scratching at his knuckles, trying to pry the fingers loose. It was like trying to bend iron. He only squeezed harder, the pressure becoming unbearable, a deep, grinding pain that promised a spectacular bruise. She felt the fragile bones protest, and to her utter humiliation, a hot sting of tears welled in her eyes, blurring his triumphant, hateful face.

He shook her then, not once, but repeatedly, her body jerking like a ragdoll in his grip. "This is my family! You stay out of it, you pathetic little whore!"

The words were a physical blow. She was trapped, physically overpowered, the pain in her arm and back a screaming chorus. She was helpless.

Then, a new voice cut through the red haze of her panic. Eleanor's voice, but transformed. The pleading wife was gone. This voice was cold, clear, and carried the absolute finality of a guillotine blade.

"Let. Her. Go." Each word was an ice chip. "Let her go right now, Pierre, or I am calling the police. I will have you arrested for assault. Do you understand me?"

The change was seismic. Pierre's head snapped toward his wife. The fury in his eyes mingled with a flicker of something else - shock, perhaps, at this unprecedented defiance. His grip on Charlène's shoulder didn't loosen, but the shaking stopped. The standoff lasted an eternity, the only sounds Gabriel's muffled crying and Charlène's ragged, pained breaths.

With a final, contemptuous snarl, he released her, shoving her away from him so forcefully she staggered, her hip crashing into the table. She caught herself on the edge, her legs trembling violently, the world tilting.

He stared at them - his wife holding his sobbing son, his sister-in-law hunched and gasping in pain - with a look of pure, unadulterated revulsion, as if they were the contamination in his home. Without another word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps heavy and deliberate down the hall.

The slam of the front door was a period at the end of a sentence of violence.

In the sudden, ringing silence, Charlène slumped against the table. The fire in her arm was now a throbbing, deep ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. The tears she had fought back now spilled over, streaming down her cheeks silently, not from the pain alone, but from the sheer, unbridled terror of it all - the violence, the hatred, and the chilling understanding of what her sister's life truly contained. The safe, sun-dappled world of train tracks was a distant, shattered memory. This was the reality, cold, hard, and smelling of fear and spilled soup.

Charlène trembled, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that started deep in her bones. Her left arm was a focused point of fiery agony, a brutal testament to Pierre's grip, while a deep, dull ache throbbed persistently in the small of her back where the counter's edge had struck. She clung to the kitchen table, her knuckles white, her fingers vibrating against the worn wood. The world had narrowed to these twin pillars of pain and the shaky support beneath her hands.

She lowered her head, a wave of dizziness threatening to pull her under, and her gaze found Eleanor. Her sister was crying silently, tears carving clean paths through her pallor as she rocked back and forth, clutching a terrified, silent Gabriel to her chest. The boy's small face was buried in her neck, his entire body rigid.

Every movement sent a fresh spike of pain through her, but Charlène forced herself down. She slowly, painfully, lowered herself to her knees on the hard floor beside them. The act was an effort of pure will.

She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers hovering before gently touching Gabriel's small arm. "El," she whispered, her own voice rough and unfamiliar. "Is he okay?" She then turned her attention to the boy, trying to catch his downcast eyes. "Gabriel? Mon chou, does anything hurt?" Her voice was the softest she could muster, a fragile thread of calm in the shattered room.

He didn't answer. He didn't even flinch. He just pressed himself tighter against his mother, a small statue of shock.

Eleanor began to speak then, the words tumbling out in a choked, tearful stream aimed at Charlène. "I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for you to... Oh God..."

Charlène shook her head, a sharp, minute movement that made her shoulder blaze. She didn't say, "It's okay," because it wasn't. She didn't offer forgiveness because the wound was too fresh. Instead, she silenced Eleanor with the sheer weight of her focus. Her own pain, her own fear, her own humiliation - they were suddenly distant, secondary data. The only thing that mattered, the only real and urgent problem in the universe, was the small, traumatized boy curled in his mother's lap.

In that moment, clarity was born from pain. If the price of stepping between that man and this child was a bruised shoulder, a bruised back, a bruised ego - it was a transaction she would make without hesitation. She would do it again. She would stand in that line of fire every single time. Her own body was just a shield, and seeing the faint tremble in Gabriel's little shoulders, she knew the shield had been necessary. The rest was just noise.

***

Charlène didn't give her sister a choice, she insisted that Eleanor and Gabriel stay with her. She helped them pack a few essentials, her movements stiff and careful. She kept up a soft, steady stream of conversation directed at Gabriel, pointing out familiar buildings through the taxi window, asking simple questions about his favorite cartoon characters - anything to pull him out of his silent shell. Within half an hour, they were inside her apartment.

Gabriel was quiet. He watched them both with huge, unblinking eyes but didn't speak. Charlène saw the raw anxiety in Eleanor's gaze, a mirror of the turmoil churning in her own gut.

Eleanor's maternal instincts momentarily overrode her own distress. "Charlène, let me see," she urged, her voice thick with tears and worry. "We need to put something cold on it, at least."

"It's fine," Charlène deflected, her tone leaving no room for argument. She wouldn't add her pain to her sister's burden. "Really. It's nothing." She forced a semblance of normalcy. "You can take my bed. Both of you. Try to get some rest."

Eleanor nodded, exhaustion and gratitude warring on her face. "Thank you." She gathered Gabriel, murmuring promises of a safe, quiet place to sleep, hoping the sheer emotional exhaustion would pull him under even though it was still early evening. The child was utterly spent.

When the bedroom door finally clicked shut, sealing away her sister and her traumatized nephew, Charlène let out the breath she'd been holding. The facade crumbled.

The pain hit her in a nauseating wave - a sharp, burning throb in her arm where his fingers had dug in, and a deep, aching protest from the base of her spine. She leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor in her darkening living room.

But the physical pain was a clear, almost simple problem. It was the other ache - the moral, helpless, furious ache - that threatened to swallow her whole. She had gotten them out for the night. But what about tomorrow? The next day? The door she had just closed felt less like a sanctuary and more like a temporary holding cell against a storm that showed no signs of abating. She sat in the gathering dark, the silence of her own apartment now a heavy, accusing thing, and for the first time, had absolutely no idea what to do next.

The dam broke. The overwhelming shock of it all finally crashed through the last of her defenses. Her nervous system, stretched to its absolute limit, simply gave out. The shaking that had been confined to her hands became a full-body tremor. The adrenaline that had fueled her through the escape, the packing, the taxi ride, evaporated, leaving behind a cold, terrifying clarity.

She cried. Not the silent tears from the kitchen, but deep, wrenching sobs that she muffled against her own knees, pulled tight to her chest. Each gasp was a raw, ragged sound in the quiet apartment. The reality, no longer blurred by immediate danger or the need to be strong for others, descended with its full, horrific weight.

Oh God, what just happened? What did we just go through?

The thoughts swirled, chaotic and piercing. The image of Pierre's face contorted in rage. The sound of Gabriel's small cry. The sickening impact against the counter. The bruising grip on her arm - her own brother-in-law's hand.

How does Eleanor live with this? How does she get up every day?

And Gabriel. Sweet, serious Gabriel who just wanted to build train tracks and be praised for his numbers. What had he seen today? What permanent shadow had been cast over his small world? The thought of his wide, silent eyes was a fresh wave of agony.

She rocked slightly on the floor, her tears soaking into the fabric of her pants. The questions had no answers. The path forward was a void. The protective fury was gone, burned away, leaving only ash and a profound, shuddering fear for the two people sleeping fitfully in her bedroom, and a hollow, personal terror at the violence that had touched her own life. She cried for them, for herself, for the irreversible shattered normalcy, until she was empty and shaking in the dark.

She pushed herself up from the floor slowly, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. The tears continued their silent, steady journey down her cheeks, following the same paths they had carved earlier. She walked to the bathroom, the cool tiles a shock under her bare feet. Flicking on the light, she was confronted by her own reflection in the mirror.

A ghost stared back. Pale, swollen-eyed, hair clinging to a damp forehead.

Her hands, still trembling, moved to the hem of her sweater. With a slow, careful motion that sent a fresh lance of pain through her shoulder, she began to pull it up and over her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her body to the side. She took a slow, preparatory breath, steeling herself, and opened her eyes.

A sharp gasp escaped her, followed by a pained grimace. A new wave of tears, hot and immediate, welled up. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sound.

There, on the tender skin just above her elbow, was the stark, undeniable evidence. A perfect, brutal imprint of his hand. A blossoming bruise in deep, angry shades of purple and blue, the outlines of his fingers clear against her flesh. Her shoulders began to shake. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a distant sensation compared to the visual horror.

Tentatively, she reached out with her other hand, her fingers hovering just above the mark. She touched it.

A hiss of pain sliced through her clenched teeth, and she jerked her hand away as if burned.

Swallowing hard, she turned, facing away from the mirror. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and tugged them down just an inch, just enough.

On the curve of her lower back, another dark, violent bloom greeted her. The souvenir from the kitchen counter's edge.

Her head dropped forward, chin nearly touching her chest. A profound emptiness hollowed out her insides, a vacuum where her breath, her spirit, her fight should have been. A childish, desperate wish swelled in her throat: Let this not be real. Let this not have happened. But the cold glass of the mirror didn't lie. The throbbing, vivid marks on her skin were the truth, painted in the ugly, unforgiving colors of violence.

The fear was a solid, cold mass lodged beneath her ribs, making each breath a shallow, insufficient thing. She couldn't admit it, not fully, not even in the silent theater of her own mind, but it was true: she was terrified.

It wasn't just the memory of the pain, though the throbbing in her shoulder was a constant, brutal reminder. It was the shock of the violence itself - its suddenness, its intimacy, its sheer ugliness. It had breached a fundamental wall. Her world, for all its loneliness and professional frustrations, had operated on a set of rules. Rudeness, sarcasm, heated arguments in bars or studios - these were languages she understood, conflicts with parameters. What had happened in Eleanor's kitchen was something else entirely. It was lawless. It was a glimpse into an abyss where words failed and hands solved problems, and the realization that her sister lived perched on the edge of that abyss every single day was paralyzing.

The fear was multi-layered, each more suffocating than the last. Fear for Eleanor, trapped in a cage with a man whose anger was a physical force. A sickening, curdling fear for Gabriel, whose silent trauma felt like a permanent stain on his childhood. And underneath it, a raw, personal fear that made her feel small and weak: the fear of her own vulnerability. He had hurt her. Easily. He had left his mark on her skin as casually as signing a receipt. The powerlessness of that moment - of being physically overpowered, of being shaken like a doll - was a poison in her veins.

How did you fight a feeling like that? You couldn't reason with it. You couldn't out-sarcasm it. It lived in the flinch of her muscles, in the way her ears strained for hostile sounds in her own quiet apartment, in the instinctive recoil when her sore shoulder brushed against a doorframe. The fear had moved in, unpacking its bags in her nervous system. It whispered that safety was an illusion, that men could turn in an instant, that the people she loved could be shattered in front of her.

She stood in the bathroom, the proof of it blooming on her skin, and didn't know how to evict the terror. All she knew was that she had to, because behind that closed bedroom door were two people who needed her to be unafraid. So she swallowed the cold lump in her throat, wiped her face with a trembling hand, and began the impossible, internal work of building a dam against a flood with nothing but shattered pieces of her own courage.

Chapter 6: Six

Several days later, Charlène woke not to light, but to a familiar, sharp spike of pain in her lower back. The air in her apartment was thick with the unspoken. She lay on the couch, her arm tucked under her head, listening to the morning begin in the bedroom: the soft creak of the floor, Eleanor's hushed voice, a murmur that was Gabriel's reply, devoid of its usual morning energy.

They moved through the apartment like ghosts. Gabriel, once a whirlwind of questions and toy-fueled scenarios, was now preternaturally quiet. He ate his cereal with a listless focus, his eyes fixed on the bowl, not on the cartoon characters that once captivated him. The childish light in his eyes had been extinguished, replaced by a watchful, weary caution that made him seem years older. It was a quiet so profound it felt like a physical presence in the room, heavier than any shout.

Eleanor was a study in contained efficiency. She made breakfast, packed Gabriel's schoolbag, smoothed his hair — all with a mechanical precision that seemed to drain the color from her own face. Her smiles, when they came, were thin, fleeting things directed at her son, never reaching her eyes. Charlène had tried, in those first strained days. Over a pot of tea that grew cold, she'd ventured, "El, we need to talk about what happens next. You can't go back there."

But Eleanor would simply shake her head, her gaze darting to Gabriel's closed bedroom door. "Not now," she'd whisper, her voice brittle. "I can't... not with him here." The topic would be switched — to the weather, to a forgotten grocery item, to anything that wasn't the elephant of violence trampling their lives. Charlène saw a change in her sister, a switch that had been flipped into a terrifying 'off' position. She was going through the motions, preserving a shell of normalcy for her son, while inside, she seemed to have retreated to a locked room.

It was the quiet reminders that chilled Charlène the most. As Eleanor helped Gabriel into his coat each morning, Charlène, pretending to tidy the kitchen, would hear the soft, urgent whisper: "Remember, mon cœur. School is for learning. What happens at home is our family business. We don't talk about family business with teachers or friends, okay?" The words were coated in a sickeningly sweet concern, but their message was clear: Silence. Secrecy. Charlène's stomach would twist. She didn't believe for a second that this was all that worried Eleanor. This was about containment. About preventing the outside world from seeing the crack in their facade.

Charlène knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that this wasn't over. This was the calm before the storm circled back. Pierre's pride had been wounded, his dominance challenged in his own kingdom. He would not let that stand. The evidence was blooming on her own body, a brutal polychrome testament. So, one afternoon, locked in the bathroom with the fan humming to mask the sound, she did what her sister refused to. She took her phone, angled it against the mirror, and photographed every angle of the lurid, purple-yellow bruise on her arm — the perfect imprint of his fingers. She contorted, hissing through her teeth as fresh pain flared, to capture the deep, angry bloom at the base of her spine where the counter's edge had struck. The images were stark, clinical, and undeniable. She needed proof. Even if her sister was determined to live in denial, Charlène would have evidence. She had it now, stored in a password-protected folder, a digital indictment.

The constant, grinding pain was her shadow. Her back was a symphony of protest, every movement from sitting to standing conducted by a sharp, conducting jab of agony. Her arm throbbed with a deep, persistent ache. Sleep on the unforgiving couch was a cruel joke, each night a cycle of searching for a pain-free position and failing, leaving her more exhausted by morning than when she'd lain down. She moved through her own home like an old woman, stiff and careful.

The worst pressure, however, wasn't physical. It was the weight of Gabriel's extinguished spirit. One evening, she unearthed the train set from its bag, hoping to reignite a spark. "Look, the bridge is waiting for its engineer," she said, her voice overly bright. He had knelt beside her, but his movements were lethargic, disinterested. He slotted a piece into place because she asked him to, not because he wanted to. The joyful focus, the proud commentary — all gone. It was as if, in that one violent moment, he had been forced out of childhood, and the toys now seemed silly, relics of a past he couldn't access. The sight of his passive face, the light gone from his eyes, pressed down on Charlène more fiercely than any bruise. It felt like a failure — her failure, the world's failure — to protect that light.

She felt herself fraying at the edges, pulled taut between her own pain, her silent fury at Pierre, her desperate worry for Gabriel, and the infuriating, helpless wall of Eleanor's avoidance. The apartment, once her refuge, had become a cage of shared trauma and stifled words. She was balanced on a razor's edge, feeling the thin, painful line between holding together and completely falling apart with every labored breath she took.

The silence in the kitchen was a thin, brittle film over everything. Eleanor stood at the counter, methodically spreading jam on a piece of toast for Gabriel, who sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, his eyes glazed over by the bright, mindless chatter of the cartoon on the screen. The scene was a perfect, terrible diorama of 'normal'.

Charlène entered, the old floorboard creaking under her weight. Eleanor didn't look up.

"I can't pick him up from school today," Charlène said, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet. "I have a work thing."

Eleanor nodded, her movements uninterrupted. She placed the toast on a plate. "It's fine. I'll get him." Her tone was flat, informational, like someone confirming a bus schedule. There was no 'What work thing?', no 'How are you feeling?', not even a glance. It was just... acceptance. An empty space where curiosity or care should have been.

Charlène stood there for a moment longer, the words 'I'm sorry' or 'Are you sure?' dying on her tongue. There was nothing to grasp. The conversation was already over, deemed unnecessary. She felt herself dismissed from her sister's inner world more completely than if she'd been shouted at.

She was left with only her own thoughts, which circled back to the truth: she did have work. The test shoot with Marleen. The promise she'd made in the sunlit studio a week ago, before hallways and bruises. A flicker of something — anticipation, guilt — stirred in her chest. She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but the thought of leaving this suffocating apartment, of stepping into a world where she was defined by skill and creation, not by trauma or helplessness, felt like a gulp of clean air after days in a sealed room. She needed the distraction like a plant that needed light.

Without another word, she turned and walked to the bathroom, closing the door softly on the sound of cartoon laughter.

The routine was a lifeline. Shower. Wash hair. Brush teeth. Face mask. Each step was familiar, mechanical, and a sequence her body could perform without input from her chaotic mind. The hot water beat against her sore back, a painful counterpoint to the internal numbness. She lathered her hair, watching the suds swirl down the drain, trying to imagine her worries following them. It didn't work.

She looked at her reflection as she smoothed the cool, clay mask over her skin. The woman in the glass had expertly concealed the shadows under her eyes. The physical marks were hidden under her clothes. On the surface, she was put-together, professional. Ready. But inside, the hollowness remained. She was going through the motions of preparing for her life while feeling utterly disconnected from it. The ritual was just that — a ritual. An empty ceremony performed in the hope that the feeling would eventually follow the action.

Drying off, dressing in simple, elegant black, she assembled her kit with military precision. Every brush, every palette had a place. This, at least, was a world she could control. As she zipped the bag shut, she took a final look in the mirror. Not at her face, but at her own eyes.

Okay, she told the reflection. For a few hours, just be the artist. Nothing else.

She picked up her kit and her coat, and without looking back toward the silent kitchen, she stepped out into the hallway, closing the door on the quiet apartment and the heavier quiet within it.

***

The memory of the smile came to Charlène subtly, like a warm beam of light finding a crack in the shuttered windows of her spirit. She barely noticed the corners of her mouth lifting of their own accord, a genuine, unforced gesture that felt foreign after days of grimacing through pain or forcing reassurance for Gabriel's sake.

For a few hours, she had been submerged in the pure, undiluted focus of creation. Just as on the shoot the previous week, working with Marleen was effortless. There was a silent, efficient shorthand between them now. Even though today she was the makeup artist, not the model — a role she was trying for the first time — the fundamental language was the same: texture, light, mood. The new face, a young model with sharp cheekbones and a quiet patience, became her canvas. Under Charlène's careful hands, a story emerged: a lived-in, artistic edge that was precisely what Marleen's mood board demanded.

The atmosphere in the studio was a balm. The photographer's approving nods, the stylist's murmured compliments, and most of all, Marleen's sharp, professional eyes lighting up with genuine delight as she reviewed the polaroids — it all fed a part of Charlène that had been starving. It warmed her from the inside, a small, potent furnace melting the thick layer of ice that had encased her heart since the night in the kitchen.

When, several successful hours later, Marleen casually suggested grabbing a bite to eat, just the two of them, Charlène's instinct was to recoil. Her first thought was a loud, internal no. How could she go for a casual lunch while her family was in pieces? While Gabriel's light was dimmed and Eleanor moved like a sleepwalker? The guilt was a cold, swift tide.

She almost said no. Almost.

But the realization that followed was simple and stark: she did not want to go home. The thought of returning to that apartment — to the heavy silence, the unspoken trauma, the sight of her sister's hollow eyes — filled her with a dread so profound it overrode the guilt. She didn't want any of it. The lunch with Marleen wasn't an indulgence, it felt like an anchor that could pull her, even briefly, from the suffocating void she was sinking into every moment she spent trapped in that domestic tragedy.

"I'd like that," Charlène heard herself say, the words a quiet surrender to her own need for reprieve.

Marleen's answering smile was bright, uncomplicated. "Great! I know a place nearby."

Sitting across from Marleen in a small, sunlit bistro, Charlène felt the strange dissonance of the moment. Here she was, with a near-stranger yet easy companion, eating excellent food, while her world was crumbling just a metro ride away. The guilt hummed in the background, but for now, the simple pleasure of conversation, of being seen as Charlène the professional and not Charlène the victim or caretaker, was stronger.

Marleen, perceptive as ever, didn't pry. She talked about the industry, next projects, asked Charlène thoughtful questions about her techniques. It was a safe, stimulating space. And for the first time in days, Charlène felt her shoulders slowly unhunch, not just from physical pain, but from the unbearable weight of home. She had taken a breath, and for this hour, it was clean air.

Charlène was finishing the last bites of her salad, the crisp greens a contrast to the heavy, comforting bread from earlier. Across the table, Marleen sipped her freshly squeezed juice, her animated hands painting pictures in the air as she recounted a story from a festival in Munich the previous year. It involved friend Liam, a logistical disaster with equipment, and a series of increasingly frantic, comical attempts to fix it.

"And then," Marleen said, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, "out of nowhere, Joost shows up. Takes one look at the mess, mutters something that probably wasn't complimentary, grabs a cable, does... something. I still don't know what. Two minutes later, it's all working. He just shrugged, said 'stupid problem', and walked off to get another beer. We were standing there like idiots."

Charlène laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that surprised even her. But the mention of his name hit her like a sudden, small electric shock, catching in her throat and making her draw a quick, sharp breath she hoped Marleen didn't notice.

The truth was, over the last few days, her thoughts had strayed to him more than she'd ever admit aloud. In the quiet, painful hours on the couch, in the moments of tense silence with Eleanor, her mind had wandered back to their chaotic, brief collision. She was honest enough with herself to acknowledge it. She'd thought about the strange, brutal simplicity of their interactions during those few days before he left. Yes, they had fought. They had hurled insults meant to draw blood. But he had possessed this maddening ability to pull her out of herself so completely, she'd forget everything else. The emotions he provoked — rage, irritation, a shocking, electric thrill — were so potent, so all-consuming, that they became a strange sort of focus. All her other problems, the creeping dread about her sister, the professional anxieties, would momentarily blur, pushed aside by the sheer force of him.

Just last night, staring at the ceiling, she'd even allowed herself the weak, treacherous thought: I wish he were here. Not for comfort. But to be angry again. To be alive again. To have someone to spar with who would make her forget the heavy, sickening fear that had taken up residence in her home. She had immediately chastised herself, shutting the thought down. It wouldn't happen. He was gone. She had to accept that.

But now, Marleen had brought him up herself. The opportunity was dangling before her, wrapped in casual gossip. Maybe she could use it. Just to know... something. Anything.

She schooled her features into mild curiosity, taking a sip of water as if the question was an afterthought. "He left so quickly," she remarked, her tone light. "Didn't even wait for the final selects from the... merch shoot." She gestured vaguely, as if the word 'merch' was slightly beneath her.

Marleen waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, you know him. Or, well, maybe you don't. He was supposed to stay a few more days, look at the edits with me. But he got a message, said he had business in Berlin. Some meeting he couldn't miss." She rolled her eyes with affectionate exasperation. "Always on to the next thing. He said, 'You know what you're doing, just send me the finals.'"

Charlène nodded, saying nothing more. So, he left earlier than planned. The information settled inside her, a small, cold stone. Now, something else — someone else? a business meeting? — had pulled him away from the aftermath of their act of crossfire. The pattern was clear: their encounters were interruptions, quickly concluded and left behind.

She made a concerted effort not to think too hard about it, focusing instead on the last of her juice. But the stone of that knowledge remained, a tiny, hard weight in the pit of her stomach, amidst the temporary warmth of the good food and Marleen's easy company.

***

The warmth from the studio, the lingering ghost of laughter from lunch with Marleen — it all evaporated the moment Charlène's key turned in the lock. The silence that rushed out to meet her wasn't just an absence of sound, it was a physical entity, cold and dense, like stepping into a vacuum. It sucked the breath from her lungs and the residual smile from her face.

She stood frozen in the entryway, still in her coat and boots, listening. Not a creak of the floorboard from the bedroom, not the hum of the small television Gabriel liked for background noise, not the soft clatter of Eleanor washing dishes in the kitchen. Nothing. The apartment didn't feel slept-in, it felt... sterilized.

A cold dread, sharp as a needle, pierced her gut. She didn't call out. Instead, she moved with a stiff, unnerving quiet, her boot heels making dull, invasive thuds on the parquet.

The living room was orderly. Too orderly. The bright blue blanket Gabriel had curled under for two nights was folded on the arm of the couch, not draped in his habitual nest. The book of fairy tales she'd left on the coffee table was gone.

Her breathing shallowed. She pivoted, striding to the bedroom. The door was ajar. She pushed it open.

The bed was made, the pillows plumped. No small socks discarded on the floor. No trace of her sister's simple perfume in the air. The closet door was shut. She yanked it open. Empty hangers swayed with a faint, metallic tinkle. The space where she'd shoved a small duffel bag of their things was a yawning emptiness.

A high-pitched ringing started in her ears. She stumbled to the bathroom. Gabriel's dinosaur toothbrush was gone from the glass. The faint smear of Eleanor's lip balm was wiped clean from the edge of the sink.

No. No, no, no.

Back in the living room, her eyes darted, hunting for proof she was wrong. The Lego piece she'd found under the radiator? Gone. The hair tie Eleanor kept on her wrist? Not on the side table. They had been erased, meticulously and completely, from her space. The apartment had been reclaimed for solitude. Her solitude.

The panic was no longer a wave, it was a riptide, pulling her under. Her hands were ice, fumbling so badly she almost dropped her phone. The screen blurred before her eyes as she stabbed at Eleanor's name. Each ring was an eternity, a hammer blow to her sternum.

When her sister's voice came, calm and so terribly normal, it was worse than a scream. "Yes?"

"Where are you?" The words ripped out of her, raw and scraped, devoid of any greeting.

A sigh. A quiet, weary exhalation that traveled down the line and wrapped around Charlène's throat. "We're home."

Home. The word was a physical blow. All the air was punched from Charlène's body. She actually staggered, her free hand groping for the back of the couch. "What?" It was a strangled whisper, the sound of hope dying.

"I picked Gabriel up from school," Eleanor continued, her voice a flat, tranquil lake. "And we came home. We can't live at your place forever, Charlène. We have our own home."

"Have you lost your fucking mind?!" The scream tore through the empty apartment, bouncing off the walls, a sound of pure, unvarnished terror and fury. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Calm down." The irritation in Eleanor's voice was faint, dismissive. A mother chastising a hysterical child. "He's sorry. He didn't mean it."

Sorry. Didn't mean it. The banal, toxic phrases hung in the air. Charlène felt a violent, gagging disgust rise in her throat. A sound escaped her — a mangled half-laugh, half-retch. She began to pace, a caged animal, her boots striking the floor like gunshots. The tremors in her hand holding the phone spread up her arm, vibrating through her whole frame.

"You're insane," Charlène breathed, the words dripping with venom. "You are actually, clinically insane if you believe that for one second."

"He called. He apologized. He asked us to come home." Eleanor's recitation was monotone, a script learned under duress. "He said he'd had too much to drink, that he wasn't himself."

"His laundry ran out!" Charlène shrieked, the rage boiling over, scalding and bitter. "The fridge was empty! He was tired of eating takeout alone in his precious, silent house! You're not his wife, you're his appliance that he just recalled for service!"

"Stop it! That's not true. I know him." Eleanor's voice cracked, a fissure of defensive pain.

Charlène halted. She stood in the center of the room, the epicenter of her own quaking world. She shook her head slowly, a disbelieving smile twisting her lips that felt like a grimace. The silence stretched, thick with everything that was dying between them.

When she spoke again, her voice was low, each word a shard of glass placed carefully on the ground between them. "Why are you doing this? Look me in the eye through this phone and tell me how you can walk that beautiful, silent little boy back into the house where a monster put his hands on him. What is broken inside you that this is your choice?"

"You don't understand." The shield. The final, flimsy shield.

"You're right! I dont!" The scream was primal, tearing her throat raw. "I will never understand! I don't want to understand this!"

"I know what I'm doing!" Eleanor shot back, a spark of her own frayed anger igniting. "I would never put my son in danger." A beat of loaded silence, then the words, delivered with a quiet, devastating certainty that would haunt Charlène forever: "He won't touch us. I don't provoke him."

Click.

The world shattered. The floor fell away. Charlène's vision tunneled to a pinprick of light, everything else going dark. The ringing in her ears became a deafening roar. She couldn't have heard that. It was impossible. It was a trick of the stress, a horrible auditory hallucination.

But the words echoed in the new, abysmal silence of her soul. I don't provoke him.

The frozen shard that had been her heart punctured something deep. A cold, vast emptiness began to spread from her center. She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. Her voice, when it finally came, was a ghost of itself, thin and airless. "So... I provoked him?"

A heavy, burdened sigh, full of martyred exhaustion. "This is hard enough for me, Charlène."

The coldness solidified into permafrost. "Do you have any idea," Charlène enunciated with lethal clarity, "what you have just accused me of? Do you hear the sickness in your own words?"

Silence. Guilty, complicit silence.

"Eleanor." Not a name anymore. A demand for accountability.

"It... it would be better for now," Eleanor whispered, the rehearsed line delivered with trembling conviction, "if you didn't come around. While things are... settling."

Settling. As if a bomb had gone off and she was asking for time to sweep up the glass. Charlène's legs gave out. She sank onto the couch, the impact sending a jarring bolt of pain from her still-tender back up her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, but no tears came. Just a vast, howling emptiness. Her hands, resting on her knees, trembled as if with a separate, ague-like life. She was being excommunicated. Cast out to preserve the fragile ecosystem of the abuser's peace.

"Is that why you slithered out while I wasn't home?" Charlène asked, her voice hollow, echoing in the tomb of her apartment. "Because you're too much of a coward to look me in the eye and tell me you're choosing him over me? Over your own safety?"

The silence from the other end was a confirmation more damning than any word.

Charlène nodded slowly, a gesture for an audience of one. The final, ugly piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "You are making a mistake of catastrophic proportions. And he will make you pay for it, and Gabriel will pay with you."

"It's not your decision to make," Eleanor replied, the firmness in her voice brittle, a thin veneer over terror.

A sound burst from Charlène's chest — a dry, humorless, utterly broken bark of a laugh. It hurt.

Eleanor's voice came again, shifting now to practicalities, as if discussing the return of a borrowed book. "I need to ask you... please don't file any report. With the police. About Pierre."

Charlène dropped her face into her icy hands. This time, the laugh that came was a real one, bubbling up from a well of hysterical despair. It was shrill and unhinged, echoing in the empty room. She couldn't breathe around it. "Is that all?" she gasped between wrenching giggles that felt like sobs. "Any other favours for the man who bruised your sister?"

"And... I hope you haven't said anything to Mom." The small, childish plea was the final twist of the knife.

Tears, hot and furious, finally welled, scalding her palms. "I haven't told our parents a thing," she hissed, her voice thick. "I was protecting you."

"Don't. Please, just... don't ever mention any of it. To anyone."

That was it. The bridge was burned, and her sister was throwing the ashes in her face to ensure nothing could ever be rebuilt. Charlène couldn't listen for another second. The torrent of betrayal was a physical force, a nausea in her soul. She didn't just end the call. She wrenched the phone from her ear and threw it with all her strength. It hit with a sickening, plastic crack and clattered to the floor, the screen blazing to life for a second before going black.

Then, the sound that broke from her was not a cry, but a raw, guttural expulsion of agony — a wounded animal sound, torn from the very core of her. It was loud and ragged, echoing off the walls of the emptiness she now understood was permanent. She folded in on herself, her body convulsing with the force of it, great, heaving sobs that held no more tears, just pure, unadulterated grief. She cried for her sister, lost. She cried for Gabriel, betrayed. She cried for the brutal, violet map on her own skin that her sister had just declared was her own fault. She cried until she was hollow, until the silence of the apartment seeped into her bones, colder and more absolute than ever before. She was alone. Not just alone in a space, but alone in the universe, the last connection to her family severed by the very hands she had tried to shield.

The sobs that wracked Charlène's body were seismic, a tempest that had been building for years. They weren't graceful tears, they were ugly, wrenching gasps that tore from a place deeper than grief. It was the sound of a foundation cracking.

And as the storm began to ebb, leaving her hollow and shivering on the couch, a new, more terrifying silence descended. Not the silence of an empty apartment, but the silence of a chilling question echoing.

What about me?

The thought was a selfish, splintering thing that felt like a betrayal in itself. But it was there, sharp and insistent. Who was going to take care of her? For days, her entire being had been focused on Eleanor, on Gabriel, on being their pillar, their sanctuary. She had absorbed their shock, swallowed her own pain to be strong for them. And now they were gone, and the pillar was left standing alone, cracked and crumbling.

The fear was no longer abstract. It was a physical inhabitant in her body. She flinched at the sound of a pipe groaning in the wall. The distant wail of a siren made her heart stutter. She felt unprotected. Not just emotionally, but physically. Even here, in her own space, which now felt violated by their silent, efficient exodus. The walls seemed thinner. The locks flimsy. If her own brother-in-law could turn to violence in a heartbeat, what was stopping the rest of the world? She was afraid of sudden movements, of loud noises, of the dark shape of her own coat hanging on the door. The world had become a potentially hostile actor, and she was its lone, bruised target.

Who would worry if she didn't answer her phone for a day? André might, eventually. But it wasn't the same. There was no one for whom she was a primary concern. No one whose world would tilt off its axis if she fell apart. The lonely logistics of it suffocated her. Who would make her tea when the shaking was too bad to hold the kettle? Who would notice if the pain in her back, now a constant, sickening throb that made her vision blur at the edges, was something more than a bruise? A fracture? Something broken inside, mirroring the break in her life? She couldn't go to a hospital. The questions, the forms, the pitying looks — the thought alone was exhausting. And who would sit with her afterward? Who would drive her home?

All these years, she had prided herself on her stoicism. She had swallowed insults — from Pierre, from dismissive clients, from the world. She had bitten her tongue until it bled, building a fortress of quiet competence. And the one time, the one time she had let the fortress gates down, had stepped out not for herself but to shield others, this was the reward. Exile. Bruises that were now her sole responsibility. Accusations that had poisoned the well of her own family.

No one had asked her, 'Does it hurt?' No one had whispered, 'What do you need?' They had only asked for her silence. Don't file a report. Don't tell anyone. Don't come around.

And then they had left her. Alone. To battle the nightmares she knew were coming. They weren't the surreal, confusing nightmares of the past week, haunted by blue eyes and confusing goodbyes. These would be worse. These would be visceral replays: the crunch of Gabriel's small body hitting the table, the animalistic snarl on Pierre's face, the crushing grip on her arm, and worst of all, the flat, calm voice of her sister on the phone, twisting the knife of betrayal with clinical precision.

She was alone with the aftermath. Alone with the pain. Alone with the fear. Alone with the devastating understanding that her sacrifice had meant nothing, and that no one was coming to catch her as she fell. The crying had stopped. Now, there was only the cold, clear, and utterly lonely reality of survival, and she had no idea how to begin.

***

The bass from the speakers was a physical thrum in Joost's chest, a rhythm that usually pulled him into the chaos. Tonight, it just felt like noise. He was slouched deep into a corner of an oversized leather sofa in a living room he didn't recognize, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. Some mutual friend had dragged him to a birthday party for someone whose name he'd already forgotten. The house was a labyrinth of loud conversations, spilled drinks, and bodies moving under pulsing colored lights. He hadn't even seen the birthday person. He was just... present. Slightly buzzed, pleasantly numb, floating in the usual haze.

His phone was a rectangle of cooler light in his hand, a refuge from the sensory overload. He scrolled absently through Instagram Stories — blurry clips of other parties, sunsets, pets. Mindless consumption.

Then, a familiar username: @marleenettema. A video from a studio.

It was a quick, casual pan of a shoot. Soft, professional chatter over a hip-hop beat. Marleen's voice, off-camera, saying something about the light. He watched, disinterested, until the last second. The camera swung past the model in the chair, past a light stand, and there, in the blurred background, bending slightly to examine her work...

He jammed his thumb against the screen, holding it down. The video froze.

Charlène.

There she was. A slice of her profile, that distinctive platinum hair with the dark shadow of roots he'd once mocked, now just a part of her silhouette. She was focused, a small brush in her hand, her attention wholly on the model's face. He remembered Marleen mentioning it, that day in the studio — Charlène doing the makeup for a test shoot.

He exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath. He rewound the story. Watched it again. And again. Just that two-second glimpse.

The noise of the party receded, muffled as if he'd been plunged underwater. The last few days, she'd been a persistent, unwanted ghost in his periphery. A song with a certain synth line would come on, and he'd think of the tense silence in the studio. He'd see a woman with a sharp haircut from behind, and his pulse would give a stupid, traitorous jump. When he was stressed, his fingers would find the cheap metal nose clip in his pocket, rolling it over and over like a worry stone.

It infuriated him. Why did this arrogant, prickly, impossible woman take up space in his head? They'd known each other for a handful of days, most of which they'd spent trying to verbally eviscerate each other. And then he, like an idiot, had to go and make it weirder by walking her home to say a proper goodbye, injecting a moment of raw, drunken honesty into their petty war. Since then? Nothing. No reason to communicate. She'd done her job. André would send the finals. He'd transfer the money. Transaction complete. Story over.

But something, a restless, gnawing something, refused to settle.

He looked back at the frozen frame on his phone. The story was tagged, highlighting the team. Her profile name was there. @charlene.delaramee.

His thumb hovered over it. A war waged in the space between his brain and his finger. Don't. It's pathetic. She probably hasn't thought of you once.

He tapped.

Her profile loaded. Then, against his better judgment, he began to scroll.

It was a mosaic of her life. Polished, professional shots from shoots — her face a canvas of fierce, ethereal beauty. Then, candid, personal ones: a laugh caught mid-throw of her head, eyes crinkled, a thoughtful, serious gaze out a rainy window, a silly face made at the camera over a cup of coffee. There were photos without her face at all — atmospheric shots of Parisian rooftops at dusk, the texture of peeling paint on a door, the stark geometry of shadows on a staircase. He saw, with a clarity that was almost intrusive, that she had an eye. A real one. She wasn't just a model in front of a lens, she saw the world through one, too. She was talented. The world, with its short attention span, seemed to scroll right past it.

So why couldn't he?

Why did he see it?

A guy stumbled against the back of the sofa, sloshing beer, yelling a slurred apology. Joost didn't even look up. He just stared at the bright screen, at the complicated, infuriating, talented woman on it, and felt the solid, simple logic of his world — finish a job, move on, never look back — crack open into something messy and unresolved. He leaned his head back against the sofa, closed his eyes against the strobe lights, and let out a low, frustrated groan that was swallowed whole by the pounding music.

The sudden dip of the sofa cushion beside him and the intrusive presence leaning over his shoulder made Joost flinch violently. He jerked the phone away, but it was too late.

"Whoa, who's the hot one?" Jamie's voice, laced with booze and immediate interest, cut through his private moment.

Joost slammed his thumb against the side button, plunging the screen to black and pressing it against his stomach as if hiding contraband. "No one," he snapped, the words coming out too fast, too defensive.

Jamie just chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and leaned back, throwing an arm across the back of the sofa. He gave Joost a look that pretended to have all the secrets of the universe figured out. "Sure, mate. 'No one.' Looked like someone."

Joost exhaled through his nose, a sharp burst of irritation, and took a long, deliberate swig of his beer, using the bottle to avoid Jamie's gaze. Just go away.

But Jamie, emboldened by alcohol and his own sense of camaraderie, didn't budge. He shifted the subject, his tone aiming for casual but landing somewhere near calculated. "So, you and Marleen are pretty tight, yeah? Work together a lot?"

Joost's eyes narrowed. He slowly turned his head to look at Jamie. The guy's face was all relaxed smiles, but his eyes had a focused glint. "We work together," Joost stated flatly. "Why?"

Jamie shrugged, a theatrical display of nonchalance. "Just wondering. You know we've collaborated, me and her. Cool girl. Great eye." He paused, picking at the label on his own bottle. "She, uh... she been in touch with you the last couple days?"

The question hung in the air, a strange, specific intrusion. Joost's guard, already up, snapped fully into place. He knew Jamie and Marleen moved in some of the same circles but this felt different from shop talk. This felt like a probe.

He kept his expression neutral, giving away nothing. "Not really. Why? She owe you money or something?" He tried to make it a joke, but it fell flat.

Jamie's shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of relief passed over his face so quickly Joost would have missed it if he hadn't been watching. "Nah, nah, nothing like that," Jamie said, his smile becoming easier, more genuine. "Just... you know how it is. Was wondering if she was around. Wanted to run an idea by her." He clapped Joost on the shoulder, the gesture suddenly too hearty. "Thanks, man. Won't keep you from your... 'no one.'" He winked, the knowing look back in full force. "Enjoy the party."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the pulsating crowd as quickly as he'd appeared.

Joost sat still for a moment, the phantom weight of Jamie's hand on his shoulder. He shook his head slowly. Jamie was always a bit odd, buzzing with nervous energy and half-baked schemes. But this... this felt off. The question about Marleen's contact wasn't casual curiosity. It was a checkpoint. And Jamie had looked relieved by the answer.

What are you into, Jamie? And why are you checking if Marleen's been talking to me?

The mystery was a brief, distracting itch, but it couldn't fully dislodge the image now burned into his mind — the focused curve of Charlène's spine as she worked, the quiet world she inhabited in that video, a world he'd been rudely ejected from. He looked down at the dark screen of his phone, then shoved it into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of the nose clip. The noise of the party, which had been a blanket, now felt like sandpaper on his skin.

He was done. He needed air that didn't smell like spilled beer and other people's secrets. Pushing himself up from the couch, he ignored a shouted invitation to join a drinking game and began making his way toward the door, Jamie's strange interrogation and Charlène's haunting silhouette chasing each other in a frustrating loop in his head.

The cold night air outside was a shock, but a clean one. It was quieter, less dense, scraping the sticky film of the party from his skin. Joost lit a cigarette, the first drag a sharp, clarifying burn in his lungs. The tight knot of nerves that had been coiling in his chest since he'd seen that video began, slowly, to unravel.

He sank onto the front steps of the house, the stone cold through his jeans, and pulled his phone out again. The noise of the party was now a muffled thump behind the door, a separate world. He quickly found his messages with Marleen.

joostklein: How's the work going?

The reply came surprisingly fast, a few minutes later.

marleenettema: Today was good. On schedule. But I have to push the next shoot back a week, maybe more.

His thumb hovered. That was a significant delay.

joostklein: Why? What's up?

marleenettema: Jamie fucked up. Majorly. Sent the completely wrong shipment of clothes and accessories. We have nothing to work with.

Joost rolled his eyes so hard he felt a twinge in his temple. So that's why Jamie was asking about her. The weird, probing question suddenly made perfect, infuriating sense. The bastard was checking if she'd already complained to him.

marleenettema: The idiot hasn't answered my messages for two days. Zero accountability. I had to contact the suppliers myself. They said the soonest they can get the right pieces to Paris is next week.

marleenettema: I'm so pissed. And embarrassed. I have a whole team waiting.

Joost exhaled a plume of smoke into the dark. Jamie had always seemed flaky, all talk and chaotic energy, but Joost never bad-mouthed collaborators without cause. Now he had cause.

joostklein: Jamie's here.

marleenettema: What?

joostklein: At this party. Just talked to him.

marleenettema: What the actual fuck? He's partying while my project is on fire? Unbelievable.

joostklein: He asked about you.

marleenettema: That's the last time I work with him. Ever.

Joost ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. Marleen was more than a collaborator, she was a friend. He knew how important these Paris projects were for her — a chance to solidify her reputation, to step out of the local scene and into something bigger. This wasn't just a delay, it was a professional black eye, and it was because of someone's incompetence.

He didn't hesitate long.

joostklein: Send me all the details. The supplier contacts, what you need. I'll call the guy who drives for me on tour. He has connects all over Europe for last-minute logistics. He can sort it.

marleenettema: Joost, no. It's my mess. I don't want to drag you into this.

joostklein: Stop being stupid. I'm already in it. I'll help.

marleenettema: You just got back from Paris.

He paused. She was right. He'd just left. The goodbye in that dim hallway felt oddly final, a full stop he'd insisted on placing himself.

joostklein: I've got nothing going on here.

And it was true. His calendar was a blur of movement — a night here, a few days there, friends' couches, hotels. He rarely stayed in one place long enough for the air to feel familiar. The idea of returning to the Netherlands had been about resetting, but it just felt... empty. The restlessness was a constant hum, and right now, it had no outlet.

And then, the thought crept in, sly and treacherous: It would mean going back to Paris.
The image of Charlène, frozen on his screen, flashed before his eyes. He shoved it away, immediately, violently. That wasn't the reason. This was about helping a friend. Period.

joostklein: Besides, I already miss the decent croissants. The ones here are shit.

marleenettema: You're impossible. And a lifesaver. Sending everything now.

As the details started popping up on his screen — spreadsheets, contact names, item lists — Joost took a final drag of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. The aimless buzz of the party was gone, replaced by a clear, specific mission. He was going back. Not for a confusing, sharp-tongued woman who haunted his idle thoughts. For a friend, for a job that needed saving.

But as he scrolled through Marleen's frantic messages, planning the logistics in his head, the city of lights no longer felt like just a location for a finished job. It felt like a place where something had been left unresolved, and he was, against all his own stated intentions, about to walk right back into it.