2. Chosen Family
Samantha
Alexander drops me off downstairs. The moment I open the apartment door, Mara looks up from the saucepan she’s standing over, a wooden spoon in hand. She frowns.
“Sam? Are you okay?”
Nothing escapes her. She isn’t a private detective for nothing.
“Yes, don’t worry,” I reply, in a voice I hope sounds reassuring.
I set my bag down by the entrance, avoiding her gaze. My fingers are still trembling. I managed to hold back my tears the entire drive. But now that I’m away from Alexander, the dam is about to burst.
Her question alerts Emelyne, who steps out of her bedroom with her iPad Pro in hand and studies me closely. The fading evening light crowns her auburn hair with a golden halo, slightly paler than her sister’s fiery mane. I try to smile, but the effort collapses into a terrible grimace.
The sisters exchange a look and, without a word, Emelyne sets her tablet on the kitchen counter and wraps me in her loving arms. I resist at first, because I know exactly what will happen if I let go. But she doesn’t release me, simply murmuring, “I’m here. We’re here.”
Those words, spoken with such gentleness, finish breaking down my defenses.
Tears spill despite myself, and my sister-at-heart tightens her embrace.
All the pain I carried during that endless walk with Alexander and the drive back finally escapes.
Moments later, Mara joins us, closing her arms around both of us.
The comforting scent of the risotto she was making lingers in the air.
I will never thank fate enough for bringing Emelyne into my life.
We met during my first year at the Fine Arts School.
The Lacroix sisters have been more present for me than my own family.
They were there when my heart was shattered.
When I realized my sister had gone out with the man I loved, destroying any chance I ever had with him.
I needed to flee the family home, which had suddenly turned into a living hell.
I lost my appetite and weight. I still remember the horrified look on Emelyne’s face when she saw me return to class after winter break, gray-faced, dark circles under my eyes, swimming in my clothes.
They “extracted me in an emergency,” offering to let me move in with them.
We’ve been inseparable ever since. This attic apartment in the Marais, with its exposed beams and view over Parisian rooftops, has become my true home.
We stay entwined for a long while, until my tears finally dry. Emelyne gently guides me to the couch while Mara returns to the kitchen counter. She comes back moments later with a steaming mug.
“Chamomile and honey,” she says, handing it to me. “Drink.”
I obey, my shaking hands wrapped around the comforting warmth of the ceramic. They settle on either side of me, waiting patiently until I’m ready.
In a broken voice, I tell them everything.
The walk along the Seine. Alexander’s announcement.
His request that I accompany him to Place Vend?me to choose the ring.
Each word scrapes my throat raw, but I keep going, emptying my heart of all the poison that’s built up inside.
As always, they listen without judging, without interrupting, without minimizing my pain by saying “you’ll find someone else” or “it’ll pass with time. ”
When I finish, a heavy silence settles. Emelyne clenches her fists, her jaw tight.
“Fuck! How can he be so blind?” she blurts out.
“Emelyne,” Mara says gently.
“What? It’s true! How can he ignore how vicious and toxic she is? How can he not see that she’s manipulating him? It’s beyond me!”
“He’s a genius with algorithms, not human relationships,” Mara counters. “His secret compatibility criteria are useless when it comes to his own life.”
Emelyne turns to me, worried.
“You’re really going to help him choose the ring?” she asks.
I lower my eyes to my now-cooling tea and answer,
“Yes.”
“Sam…” Emelyne begins.
“I know,” I cut her off. “I know I should refuse. But…”
My voice breaks. How do I explain it?
“I need this to draw a final line under him.”
And I truly mean it. By choosing this ring for my sister, I’ll bury my hopes, the hope that one day he might see me the way I see him.
It’s time for me to move on.
*
As I expected, Alexander is there this Sunday, at the weekly family lunch at my parents’ place.
Normally, I always have a good excuse not to come. Unfortunately, today is Saint Elizabeth’s Day, and I couldn’t miss my mother’s celebration, especially since Andrew, away on business abroad, won’t be there. Lucky man.
So here I am.
Despite our differences, she remains the woman who gave birth to me and raised me, even if she was incapable of protecting me.
Completely submissive to her husband, she never defended me when he was harsh or unfair, or when he openly favored Kristel, daughter of his first wife, over me, lavishing her with expensive gifts while refusing to buy me even one or two brushes to replace my worn-out ones.
For years, Andrew was the one who took care of me.
Quietly, without fuss, he replaced my supplies, sharing with me the money he received from our parents.
He was the only one—along with Alexander—who encouraged my passion.
His departure for Lyon eight years ago was devastating, all the more so because he rarely comes back to Paris.
Seated at the dining table, across from Alexander and Kristel, I carefully cut into my peppercorn-crusted steak, taking care not to let my knife slip.
It would be a real scandal if I accidentally sent my peas into my sister’s neckline. She would never forgive such a humiliation, even though her black Chanel dress could use a little color.
For a brief moment, I let myself dream of that possibility.
Then Alexander gives me a light kick under the table, snapping me back to the present. I refocus as a crooked smile tugs at his lips.
Kristel, who noticed nothing, speaks animatedly about her latest business lunch, how she exceeded her targets, and the trust the CEO has placed in her. Everyone listens attentively, nodding at the right moments, smiling at the anecdotes.
I keep a low profile. It’s a skill I’ve perfected over the years. Because when people notice me, it’s never a good sign.
“And you, still doodling and dreaming of greatness?” my father throws at me sternly as we reach dessert.
See what I mean?
The hum of conversation dies instantly. All eyes turn to me.
“Yes,” I reply calmly. “In fact, a gallery director contacted me. He’s interested in my doodles and wants to exhibit them. Isn’t that wonderful?” I say, with an irony I no longer bother to hide.
My father looks me up and down, barely masking his contempt.
“Stop talking nonsense and trying to be interesting.”
I clench my jaw. There’s no point arguing with someone who refuses to listen.
“I don’t understand why you persist with these childish pursuits,” he continues. “At your age, it’s time to get your feet on the ground. You’re not going to live off me forever.”
He turns to my mother.
“Talk to her, élisabeth.”
The blow lands cleanly. My fingers tighten around my fork.
‘Living off me’. As if the five hundred euros he gives me each month—while earning thirty times that—made me a leech.
My mother gives me a pained look before adding,
“Your father is right. You should take example from your sister. At twenty-nine, she’s already Commercial Director at Valeo. That’s an achievement she can be proud of.”
The message is crystal clear: I am a failure. I’m about to stand when Alexander opens his mouth.
My heart leaps. Is he going to defend me?
But Kristel beats him to it.
“Come now, you’re being unfair with her,” she says in her sweetest voice. “She’s only twenty-three. She’s still a baby. Let her have time to experiment.”
The word ‘baby’ lands like a disguised slap.
She buries me under the guise of kindness.
“You’re far too understanding, Kristel,” my father replies, with a tenderness he’s never shown me.
I set my fork down. The gesture is simple. Almost insignificant. But for me, it’s enormous.
“No,” I say.
The silence is immediate.
“I’m not a baby. And I’m not asking for your approval or permission. I was informing you.”
I rise slowly.
“As for the money… I won’t need it anymore. You can stop the transfers.”
I push back my chair and leave the table.
“Enjoy your meal.”
And for the first time in my life, I walk away with my head held high.
As I step out of the sixteenth arrondissement apartment to head for the metro, Alexander catches up with me. I hear his footsteps behind me, quick against the sidewalk.
“Come on, I’ll drive you,” he says, reaching my side.
“You’re not staying?” I ask, surprised.
“No. I’ve got work to finish for tomorrow’s investor meeting,” he replies, opening the door of his Mercedes SL parked twenty meters from the entrance. He waits for me to get in before closing it.
As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, I feel a gaze on me. I look up and see my sister watching from the living room window on the third floor, her eyes filled with hatred. The fact that Alexander is driving me home does not please her.
A shiver runs through me. I know she’ll find a way to make me pay for it, sooner or later.
Alexander starts the car and eases into traffic. The hum of the engine fills the silence. Paris slides past behind the tinted windows—Haussmann buildings, café terraces, hurried pedestrians.
Despite its obvious power, the car isn’t ostentatious. And I like his steady, controlled way of driving. Nothing aggressive, nothing showy. Just like him.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
His hands on the steering wheel, long, strong fingers.
The way he concentrates on the road, brows slightly furrowed.
I etch these details into my memory—his focus, his restraint, that natural elegance.
As if, somehow, I already know that all our moments together will end once he’s married.
There is no alternate universe in which Kristel would tolerate me spending time alone with her husband.
“You know,” Alexander says after an uncomfortable silence, “Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime.”
I smile at his awkward attempt to cheer me up and tease him,
“So you’re telling me I should prepare myself to sell only one piece in my entire life?”
“No! No!” he protests, horrified by the idea.
“What I mean is, what matters is the passion you put into your work. Social and financial recognition isn’t the only way to validate artistic creation.
Your art is beautiful because it expresses something pure, something true.
Galleries will eventually see your real value. ”
His voice is so sincere, so convinced, it makes me want to cry.
That’s why I love this man so much. He has his own way of being there for me. He believes in me when my own family refuses to. Even Andrew doesn’t have such faith in my work.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.
He shouldn’t be the one comforting me, defending me, understanding me. He’ll soon be my sister’s fiancé…
The car stops in front of my building. I unbuckle, my hand on the door handle.
“Sam,” he calls before I get out. “About Place Vend?me… you’re still okay with it? Because if it’s too much—”
I should say no. But I see the small spark of hope shining in his eyes, and I answer,
“Yes. Send me the time slots.”
His smile lights up his face.
“Thank you. Truly.”
I step out of the car and watch him disappear into Paris traffic, the Mercedes’ taillights vanishing around the corner.
My phone vibrates. A message from Kristel.
“Thanks for cutting lunch short. You know Alexander and I have very little time together. Next time, try not to monopolize his attention.”
I stare at the screen, the words dancing before my eyes.
She makes sure I never forget my place.