4. The Gift
Alexander
I watch Sam wander through the aisles and wonder how her family can be so blind.
Here, surrounded by art supplies, she comes alive. Her dark eyes shine with wonder. Her hands brush over the paint tubes with an almost religious tenderness.
She talks about her passion with fire. She shares the secrets of different types of watercolor with me—the transparency of Winsor & Newton pigments, colors so pure the light seems to cling to them.
This is the real Sam. Who she truly is when she’s allowed to flourish.
I watch her stop in front of watercolor paper blocks, think intensely, then move on after a silent debate with herself.
She pauses at the brushes too, and I recognize her favorite brand—Raphael.
The tips are so precise they allow her thoughts to take shape, she once told me.
Then she returns to the watercolor pans. She hesitates for a long time between several colors before choosing three. I smile. She’s rationing herself.
I’ve known Sam for seven years now. I’ve watched her grow, move from adolescence into adulthood. And in all that time, I’ve always seen her settle for scraps. Take the bare minimum. Never dare to ask for more.
I hate the way her parents treat her. At least Kristel isn’t like them—though their relationship clearly seems strained.
“All right, I’ve chosen,” she says, holding up her three small pans like trophies.
“Okay,” I reply. “Let’s go pay.”
Then, moving behind her, I grab the four other color pans her eyes lingered on, the sable brushes she praised for their precision, and two blocks of Arches satin-grain paper.
When she realizes what I’m doing, her eyes widen.
“No. Absolutely not. Put that back, Alexander!” she protests. “That stuff costs a fortune.”
She tries to snatch them from my hands, and I lift my arms to keep them out of reach. It’s childish, I know, but her indignant expression makes me want to tease her.
She steps closer and reaches for them again. I back away to stay out of reach. We play this game once, twice—until she loses her balance. She suddenly tips forward and I catch her just in time. My arms close around her, steadying her.
She freezes. Her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush. An emotion I don’t understand runs through me. Then she straightens abruptly and steps back, mortified.
I hide my unease by saying quickly,
“You just helped me spend forty-two thousand euros on your sister. I think you can accept a two-hundred-euro gift, don’t you?”
She studies me, uncertain, then nods.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You didn’t have to.”
There’s something in her voice, an emotion I can’t decipher. Are her eyes shining with unshed tears? The fact that such a simple gesture affects her so deeply stirs something profound in me. And makes me want… what? To protect her more? To be the one she can lean on?
I pay quickly and we get back into the car. Gilles merges into Paris traffic and drives her home.
The ride is quiet—comfortable, but different from before. Something has shifted. I couldn’t say exactly what. Sam gazes out the window, clutching the bag of art supplies to her chest like a treasure.
When Gilles stops in front of her building, she turns to me.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says, “but know that I’ll cherish these gifts.”
“Thank me by giving free rein to your creativity.”
The smile she gives me is sincere. Radiant. The kind that lights up a face from within.
God, she’s beautiful when she smiles like that.
A part of my soul warms just from being near her.
What a pity her family doesn’t see her for who she is.
When I think they barely give her enough to live on, it makes me sick.
And after her outburst the other day, will Arthur really cut her off?
The idea of doing that to your own child revolts me.
Sam deserves so much more than this. She deserves to devote herself fully to her art, to be seen, to be recognized. Her talent is immense. She has a unique way of capturing light and emotion.
Maybe once I’m married to her sister, she’ll accept my help.
“Goodbye, Alexander,” she says softly.
“See you very soon, Sam.”
She steps out of the car, and I watch her disappear into her building, her long black hair flowing behind her, her bag of supplies pressed to her heart.
I stay there for a moment, lost in thought.
“Where to, sir?” Gilles asks.
“Kristel’s,” I reply without hesitation.
It wasn’t planned. But for a reason I don’t understand, a strange tension has gripped me ever since I bought the ring. I need to see her, to shake off this unease. The drive to the sixteenth arrondissement feels longer than usual.
I should be excited, impatient. We’ve been talking about engagement and marriage for weeks. Instead, I feel… uncertain.
*
The car stops in front of Kristel’s Haussmann building. Immaculate facade. Wrought-iron balconies. Large white-framed windows.
“Would you like me to wait, sir?” Gilles asks.
“No. I’ll be staying here tonight. You can head home. Thank you for today.”
He nods, and I get out.
When I reach Kristel’s door, no one answers when I knock. I wait a few seconds and knock again. Still nothing.
Strange. She didn’t have plans tonight.
Since I have a spare key, I decide to wait inside.
The moment the door opens, I know something is wrong.
The apartment is plunged into semi-darkness. Only the bedroom light filters under the door. But what freezes me is the sound.
Muffled sounds. Moans. Labored breathing.
My mind refuses to understand at first. Kristel is watching a movie. That’s all. She didn’t hear me come in. I cling to that explanation as I move forward on unsteady legs, cold sweat breaking out along my spine.
With every step, my heart tightens.
The sounds grow clearer. The slap of skin against skin.
No. No. Not this.
The bedroom door is ajar. My body already knows what my mind still refuses to accept. My hands tremble. My throat tightens. And when my eyes take in the scene, it takes exactly two seconds for my world to collapse.
Kristel—the woman I love, the one I planned a future with—is there, completely naked, straddling Grégoire. One of my friends. Their skin glistens with sweat under the dim bedside lamp. Their cries of pleasure and the obscene sound of their bodies colliding fill the room.
The shock hits me like a punch to the gut. The air leaves my lungs all at once. I can’t breathe. The image burns into my retinas with surgical clarity: the curve of her back, her hair stuck to her neck, her hands gripping her lover’s shoulders.
I stand there, paralyzed, faced with a betrayal I never saw coming. Unable to shout, to move, even to look away.
How do you survive this?
Then the questions come crashing through my mind like a savage horde. How long has this been going on? Is he the first? How could I have missed it? Every happy memory, every tender moment is now tainted. Everything I thought was real was a lie.
“Harder,” she moans.
Words that once aroused me now make me want to vomit.
That detail finally breaks my paralysis.
It’s time for me to leave.
Without a word, I walk out of the apartment. I place the spare key on the kitchen counter.
The door closes behind me with a dull, final thud.
My legs carry me down the stairs mechanically. Step by step. I cross the mirrored lobby. Push through the glass door. Spill out into the street.
Paris teems with life around me. People walking. Cars honking. A chestnut vendor calling out to passersby. The world keeps turning, indifferent to the fact that mine has just collapsed.
I don’t know how long I wander aimlessly through the streets. My feet take me at random. The illuminated Champs-élysées. The Seine flowing on, indifferent. Pont Alexander III, its golden lampposts reflected in the black water.
Night has fallen. A biting cold has set in. It’s the middle of November.
My phone rings. Kristel’s name lights up the screen.
I don’t answer. I already know what she’ll say. She must have seen the keys. She’s panicking now. Good. It spares me a tedious explanation.
Another call. Then a message. Then five more.
Kristel: It’s not what you think.
Kristel: Let me explain.
Kristel: It was a mistake. You’re the one I love!
The messages keep coming, but I feel nothing. It’s as if this were happening to someone else. As if I were watching my own life from the outside.
She’s spiraling, as though it could change anything. I silence my phone and slip it into my pocket.
I’m starting to get cold. My fingers are numb. My lips too. But the physical pain is almost a relief—it masks the other pain, the one throbbing in my chest.
I push open the door of a random bar—anonymous, red neon lights, a tired storefront—and order a whisky at the counter.
The bartender, a forty-something woman covered in tattoos, a streak of purple hair framing her face, serves me with a sympathetic smile.
She sets the glass down without a word, but her eyes say it all. She’s seen men like me before.
“Rough day?” she guesses, wiping the counter.
“You have no idea,” I reply.
I down the drink in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat, spreads through my chest like liquid fire.
I ask for another.
She doesn’t argue. Just pours.
Somehow, I find myself telling her my life story. The words spill out, loosened by alcohol and anonymity. Kristel. Our three-year relationship. The future plans. The ring. Grégoire, the traitor. Everything.
She listens in silence, nodding, refilling my glass when it’s empty.
When I hold it out to her again, she stops short.
“That’s enough.”
She pauses, then adds more gently,
“Listen… what she did to you is ugly. But at least you know now. Don’t waste your energy being sad or bitter. Live. Move forward. Be happy. That’s the best revenge.”
She hands me a glass of water.
“Drink that. Call an Uber and go home.”
I thank her, leave a generous tip, and step back into the street—clearer-headed than I’ve been in a long time.
Strangely, despite the alcohol, a certainty settles in: this is better this way. Even if the pain is crushing. Even if my ego has taken a hit.
I try to figure out where I am when I recognize the neighborhood. Cobblestone streets. Old buildings. Art galleries closed for the night.
I’m two streets away from Sam’s place.
Her name rises in my mind like a lighthouse in a storm.
Sam—with her sincere smile, her eyes that hide nothing.
Sam, who helped me buy the engagement ring.
Sam, clutching her art supplies to her heart, her cheeks flushed in the art store, her passion for beauty.
Without thinking, I head toward her apartment.
My footsteps echo on the damp stones. The alcohol makes my legs unsteady, but my determination keeps me moving forward. I need to see a friendly face. Someone who will never betray me.
Her building appears at the corner of the street.
I press the intercom. Minutes pass. They must be asleep. I’m about to walk away when the intercom crackles.
“Yes?” Mara asks.
“It’s Alexander. I need to see Sam.”
“Alexander? Is everything okay?”
Her voice is surprised. Of course it is. I’m showing up in the middle of the night, unannounced.
“No,” I admit, my voice breaking slightly. “I… I need to see Sam.”
The buzz of the door unlocking.
They live under the roof, five flights of stairs, no elevator.
Sam is waiting at the door, concern written all over her face. She’s wearing an old Sonia Delaunay T-shirt I gave her years ago, now badly faded, and dark gray sleep pants. Her black hair hangs loose. She’s barefoot.
I must look awful, because her dark gaze deepens with worry.
“I’m sorry to show up like this,” I apologize. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You’ll always be welcome here,” she replies.
And she steps aside to let me in.
The apartment is small, warm. A couch draped with a colorful throw. Canvases stacked beside an easel near the window—some finished, others in progress. Green plants everywhere. The scent of tea and paint. On the coffee table, the art supplies I bought her that afternoon, carefully arranged.
Mara and Emelyne are nowhere to be seen. I’m grateful they’ve given us privacy.
I walk toward the window and stare out at the street. My entire body is shaking. I can’t speak. My emotions have caught up with me.
Without a word, Sam approaches—like someone approaching a wounded animal. Her arms wrap around me, offering the comfort of her embrace. My body relaxes at her touch, and I let myself lean into her.
My throat tightens. My eyes burn. And suddenly, the tears I’d been holding back burst through the dam and spill freely.