15. Public Fallout
Samantha
I’m floating on a little cloud when I get home. I still can’t quite believe it.
A gallery accepted me. A real gallery.
Levasseur Art Gallery, no less.
Euphoria wraps around me—light, almost unreal. All I want is to tell Emelyne and Mara. Just imagining their reactions makes me smile to myself as I walk down the street.
Too happy, too excited, I don’t pay attention to my surroundings, even though it’s already dark.
As I’m about to open the door to my building, a hand suddenly grabs me and yanks me violently backward. I don’t even have time to understand what’s happening. A sharp, brutal blow explodes against the side of my face.
The pain comes after the sound.
My sister has just slapped me.
“You bitch!” she screams. “Was this your plan all along? You wanted to steal him from me?”
I’m left speechless. Her accusations are so absurd they knock the air right out of me. All I feel is the burning on my cheek and that familiar sensation of being attacked for no valid reason. But I refuse to deal with this here. In front of our building. Where everyone can see and hear us.
Several passersby are staring.
And suddenly, it hits me: it must be past six p.m.
Alexander and his communications team must have announced our engagement on social media.
Without sparing Kristel a glance, I rush inside.
She follows immediately and slams the door behind her. The sound echoes through the entryway like a gunshot. My cheek is on fire. Tomorrow, there will probably be a mark.
I take the stairs two at a time. She’s screaming after me.
“I won’t let you take him from me, do you hear me? If you think you’ve won, you’re dead wrong!”
I stop two floors up and whirl around.
“Do you really think there was anything to win in this whole mess?”
My voice is hard, cutting. It doesn’t tremble, unlike everything inside me.
“Don’t you see the damage you’ve done to him? Because of you, he’ll always be looking over his shoulder now. He’ll interpret every silence, every delay, wondering what sign he missed… or what’s wrong with him. He’ll doubt his own worth, when the only problem has always been you!”
“And what do you know about it?” she spits, furious. “All you want is to slip into his bed.”
She refuses to understand.
This isn’t about her.
It isn’t about me.
It’s about Alexander.
His broken trust. His pain. The trauma and scars he’ll carry long after this betrayal.
What’s the point of talking to someone who refuses to listen?
I resume climbing the stairs and stop in front of our apartment door to take out my keys.
“You’re really that pathetic, ready to do anything to get my leftovers!” she sneers.
I freeze.
“What’s really eating at you, Kristel?” I ask quietly. “That he caught you with another man… or that he announced his engagement to me?”
She snickers—a nasty, contemptuous sound.
“That engagement is a complete sham. We all know it. He did it to make me jealous. But once we make up, he’ll dump you live on social media. You can count on it.”
Her words seep into me despite myself.
Is there a chance he could forgive her? It’s possible. They were together for three years.
“How many years were you chasing him?” she continues mercilessly. “Four? Five? And he never even saw you. It only took me three weeks to get him into my bed. Three weeks.”
She sees that she’s getting to me. She revels in it.
“Not feeling so confident now, are you?” she hisses. “You know as well as I do that the second I whistle, he’ll come running back. And when that happens, I’ll make you pay for what you just did.”
The apartment door suddenly flies open.
Emelyne appears on the landing.
“I don’t know where you think you are, Kristel, but you’re going to calm down right now,” my friend snaps. “You do not talk to her like that, or you get out of my place.”
Kristel recoils in the face of Emelyne’s fury, but she’s not done yet.
“Expect to hear from me soon, dear little sister. From now on, I’m going to make your life hell. And when our parents find out what you’ve done, they’ll disown you. This time, for good.”
The violence of her words hits me head-on.
Would they really go that far?
The truth is, I don’t know. Maybe this will finally be the moment of truth. Maybe they’ll seize this opportunity to erase me from their lives for good.
Kristel storms off.
Emelyne immediately pulls me inside and shuts the door behind her. The slam still echoes when she wraps me against her chest.
It’s only then that I realize my entire body is shaking, wracked by the emotional backlash.
When I finally manage to calm down, Emelyne studies me closely.
“Fuck… did she do that to you?”
I know exactly what she’s looking at: the mark on my cheek, still burning.
“It’s nothing,” I reply, downplaying it.
“You’re kidding, right?”
She turns abruptly, rummages through a kitchen drawer, and pulls out a clean dish towel. She dumps a handful of frozen peas into it, then fashions an improvised compress and hands it to me.
“Here. Put this on if you want to limit the damage.”
The moment the cold touches my skin, someone buzzes the intercom.
“Yes?” Emelyne answers.
“It’s Alexander.”
Without hesitation, she presses the button to unlock the building door.
“But what is he doing here?” I panic.
“I texted him when I heard you arguing in the stairwell. He’s the one who dragged you into this mess, so the least he can do is take care of you.”
She gives me a conspiratorial wink before disappearing into her bedroom.
“Enjoy!” she adds under her breath before closing the door.
Despite everything that just happened, a smile forms on my lips when I open the door to Alexander.
His hair is a mess, as if he ran across the city to get here. His shoulders relax when he sees me, then his gaze darkens as it lands on my cheek.
“Who did this to you?”
“Who do you think?” I reply, turning toward the living room.
He follows, running a nervous hand through the back of his neck.
“Fuck… I’m sorry, Sam. This is my fault—”
“Stop,” I cut him off. “I chose this, knowing exactly what I was getting into.”
At that moment, Emelyne’s bedroom door opens again. She hands him a tube of ointment.
“Hi, Alexander. Here, put this on her.”
And she vanishes again.
Subtlety level: zero.
Alexander stares at the tube for a few seconds before recognizing arnica. I reach out to take it, but he shakes his head.
“No. Let me.”
Before I can protest, he goes to wash his hands and comes back. I watch him open the tube with almost solemn concentration, as if handling something fragile. He squeezes a bit of cream onto his fingers, then brings them toward my face.
It’s only then that he seems to realize how close we are.
I’m standing right in front of him, level with his Adam’s apple. I see him swallow.
Then he touches me.
The contact is incredibly gentle. Slow. Soothing.
I have to tense my legs just to keep myself together.
Neither of us speaks as he applies the balm to my skin. I force myself to stay impassive, to control my breathing, not to let the emotion he stirs show.
When he’s finished, he sets the tube down on the kitchen counter and goes back to wash his hands vigorously.
“What happened?” he finally asks, drying them with a dish towel.
I summarize my altercation with my sister, sparing the details. I don’t have the energy—or the desire—to relive every word.
He listens without interrupting, then asks cautiously,
“Why didn’t you come home earlier?”
“I had errands to run,” I answer vaguely, wanting to announce the good news to Emelyne and Mara first.
He nods, leans both forearms on the kitchen counter, then adds without looking at me,
“As you can imagine… the announcement was made.”
His voice is neutral, almost flat, but I still sense the tension beneath it.
“Show me,” I say.
He looks up at me, worry written all over his face, and I don’t like it at all.
“No, Sam,” he protests uneasily.
I stiffen instantly.
Why is he refusing? Why doesn’t he want me to see?
My heart races as I pull out my phone and go to his Instagram.
The photo is beautiful. Bright. Almost intimate.
The caption is simple:
“She said yes!”
Then I scroll.
The comments appear. Each one more vicious than the last.
Jealous girls. Gold diggers. Total strangers who allow themselves anything.
“Who the fuck is this girl?”
“How can he be interested in someone like her?”
“Did you see how dull her hair is? She has zero class!”
“What does he even see in her?”
It’s both caricatural and pathetic. I could have laughed at such absurdity.
Except they’re talking about me.
Alexander gently takes the phone from my hands. I don’t resist. I’ve seen enough.
I walk mechanically toward the window, as if the rooftops of Paris could erase this feeling of contamination spreading through me.
My throat tightens. The words keep flashing behind my eyelids—acidic, hateful.
I’m no longer used to caring about what people say about me, but I still feel my ego crack.
“You shouldn’t give too much importance to what they’re saying,” Alexander says behind me. “They’re just jealous people who don’t know anything about you.”
His voice is soft, almost tender. I sense his hesitation to come closer.
“I know,” I reply, forcing a lighter tone. “Just give me five minutes to process it, and I promise I’ll be fine after.”
I use my breathing technique to regain control of my emotions. The city lights shimmer.
Behind me, Alexander says nothing. He waits. I feel his presence, his worry hanging in the air between us, almost tangible.
I close my eyes and imagine the authors of those comments: grotesque monsters in ridiculous costumes, spewing their hatred into the void.
After two minutes, a smile tugs at my lips despite myself.
The image is so absurd. I feel better. I leave my detractors to their frustration and refocus on my life, my present.
I turn back to Alexander. He’s watching me with that worried expression that makes me melt—and despair—at the same time.
“Since you’re here, you’re going to make yourself useful,” I say more lightly. “I have a portrait to do for tomorrow. You’re going to be my model.”
Surprise flashes in his hazel eyes.
“Sam…” he begins, probably checking whether I’m really okay.
“Come on, hurry up,” I interrupt, heading toward my studio corner by the living room window. “You said you wanted to help, didn’t you? Then help me. Sit there.”
I point to the stool in the center of the room. He complies without further protest.
I adjust the lights to highlight the planes of his face, the line of his jaw, the shadow beneath his cheekbones.
Seated behind my easel, I begin laying down the construction lines.
The charcoal glides between my fingers—familiar, comforting.
I love this medium, both powerful and sensual.
The deep black spreading across the grain of the paper feels cathartic.
“Relax,” I say softly. “You look like someone facing a death sentence.”
He gives a sheepish smile.
For the first few minutes, I block out the volumes of his face. Alexander plays along, holding still.
The charcoal scratches softly against the paper. In the silence of the living room, it’s the only sound, along with our breathing. Gradually, Alexander relaxes. He watches me work. His shoulders drop, his gaze deepens—and I can finally begin the real work.
My mind empties completely as my hands move. The goal isn’t to be faithful to reality, but to capture the emotion of the moment, to show what I see, what I feel. It’s about putting my vision of the world onto paper.
My vision of him.
I linger on his eyes. That crease between his brows when he worries. The curve of his full lips—lips that have kissed me. There’s something in his expression tonight… something new that makes my heart beat a little faster.
My hand hesitates for a fraction of a second above the paper, then I draw. I capture it.
“You know you can blink,” I say, trying to mask the turmoil rising inside me.
“I know,” he replies simply.
But he keeps looking at me, and I keep drawing that gaze that sets all my senses alight.
When Emelyne comes out of her room about twenty minutes later, she stops short at the sight of us. A mischievous smile spreads across her lips.
“Oh, you found yourself a new victim for tonight?” she teases. “Perfect, I can start dinner. Mara won’t be long.”
She disappears behind the open kitchen counter, rummaging through the cupboards and starting dinner preparations.
Mara finds us like that when she arrives shortly after, looking exhausted.
“Good evening, everyone,” she says, dropping her things in the entryway.
“Good evening!” we answer in unison.
Emelyne moves toward her sister, and Mara pulls her into a hug filled with that infinite tenderness that gets me every time.
She murmurs something in Emelyne’s ear; Emelyne laughs and kisses her cheek.
They stay wrapped in each other for a long moment, in their own bubble, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I catch Alexander looking at them. Something passes over his face.
Tenderness.
Mara eventually approaches us, resting an affectionate hand on Alexander’s shoulder as she passes.
“Good luck,” she tells him with a wink. “She’s merciless when she works.”
Then she comes over to me and leans in to see my drawing. Normally, I don’t like people watching me work—the only exceptions are Emelyne and Mara, who know how to look without judging.
“Wow,” she says softly. “You outdid yourself. It’s beautiful, Sam.”
I blush at the compliment as she kisses my forehead.
“I’ll set the table,” she says. “Alexander, are you staying for dinner?”
“With pleasure—if Sam agrees to release me.”
I chuckle.
“Three more minutes.”
Those three minutes stretch. I refine the shadows, soften a line, strengthen the light.
When I’m finished, I set the charcoal down in its dish. My fingers are black with powder. My heart is pounding.
“You can come look if you want,” I say without looking at him.
Alexander stands, stretches, and steps closer. I feel the warmth of his presence beside me. I don’t dare lift my eyes to his face—but I know the moment his land on the drawing, because his breath catches.
And so does mine.