26. The Delaunays
Samantha
On Christmas morning, I’m finishing breakfast with Alexander when my mother calls. I mute my phone and pour myself another cup of coffee. There was a time when I would have answered on the first ring. But why make them my priority when I’m clearly not theirs?
Alexander,who seems to read my thoughts, comes over and wraps his arms around me. I let myself sink into his warmth. A notification tells me my mother has left a voicemail. Then a text.
Mom: I hope you’re coming for lunch today as planned.
I frown. Since when does my family expect me for lunch today?
I text Andrew. His reply comes almost immediately.
Andrew: One of her friends canceled. There will be thirteen of us at the table.
All this just to avoid having thirteen people at the table. It’s so pathetic.
I go upstairs to get ready. Hot water, then Alexander’s arms, slowly wash away the bitterness. I slip into a midnight-blue dress and my antique earrings. I want to look beautiful.
Another message from my mother pops up.
Mom: Don’t stand me up. I’m counting on you.
Her insistence irritates me. I finally reply.
Sam: I don’t remember being invited. In any case, I already have other plans. Merry Christmas, Mom.
I put my phone on silent.
If they’re not happy, screw them.
*
The Delaunay estate is in Normandy, about an hour from Paris.
The tree-lined driveway welcomes us. The trunks pass by in steady, almost solemn succession, and as the car moves forward, memories come flooding back: endless games of hide-and-seek across the grounds, treehouses in the woods, evenings around the campfire, Oliver strumming his guitar.
We park in the courtyard, and I take in the view.
The castle stands proudly at the heart of a verdant setting.
Carefully designed flower beds and discreet thickets, immaculate lawns, fine gravel paths with elegant lines, and majestic trees.
In the background, you can make out the stables, fields where cows graze peacefully, and farther still, the forest, spreading its cloak of shadow and mystery.
This is the place I painted in my very first canvas.
We climb the front steps. The door opens almost immediately.
“Samantha, what a pleasure to see you!”
Madeleine Delaunay, Alexander’s mother, pulls me into a warm, wholehearted hug that catches me off guard.
“My God, it’s been forever.”
Romain Delaunay, Alexander’s father, appears behind her, places a hand on my shoulder, and kisses me warmly on the cheek.
“My goodness, you’ve become such a young woman!” he exclaims cheerfully. “When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Four years ago,” I reply, in a voice I hope sounds light, far from how I truly feel.
I remember it clearly. I stopped coming to visit after Alexander and Kristel started dating. I had no desire to be trapped for a week in close quarters with both our families together.
With my luck, they would have put me in a room right next to theirs, and I would’ve been treated to the soundtrack of their sex life. No, thank you. Just the thought makes me feel sick.
As if he can sense my discomfort, I feel Alexander’s hand at my back—a reassuring presence, a reminder that a new chapter of our story is being written.
Inside, the chateau hums with voices, footsteps, and laughter. The scent of cinnamon and burning wood hangs in the air. Oliver and Marion greet us, kissing us warmly.
Near the large Christmas tree, a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy are kneeling on the floor, focused on a Duplo construction. When they spot Alexander, they jump up and run toward him, delighted.
“Uncle Alexander, you came!”
Alexander laughs and crouches down to gather them into his arms.
The three of them look so beautiful together that my chest tightens. And for a brief moment, I let myself imagine the same scene—except this time, it would be our children in his arms.
Marion comes over to me.
“They’re beautiful,” I tell her, touched.
“They are,” she replies, and I can hear all the love she has for her children in her voice.
“Elias, Laure, say hello to Sam,” Alexander tells them.
“Hello!” they say in unison.
Then Elias turns back to Alexander and asks, “Is Kristel not coming?”
All the adults freeze in an unbearably awkward silence. Then Alexander regains his composure and answers, “No, she won’t be coming anymore.”
“You’re not in love anymore?” Elias asks, curious.
Alexander’s jaw tightens. He shoots me a quick glance before turning back to Elias.
“It’s over between her and me.”
The blow is brutal. He didn’t answer the question. He didn’t because he didn’t want to lie. Because he still has feelings for her. My God.
What did I think? That he would stop loving her overnight? That he would declare his eternal love to me? He never promised me anything. Not once did he tell me he loved me. It’s my fault if I expect from him what he can’t give.
I force myself to keep up appearances so I don’t ruin the celebration. Thankfully, Elias quickly changes the subject.
Lunch is simple, lively, and cheerful. Everyone is attentive to my well-being. Conversations are punctuated by laughter, touching memories, amusing anecdotes—yet my heart isn’t in it.
And when it’s time to leave, I’m relieved to escape a place where I feel like I’m suffocating.
In the elevator that takes us back to the penthouse, Alexander finally voices his concern.
“Are you okay, Sam? You’ve been very quiet.”
“Yes. Just tired. Don’t worry.”
I know I’ve just lied to him, but I’m not ready to have that conversation. I’m not sure I could handle it if he admitted he still loves her.
That night, when he comes back from the shower, I pretend to be asleep. I don’t know if he’s fooled, but he doesn’t try to touch me. And with a tight chest, I eventually fall asleep.
*
I don’t turn my phone back on until the next morning. Two missed calls from my mother. No voicemail. No texts. Just those insistent silences, like so many wordless reproaches.
I don’t call back. I don’t want to hear what I already imagine: her disappointment, her veiled accusations, her way of making me understand that I’m a bad daughter. Once again.
Alexander goes back to work today. He still has an enormous amount to do before the IPO.
I settle into the guest bedroom to paint. My iPad lets me research and create mood boards—I love it, even though my enjoyment is dulled by a question looping endlessly in my mind. Does he still love her?
I try to focus on my colors, on the shapes coming to life beneath my brush, but yesterday’s image won’t leave me. Alexander facing Elias. His jaw tightening. That telling silence.
What if all this tenderness, this passion between us, is just his way of forgetting that he still loves my sister?
I shake my head, trying to chase away these toxic thoughts. I promised myself I wouldn’t become that girl—the one who doubts and begs for proof of love. I know my worth.
But knowing and feeling are two very different things.
I only stop to have lunch, then later to prepare dinner. Staying busy helps keep my mind occupied.
When Alexander gets home around seven, a wide smile spreads across his face despite the visible fatigue.
“I like coming home and finding you here,” he says, pulling me into his arms, his chin resting on the top of my head.
My heart leaps—then tightens just as quickly.
I don’t know what to think of that sentence. I’m only here for a few days, until the girls come back.
When he says things like that, it makes me want more.
Then I remember the way he avoided answering Elias’s question, and everything blurs again.
I try to reason with myself. Love can’t be controlled. It’s not his fault if he still has feelings for my sister. You can’t decide to stop loving someone overnight. It takes time. Patience. I have to give him time to heal.
But those are just pretty words—things I tell myself to keep hoping. Deep down, I only want one thing: to be the only one. No sharing. No shadow of Kristel between us. I want him to love me the way I love him—completely, without reserve, without nostalgia for a past with her.
And that hunger scares me. Because I know what it means: I’m already too invested. Already too in love to protect myself if everything falls apart.
“It’s all because of the smell of lasagna,” I say lightly, trying to mask my turmoil.
He leans in and sniffs my hair dramatically.
“I mostly smell oil paint,” he says, laughing.
I give him a playful smack on the chest, feigning offense.
“That’s not very nice!”
“Why? If it’s true,” he replies, pulling me closer. “I like that smell on you.”
He kisses me, gently at first, then more deeply. And for a few seconds, I forget my doubts. I give in to the feel of his lips against mine, his arms wrapped around me.
“Come shower with me,” he murmurs against my lips. “We still have thirty minutes before the timer goes off.”
Under the hot water, he washes my hair, massages my scalp with a tenderness that makes me almost purr.
His hands glide over my soapy skin, attentive, gentle.
And when he makes love to me afterward, looking into my eyes with an intensity that takes my breath away, I could swear that I’m the only one for him.
*
The day after Christmas, I head back to my place after Alexander leaves for the office. I need to pick up my watercolor supplies and a few more clothes.
I take the subway, walk up the familiar street to my building. The air is sharp, biting. The sky, a uniform gray, hints at possible snow.
When I slide my key into the lock, the door opens before I even have time to turn it fully.
My heart starts racing.
The door wasn’t locked.
I push it open slowly, cautiously.
“Emelyne? Mara?”
No answer.
I step inside, short of breath, and what I see stops me cold.
No.
No.
No.