27. Strategic Meeting
Alexander
I finish reviewing the final points of my PowerPoint presentation before heading to the conference room. I greet my colleagues—David, Claire, Thomas, and two members of the marketing team—when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket.
I glance at the screen. Sam.
Why is she calling me now? She knows I have an important meeting this morning.
Around me, the members of my team take their seats and open their laptops, waiting for me to start the meeting.
I’ll have to remind Sam not to interrupt me over trivial things. Kristel was a champion at calling me at the worst possible moments—always an emergency that wasn’t really one, always a need for attention at the most inconvenient time.
I switch my phone to silent and start the meeting.
“Alright, let’s begin. As you know, the IPO is in two weeks. Today, we need to finalize our communication strategy…”
We adjust the details of the campaign. The key messages to convey. How to respond to questions about algorithmic bias. The angle to take with the media. I’m focused, efficient. This is what I know how to do. Control. Predict. Manage.
My phone vibrates again in my pocket. I ignore it.
At lunchtime, the meeting finally ends. I glance at my phone. Two missed calls from Sam. No voicemail. No text message.
What could possibly be so important?
I’m about to call her back when David walks over to me, a journalist right behind him—the one we’ve been trying to win over for weeks for a favorable article.
“Are you joining us for lunch, Alexander?” David asks.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, look at my phone. At her name on the screen.
“Yes, of course.”
I’ll call Sam after lunch. She’ll understand.
The restaurant is crowded, noisy. The journalist—Camu something—asks me a lot of questions, which I do my best to answer. How MatchMapping differs from the competition. Our vision of love in the digital age. Our commitment to algorithmic transparency. All the right words.
Lunch goes well. I think this impromptu interview will be very beneficial for our public image. David is delighted; I can see it in his satisfied smile.
Still, I can’t completely push Sam out of my thoughts.
Two calls. No message.
The more I think about it, the more I tell myself that Sam isn’t Kristel. She’s never called me during work hours these past few days. Never. So why today?
I make an effort to stay focused on the conversation anyway, laugh at the journalist’s jokes, explain our new recommendation approach.
After the journalist leaves, around 2:30 p.m., I finally take out my phone and dial Sam’s number.
One ring. Two rings.
Then the call goes to voicemail.
A slight unease grips me. I send a text.
Alexander: Sorry, I was in meetings all morning. Is everything okay?
No response. Not even a read receipt.
I go back to the office, but worry begins to grow—dull, insidious. She must have forgotten to charge her phone. That’s all. I cling to the idea.
The afternoon drags on. Meeting after meeting. I try calling her again between appointments. Always voicemail.
At five o’clock, the worry has turned into something darker. An anxiety that knots my stomach. Something visceral.
I send another message.
Alexander: Sam, you’re worrying me. Please call me back.
Nothing.
I start canceling my last meetings. I tell Nina I need to leave early. She looks at me strangely—I never leave early—but she doesn’t say anything.
When I push open the door to my loft around six p.m., everything is dark. No lights. No sound. Too quiet.
“Sam?”
Only silence answers me.
The worry intensifies. She should be here. She told me she was spending the day painting here.
I turn on the lights and cross the loft. The guest bedroom where she set up her studio is empty.
“Sam?” I repeat, louder this time.
Nothing.
I check my bedroom, my bathroom. Empty.
Where is she?
I try calling her again, but now it goes straight to voicemail. Her phone is off. Completely unreachable.
Panic starts to rise. I dial Emelyne’s number. Maybe Sam is with her? But they’re supposed to be in the south of France until January 2nd.
Emelyne answers on the third ring.
“Alexander? Is everything okay?”
“Did Sam call you?”
“No, why? Is there a problem?”
My stomach tightens further.
“I… I don’t know. Sam called me this morning, twice, and since then I haven’t been able to reach her. Her phone is off.”
“This morning?” Emelyne repeats, and I hear the worry rising in her voice. “What time?”
“Around nine, I think. I was in a meeting. I couldn’t answer.” I chose not to.
Silence.
“She was supposed to come pick up some supplies at our place this morning,” Emelyne finally says. “Have you tried the apartment?”
The apartment. Of course. How hadn’t I thought of that sooner?
“I’m going there right now.”
“Call me as soon as you have news, okay?”
“I promise.”
I hang up, grab my keys, and rush for the door.
As I take the stairs two at a time, a terrible thought forces itself into my mind.
What if something serious happened? What if she’d had an accident? What if she needed me and I was too busy with my meetings, too concerned with my image and my business to answer my damn phone?
I suddenly realize I may have made a terrible error in judgment.
That I compared Sam to Kristel when they have nothing in common.
That I should have answered this morning. That I failed her.
Traffic is heavy. Every red light feels like it lasts forever. My hands clench around the steering wheel.
Please, let everything be okay. Please.
When I finally arrive in front of Sam’s building, I park carelessly—half on the sidewalk, I don’t care—and run up the stairs, heart pounding violently.
On the fifth floor, I stop dead.
The entrance to their apartment is sealed by judicial orders. White and blue tape blocks the door, bearing the seal of the national police.
Crime scene — Do not enter
My blood runs cold.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
My legs give out. I lean against the hallway wall, unable to breathe. This isn’t real.
Crime scene. What does that mean? That something serious happened. Something violent.
Where is Sam? Is she okay? Is she…?
I can’t even finish the thought. The image of Sam hurt, Sam unconscious—Sam… no. No.
My hand shakes so badly I struggle to pull out my phone. I dial emergency services. Someone has to tell me what happened. Now.
One ring. Two. Three.
“Emergency services, how can I help you?”
“I… I’m standing in front of an apartment that’s been sealed,” I say in a voice I barely recognize. “My fiancée… she hasn’t answered her phone since this morning. She was supposed to come here. I’m worried. Very worried.”
“One moment, sir. I’m checking the file.”
The wait is unbearable. Every second stretches endlessly. I hear the tapping of a keyboard on the other end of the line. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.
“Sir?” the operator finally says. “What is your fiancée’s name?”
“Samantha Chevalier. Sam Chevalier.”
“One moment.”
Another silence. More typing.
“She was admitted to the emergency department at Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital,” the operator finally announces.
My world collapses. Narrows to a single point.
“What? How—what happened?”
“According to what we know, she was shoved by the intruder and fell down the stairs. She lost consciousness. She began to regain consciousness in the ambulance.”
Each word hits like a hammer.
Shoved. Fell. Unconscious. And I wasn’t there.
“Is she… is she okay? Is she…?”
“I don’t have any more information, sir. You need to contact the hospital directly.”
“Which hospital did you say?”
“Pitié-Salpêtrière. Emergency department.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and race down the stairs, nearly tripping several times. I jump into my car and take off at full speed.
Sam is in the ER. And I was in a meeting. In a damn meeting while she— while her life tipped.
I drive too fast, run a yellow light that turns red. Horns blare around me. I don’t care. I have to get to the hospital. I have to see her.
The drive feels like it takes hours, even though it’s only fifteen minutes. I park anywhere in the hospital lot and run toward the emergency entrance.
“My fiancée was admitted today,” I say to the receptionist, breathless. “Samantha Chevalier. She fell.”
The woman behind the desk checks her computer with a slowness that drives me crazy.
“Yes, I see her. She’s under observation on the second floor, room 214.”
I don’t even let her finish. I rush toward the elevators, frantically pressing the button. Too slow. I take the stairs, two steps at a time.
Second floor. I scan the room numbers. 210, 212, 214.
I stop in front of the door, my heart pounding. My hand trembles as I knock softly.
I step inside without waiting for an answer.
She’s there, lying in the bed by the window. Her face pale. An IV in her arm.
My heart shatters. Because she’s hurt. Because she’s alive.
She turns toward me when I enter the room.
She doesn’t smile when she sees me, and I know—I know—I really screwed up.
My voice breaks on her name.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I had known, I never would have…”
My apologies sound pathetic even to my own ears. What can I say? What could possibly erase the fact that I wasn’t there when she needed me?
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she smiles—but it’s a sad, broken smile that hurts me more than shouting or accusations ever could.
“At least now I know where your priorities are,” she says softly.