28. Intrusion
Samantha
A few hours earlier.
I push the door open slowly, cautiously.
“Emelyne? Mara?”
No answer.
My heart pounding, I move further into the apartment, and what I discover steals the air from my lungs.
No. No. No.
The apartment has been ransacked.
The living room is in complete disarray. The couch has been slashed open, stuffing scattered everywhere. The coffee table lies overturned, its glass shattered. The shelves are empty, our books strewn across the floor, some of them torn apart.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is my studio corner.
My easel has been knocked over. My canvases were hurled against the wall, frames warped, fabric ripped. Months of work. My graduation project. Destroyed.
I remain frozen in the doorway, unable to move, unable to breathe.
When I finally snap out of it, only one name comes to mind. Alexander. I need to hear his voice. My hands are shaking so badly I struggle to unlock my phone. I dial his number and bring it to my ear.
One ring. Two.
Please. Answer.
“Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Alexander Delaunay…”
A sob escapes me. I hang up. I inhale and exhale slowly, forcing myself to get a grip.
The police. I need to call the police.
With trembling fingers, I dial 911.
“Emergency services, how can I help you?” a female voice answers.
“I just got home. My apartment’s been broken into. Everything is… destroyed.”
“All right. Are you alone? Are you safe?”
“I… I think so. I haven’t checked every room.”
“Please leave the apartment immediately and put yourself somewhere safe. Officers are on their way. Don’t touch anything.”
“Okay.”
I step outside mechanically, my legs running on autopilot. But as I reach the landing, I hear a noise behind me. A sound coming from the apartment.
My blood runs cold.
The burglar is still there.
A silhouette suddenly bursts out of the apartment. A man—tall—one arm raised in front of his face to keep me from seeing him. He bolts toward the stairwell.
“No!” I scream.
He slams into me as he passes. I lose my balance, tipping into empty space, reaching for the railing. My fingers brush the metal, but it’s too late.
I fall.
My head hits the wall halfway down the stairs. A sharp pain explodes in my skull. My body tumbles down a few more steps, then everything blurs.
The thief’s footsteps fade down the stairwell. Somewhere below, the building’s front door slams shut.
I’m lying on the steps between the second and third floors, dazed, unable to move. The world spins around me.
My phone. Where’s my phone?
I spot it just a few inches from my hand. With a superhuman effort, I reach out and grab it.
Alexander. I need Alexander.
I dial his number again. My vision blurs. My fingers feel sticky—blood, I think.
Voicemail.
A deep despair grips me. He’s unreachable.
Then everything goes black.
*
I wake up once in the fire truck, then again in a hospital room. The white light is blinding. I blink, disoriented. I’m alone. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know what day it is.
My head hurts terribly.
A nurse comes in and notices I’m awake.
“Oh, you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts.”
“That’s normal. You had quite a serious fall.
You lost consciousness. The police found you unconscious in the stairwell.
You have a mild concussion and numerous bruises,” the nurse continues.
“We’re keeping you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow if everything looks good. ”
I nod, which triggers another wave of pain.
A little later, a police officer knocks on the door and steps inside, a file in hand. Early thirties, brown hair, serious yet kind eyes.
“Hello, Miss Chevalier. Inspector Sanders. I’m in charge of the investigation into the break-in at your apartment. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, of course.”
He sits down on the chair beside the bed and pulls out a notebook.
“Tell me what happened.”
I recount it briefly. Coming home. The door already open. The wrecked apartment. The man who appeared and shoved me.
“Did you see his face?”
“No. He made sure to keep his arm in front of it. I only saw his chin. And… he was wearing a black hoodie.”
He opens his file and shows me several photos.
“We were able to access the surveillance cameras for the block. I extracted a few stills. Can you tell me if you recognize any of them?”
I look through the photos. Men, all captured in profile or three-quarter view. Then I stop at one.
“That one,” I say, pointing. “The shape of the chin, the build. That’s him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He writes something down.
“Thank you. I’ll launch a full search immediately.”
He stands and closes the file.
“I’m surprised by how quickly this is moving,” I remark. “It’s only been a few hours, and you already have his image. Is that normal for a simple burglary?”
“This isn’t just a theft case,” he replies. “You could have died in that stairwell, and we take that very seriously.”
He pauses, letting that sink in.
“What I’m about to tell you needs to stay between us. Your address wasn’t unfamiliar to me. Someone I care deeply about lives here and is currently in the south of France. When I saw the file, I asked to handle it personally.”
I look at him, surprised. Then it clicks.
“Don’t tell me you’re her secret boyfriend, the one she’s been seeing for months.”
“Then I won’t tell you,” he replies with a playful smile.
Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. Mara. Sneaky as ever.
“I promise you we’ll find whoever did this. And whoever attacked you.”
“Thank you.”
After he leaves, exhaustion washes over me. I fall asleep again, slipping into a restless sleep filled with nightmares.
*
It’s night when I open my eyes again. The room is dim, lit only by a small nightlight.
The events of the day come rushing back in waves. The trashed apartment. My destroyed canvases. The fall. The pain.
My God, how am I going to manage?
My graduation project. Months of work. Ruined.
And Alexander, who never answered my calls.
Part of me still tries to defend him. He had an important meeting. He couldn’t have known.
I reach for my phone. When I press the power button, nothing happens. Dead battery.
Perfect. Even my phone has abandoned me.
As I set it back down, there’s a soft knock at the door.
Alexander steps inside. His gaze finds me instantly. He crosses the room quickly.
His hair is a mess, his features drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. He stops beside my bed, guilt and relief warring inside him.
“Sam…”
He kneels. His hands, still cold, settle over mine. I don’t pull away, but I don’t squeeze them either.
“I’m sorry. Your call came in just before I went back into a meeting. I’d turned my phone off.”
The explanation is simple, and he seems sincere.
“Are you okay? What did the doctors say?”
His voice is already shifting to facts, diagnoses, next steps. Too fast, like he’s trying to erase the distress I felt while I kept calling him.
Something closes off inside me.
“I’m fine,” I say evenly. “They’re keeping me overnight for observation.”
He nods, relieved. Then he really looks at me, and his expression changes.
“Fuck… Sam. I was terrified.”
He runs a hand through his hair. It trembles slightly, and I can’t tell whether it’s worry or guilt.
“I should’ve been there. I thought it was… like Kristel’s calls.”
My breath catches at his confession.
He saw my calls and consciously chose not to answer. Because he thought I was like her.
The realization is bitter.
I smile faintly, disillusioned.
“At least now I know where your priorities are.”
Shock flashes across his face, quickly replaced by panic.
“No. You don’t understand. That’s not what I meant. I made a mistake. This is all so new for me, I need time to adjust.”
Time. Time to forget Kristel. Time to truly love me. Time to make me his priority.
I turn my gaze toward the window, toward the city lights shimmering in the night.
“You don’t have to apologize. Your work is important.”
My voice is calm. Detached.
“No,” he protests immediately, panic creeping into his tone. “Nothing is more important than you. I was wrong. But I won’t make the same mistake again. You have to believe me.”
He’s sincere. I can see it. But words are easy. Promises, too.
I gently withdraw my hand.
“Sam, don’t do this.”
His voice cracks.
“Don’t push me away. I’m not your parents. I’m learning. I can do better.”
He dared. He used my wounds against me. I never would have thought he’d be one of those men.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “You’re not my parents.”
Relief is instant, visible. His shoulders sag slightly.
“But you end up hurting me just as much.”
The blow lands. Did he really think he’d get off that easily?
He has no reply. I let the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken truths and open wounds.
When the nurse returns to announce visiting hours are over, he rises reluctantly. He hesitates, then presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’ll make mistakes again. We’ll need time to adjust to each other. But I care about you, never doubt that.”
I know.
Just not enough.