36. Jalousy
Alexander
I fell asleep with my phone pressed against my chest, like a castaway clinging to a lifebuoy. Pride keeps me from calling her.
Sam: I know today was intense for you. I thought about you all day. I would have loved to hear your voice tonight, but you must be exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow. I miss you.
Those few words should calm me. Instead, they do the opposite: they fuel a low, simmering anger that’s been growing for days.
No apology. No explanation.
Not even a “sorry” for disappearing when I needed her most.
My mind should be fully focused on the IPO—on the numbers, the decisions that will shape the future of hundreds of people. And yet, I keep circling back to that message.
Too late.
Too detached.
It soothes nothing. On the contrary, it rekindles a burn that’s been smoldering for days.
Is this how she sees our relationship? Silence and absence when I need her the most?
I get dressed mechanically for the office, every movement precise, controlled—as if mastering my body could compensate for the chaos inside.
The first day is behind us, but the days ahead will be just as decisive. The market is a fickle beast: a rumor, an article, a moment of hesitation, and everything can tip.
I spend the morning poring over yesterday’s analyses with my team. The numbers are there—reassuring, without being triumphant. A slight dip at the end of the session. Nothing alarming, but enough to keep that constant tension lodged in my shoulders.
We talk strategy, communication, media exposure. I participate. I arbitrate. I decide.
But part of me remains stuck elsewhere, imprisoned by that message—too distant, too measured.
Even the articles that keep coming—cautious, intrigued, sometimes enthusiastic—change nothing. Every success tastes unfinished. Every victory feels like a half-measure. I should feel relieved, even proud. Instead, there’s this void, this absence that turns every win into a partial defeat.
I don’t call Sam.
It’s time for us to talk. To take stock. To clear the air before this distance turns into a chasm we can’t cross.
I leave the office early and ask Gilles to drive me to the Fine Arts School. My heart speeds up as we get closer, pulled between hope and an apprehension I refuse to name.
As the car stops near the school, I see her stepping outside, wearing that coat and those tall boots I love so much. Her dark hair is tied up in a messy bun, loose strands escaping. She’s beautiful. Natural.
And she’s not alone.
A student walks beside her. His arm is around her shoulders. He leans in, murmurs something. She bursts out laughing—a clear, spontaneous laugh I thought belonged to us.
My blood freezes.
She rises onto her toes and kisses him on the cheek. A tender gesture. He pulls her closer, his arms closing around her—gentle, possessive.
The scene is brief, but it’s enough.
Jealousy floods me—violent, primal—sweeping away all clarity.
Everything snaps into focus with painful clarity: the distance, the silences, the spaced-out messages. She wanted space. Not to think about us. But to make room for him.
Blinded by rage, I fling open the door and stride toward them.
Surprise crosses her face first. Then pure, immediate joy lights up her features when she recognizes me.
She’s a good actress. No doubt about that.
Almost instantly, concern shadows her expression.
Yes. She should be worried.
“So that’s him,” I say coldly. “That’s why you couldn’t even be bothered to send me a message wishing me luck? You were so wrapped up in him you couldn’t spare two minutes to text me on one of the most important days of my life? Since when do you not give a damn about me?
“What?” she panics. “No, Alexander—this isn’t what you think,” she protests, panic overtaking her.
But I refuse to listen. The words spill out, venomous. I want to hurt her as much as she’s hurting me.
“And here I was thinking you were different from your sister.”
She stiffens as if I’ve slapped her.
“Alexander, please… let me explain,” she pleads softly.
“Nothing you have to say interests me,” I cut her off. “It’s over.”
Shock flashes across her face, then pain. And behind her, as if in slow motion, another student approaches the young man who was with her. He places a hand on his shoulder. They turn toward each other and kiss—on the mouth.
The world stops.
It takes me two seconds—an eternity—to understand my mistake. The young man with Sam wasn’t her lover. His partner has just joined him.
I realize my error too late. Shame crashes over me, panic rising fast. I turn toward her, ready to apologize, to take everything back.
But she doesn’t give me the chance. Her expression hardens.
“No,” she says calmly, decisively. “You’ve been very clear about what you think of me.”
Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. That restraint breaks me more surely than sobs ever could.
“I—”
“Stop,” she cuts me off firmly. “As you said yourself so well—it’s over between us.”
And she walks away without looking back, her silhouette dissolving into the crowd of students. In that moment, I understand that I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life. One I may never be able to undo.
I return to the car like an automaton. Gilles watches me in the rearview mirror, silent.
In the building lobby, the concierge’s voice reaches me through a fog.
“Mr. Delaunay? A package was delivered for you yesterday morning.”
I take it without thinking.
In the elevator, I open it. Inside: a hand-painted card. The Eiffel Tower, rendered like perfectly controlled calligraphy. And a pair of sleek silver cufflinks. Stunning.
I flip the card over.
“Alexander,
I wish I could have been with you today.
Know that I’ll be thinking of you every single moment.
You’ve done incredible work with MatchMapping. You’re going to blow them away.
I’m so proud of you.
If you’re not too tired after your day, come see me or call me.
Whatever the time, I’ll be waiting.
Sam.”
My hands shake. My vision blurs.
I understand.
The gift was meant to arrive before I left. Before the market opened.
The delivery was delayed—just enough to destroy everything.
I could blame bad luck. Circumstances. Timing.
But the truth asserts itself, brutal and undeniable:
It wasn’t the courier.
It wasn’t the distance.
It wasn’t the job.
It was me.
Me and my jealousy, hurling unforgivable words and accusations.
Me and my inability to trust since Kristel.
Me and my explosive anger.
Because I chose attack over dialogue.
Sam’s cufflinks burn in my fingers.