48. The Frames
Alexander
Two weeks later, Sam, Oliver, and I head out in the middle of the afternoon to pick up the frames she ordered from a small craftsman in the Paris suburbs. I rented a van for the occasion.
“My God…” she breathes when she sees the warehouse where her frames have been stored. “They’ll never fit in the apartment. What am I going to do?”
She stares at the frames, visibly anxious. She clearly underestimated the problem.
It’s true they take up a lot of space, but the real headache will come when she has to paint them. I immediately go through the options. The penthouse? She’d refuse outright. Renting a studio? She’d never agree to let me pay. The office?
“Come to MatchMapping,” I suggest. “We have a big meeting room that’s not being used right now. You could use it as a workshop.”
She hesitates, brows furrowed.
“Thanks, but I can’t accept. A painting workshop in a tech company makes no sense. I’ll find something else. A garage, maybe…”
“Come on, Sam,” Oliver cuts in. “You don’t have time for that. Alexander just told you the room’s sitting empty.”
She thinks for a few more seconds, then gives in.
“All right… if you really don’t need it.”
“No problem,” I reassure her.
We load the frames. While she pays and thanks the carpenter, I step aside to make a call.
“David, are you and Clarisse still at the office?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I need a favor. Can you ask security to clear out the Artemis room within the next half hour, and have Clarisse move the meetings scheduled for the next two weeks?”
“Got it. This for Sam?”
“I can’t hide anything from you.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
When we arrive in the underground parking at La Défense, David and a security guard help us unload and carry everything up to the ground floor. The room is to the right of the lobby, at the end of the corridor.
When Sam sees the space, she freezes, mouth open.
The chairs have been stacked in a corner, the tables lined up and covered with paper sheets. Natural light floods the room through large floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s… impossible that a room like this isn’t being used,” she murmurs.
David and I exchange a glance.
“It makes us happy, Sam. Really,” he says. “You can pay us back by exhibiting here afterward, for all the employees.”
Sam looks at him uncertainly, then turns to me. For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse, but she just nods.
“Deal,” she says with a smile. “It’s time to bring some color into your sterile offices.”
“Amen!” David says, taking off his jacket to help us.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks.
“I’m going to give you a hand.”
She looks him up and down, frowning.
“No way. Not in a thousand-dollar suit.”
“Okay, okay. Message received! We want the room, but not me,” he complains, hands raised in surrender.
Sam shakes her head at his antics as he walks away laughing.
I’m relieved I thought to change in the meantime.
“All right,” Oliver says, “I’m going to return the van and head home.”
Sam kisses him on the cheek.
“Thanks for coming.”
“You’re family, Sam. Call if you need anything.”
*
After he leaves, we’re alone.
Sam studies the frames lined up in front of us, then turns to me.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she says softly.
“I know.”
Our eyes meet and linger a little too long.
She’s the first to look away, grabbing a two-liter bucket of acrylic paint.
“We start with the base coat,” she explains.
She opens the chocolate-colored paint, dilutes it with a bit of water until it becomes semi-opaque, then pours it into two containers. She hands me one along with a flat brush.
“Start with the front. We’ll do the sides later. Brushstrokes should follow the grain of the wood.”
I focus on the task, applying myself as if my life depended on it. Sometimes she places her hand over mine, guiding my movements. Her skin is warm, her touch alive.
“There,” she says. “Don’t overload the brush or it’ll drip. Once this is done, we’ll let it dry before painting the rest.”
I follow her instructions, trying not to get distracted by her scent or the warmth of her body so close to mine. When the urge to pull her against me becomes too strong, I step back, pretending to inspect our work.
As we paint, a strange intimacy settles between us. Working side by side, sharing a task, moving toward the same goal. At first we barely speak, then slowly we begin trading memories.
“One time, Oliver tried to teach me how to build things,” I tell her. “I must have been nine or ten. He wanted us to build a cabin in the backyard.”
I dip my brush into the paint, smiling at the memory.
“I was so focused that I screwed planks onto the door frame… with Oliver still inside.”
Sam stops painting and looks at me, laughing.
“No way. You locked him inside the cabin?”
“For two hours. My drill battery was dead. We had to wait for it to recharge so I could unscrew the boards and let him out.”
She bursts out laughing—a full, unrestrained laugh that lights up her face.
“I can picture it.”
“He never forgave me. Ever since, he tells anyone who’ll listen that I can’t be trusted with tools.”
She laughs again, then her expression softens, something gentler passing through her eyes.
“You’re lucky,” she says more quietly, “to have shared that kind of closeness with your brother.”
The silence returns, soft, comfortable.
Sam goes back to painting, and I follow suit. Our hands move in rhythm. From time to time, our eyes meet, hold for a beat too long, then drift away.
The intimacy grows like that, slowly. With every brushstroke. Every half-smile. Every shared silence.
And I realize that maybe this is what rebuilding looks like. No grand gestures. No promises. Just being there. Painting frames side by side, sharing memories, and slowly relearning how to be together.
*
Around seven p.m., Mara and Emelyne arrive with Matthieu and two of his colleagues, Jules and Axel. After quick introductions, we get to work.
Sam explains what she expects from everyone—who continues with the base coats, who applies the second layer. The mood is light. Jokes fly. Laughter bursts through the room. Sam transforms before my eyes, laughing out loud at every joke.
Jules, the youngest of Matthieu’s colleagues, calls out to Sam.
“So you’re the artist Matthieu can’t stop talking about?” he asks with a charming smile.
“I don’t know if ‘artist’ is the right word,” she replies. “I’m just starting out.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Matthieu cuts in. “Her paintings are incredible.”
“You’ll have to tell me when you’re exhibiting. I’d love to come see your work,” Jules says.
“With pleasure,” Sam replies, smiling.
I don’t know whether she enjoys the attention or simply doesn’t notice it, but suddenly I feel…
out of place. I focus on my frame, yet I can’t help watching them.
The way he leans toward her to listen more closely.
The way she smiles as she explains her technique.
The laugh they share when he tries to fix a drip.
My jaw tightens. My brush hovers above the frame, frozen.
Jealousy bites into my gut like a rabid dog.
Then I catch myself. No. Not this.
I already lost Sam once because of my demons. I refuse to let that spiral start again. She has the right to have friends, to laugh with whomever she wants, to be herself without me turning into a possessive, irrational man.
Breathe, Alexander. It’s nothing. Just a conversation. And even if Jules were openly flirting with her, I have to trust her.
Because Sam isn’t cruel. She wouldn’t play games with me.
And above all, she has the right to choose—even if that choice doesn’t include me.
I take a deep breath and start painting again.
The jealousy is still there, lurking in my stomach, but it no longer gets to decide for me.
Sam looks up at me, and something passes through her eyes. Approval? Tenderness?
It’s as if she understands the battle I’ve just won against myself.
She looks away, but I see the corners of her mouth lift, a private smile lighting her gaze.
I know then that I made the right choice.
Choosing respect over possessiveness.
Choosing to fight for her, not against her.
Choosing to be the man she deserves, even if it means pushing her away.
That’s when she crosses the room and comes toward me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I reassure her with a smile. “I’m gripping my brush so tightly I might never be able to let go.”
She laughs at my self-deprecation, takes the brush from my hand to set it on the stand, then slips my hand between hers and begins to massage it gently.
My breath catches.
This isn’t an insignificant gesture, and the intimacy of the moment doesn’t escape me.
It’s not a promise. Not yet.
But it’s a step toward me.
And for the first time in a long while, I allow myself to hope.