49. J-1
Alexander
We kept painting on Saturday and Sunday, taking turns—Emelyne, Mara, Matthieu, Oliver, David, Sam, and me. The first and second coats are completely finished. What remains are the aging effects, a more meticulous, time-consuming process that we carry out under Sam’s close supervision.
She teaches us how to patinate the wood, how to create subtle cracks, how to play with tones to give the illusion of time. It’s precision work that requires patience and delicacy.
With each session, Sam lowers her guard a little more around me. And soon, we rediscover the closeness we once had.
I haven’t been this happy in a long time.
Unfortunately, reality catches up with me brutally when I return to the office on Monday morning.
Our teams detect an alarming drop in active users: –15%. The number flashes on the meeting room screen like a warning signal. After growth of 8% instead of the expected 12%, the situation is more than delicate.
David and I exchange a look. We both know what it means.
The crisis meeting with the board of directors is tense.
I have two weeks to turn things around before the mandatory announcement to shareholders. Two weeks to identify the problem, find a solution, and implement it.
The timing couldn’t be worse.
Meetings pile up. Data analysis. Debriefings with the product teams. Calls with developers. Communication strategies. The days stretch longer and longer.
I barely have time to eat or sleep. And even that’s a struggle.
Takeout containers pile up on my desk. Coffee becomes my closest ally. I feel the fatigue settling into my shoulders, behind my eyes.
Hang in there. Just a few more days.
But despite the pressure, the urgency, and the worried looks from the board, Sam remains my priority.
Every evening at six, I’m there.
I shut down my computer, ignore the notifications still buzzing in my pocket, and head straight to the Artémis hall. We paint frames. We talk. We laugh. Sometimes, we even go out to dinner at a small neighborhood restaurant.
Those hours with her become my anchor. My refuge.
At night, when I get home, I’m tempted to get back to work. The laptop sits on my coffee table, calling to me like a siren.
Just one hour. Just a few emails. Just checking the latest numbers.
But I don’t.
Working myself to exhaustion won’t help me move faster or more efficiently. In the past, I pushed myself to the breaking point to solve a crisis. That’s no longer the case.
I want to keep a reserve of energy for Sam. To be there if she needs me. To avoid showing up depleted, drained, incapable of offering her anything but an exhausted body and an overloaded mind.
And that’s how, without even realizing it, she helps me balance my life better.
She gives me a reason to set boundaries.
My schedule has never been tighter. Yet, paradoxically, I feel more in control than ever.
*
Wednesday, May 29. D-1.
Emelyne, Mara, Matthieu, Oliver, David, and I bring Sam’s works back to MatchMapping.
It creates a huge buzz, and many employees come by to take a look.
Some even film us as we mount the paintings in their frames.
The women handle the watercolors; we take care of the oil paintings.
The final result is magnificent, and Sam is thrilled.
But time is running out. We load up the cars, and the whole team meets at Richelieu.
On site, Sam gives her instructions for placing the paintings. We form pairs to optimize the hanging. Matthieu teams up with Oliver; David works with me.
Mara and Emelyne meticulously check the alignment of each frame with spirit levels.
“A little more to the left,” Sam tells us, stepping back to judge the overall effect. “No, too much. Come back two centimeters.”
David sighs as we move the frame for the third time.
“Sam, at this point, no one will see the difference,” he protests gently.
“I see it,” she replies with a stubborn smile.
I watch her, standing in the middle of the gallery, one hand under her chin, brows slightly furrowed. She’s in her element. Focused. Demanding. Beautiful.
All thirty paintings are hung, each in its patinated frame. The effect is striking. The frames—with their aged chocolate tones and subtle crackling—give the works a depth they never would have had with standard framing.
“It’s perfect,” Sam finally declares, stepping back once more.
An admiring silence settles in. We all take it in.
“Holy shit, Sam,” Emelyne breathes. “It’s… it’s really incredible.”
“They’re going to be speechless tomorrow,” Mara adds confidently.
“It’s fascinating,” I say, visibly impressed.
Sam blushes slightly, clearly moved.
“Thank you. Really. And thank you all. I never could have done this without you.”
“Our pleasure, beautiful. Call us anytime,” David says with a wink.
“Alright,” Mara says, clapping her hands. “We’re done. It’s past eight. I’m starving. Are we celebrating?”
Laughter breaks out, releasing the emotional tension.
*
We have dinner together at a small Italian restaurant nearby, just a few streets away. The atmosphere is joyful, almost festive. Jokes fly, laughter echoes.
Sam is sitting next to me, and several times during the meal, our knees brush under the table. Each touch leaves me hungry, craving more.
She seems relaxed for the first time in weeks. The stress of preparation has lifted, replaced by a contained, palpable excitement.
“To Sam!” Oliver calls out, raising his glass. “Who’s going to conquer Richelieu tomorrow!”
“To Sam!” we all repeat in unison.
She laughs, embarrassed and happy at the same time.
“I still have a toast to make,” she says.
Then she turns to Emelyne, raising her glass, her eyes a little too bright.
“To Emelyne. A wonderful textile artist who’s also defending her degree tomorrow and still managed to be there for me every single day.”
Then she turns to me, her gaze locking onto mine.
“To Alexander, who made me his priority despite all his obligations.”
Her eyes then move to everyone else around the table.
“To all of you, who showed me the true meaning of friendship. Thank you.”
We all raise our glasses.
“To friendship!”
Around ten p.m., the group begins to disperse.
The goodbyes drag on, filled with hugs and final words of encouragement.
Then suddenly, it’s just Sam and me left on the sidewalk, under the soft glow of the streetlights.
“Would you like to go grab a drink, just the two of us?” she asks timidly.
My heart leaps in my chest.
“Nothing would make me happier.”
A discreet smile curves her lips. We walk to my car, parked a little farther down the street. The night air is soft, almost warm, carrying the scents of the city.
As we get into the car, I ask her:
“Where do you want to go?”
She looks at me. Her eyes catch the light from the streetlamps.
“To your place.”
The world stops.
Those two words. So simple. So heavy with meaning.
I feel my pulse quicken. My mouth goes dry.
“Okay,” I murmur.
My voice is rougher than I intended.
I start the car, my hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. The drive passes in a silence thick with tension, anticipation, expectation.
The streets blur past. Red lights. Other cars. Everything feels unreal, as if we’re suspended in a bubble outside of time.
We finally arrive. I park in the underground garage. The silence is deafening when I turn off the engine.
She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Then, slowly, she turns her head toward me.
“Alexander,” she whispers.
“Yes?”
“I… I’m not sure what I really want. But I know I want to be with you tonight.”
My breath catches. Those words. That vulnerability.
“I’m here,” I answer softly. “For whatever you want. However you want it.”
She nods, then opens her door.
We ride the elevator up in silence. The confined space seems to close in around us. I feel the warmth of her body just inches from mine. Her scent wraps around me.
The floors tick by.
When the doors open to the penthouse, I let her enter first.
She walks into the living room, stops in front of the large bay windows that offer a panoramic view of illuminated Paris.
“It’s still so beautiful,” she murmurs.
I approach and try to see the city through her eyes. Paris stretches out before us: the Seine, its bridges, its lights reflecting on the water like liquid stars.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I admit against her ear.
Her skin breaks out in goosebumps as my breath grazes her. Only a few centimeters separate us, but our bodies are already vibrating in unison.
She turns toward me. Her eyes shine in the dim light.
The air between us becomes incandescent.
“Kiss me,” she breathes.
I close the distance between us and my lips crash down on hers.
Nothing exists but her body against mine, her moist lips parting to let me in.
My tongue invades her mouth and devours her.
Hers meets mine with the same burning thirst. I feel like she’s tearing my soul out with each pressure, each brush.
Her taste and the sensations she awakens in me make me completely lose my mind.
Our moans fill the room. Our hands rediscover each other.
“It’s been so long,” she exhales against my lips as her fingers slip under my clothes to seek contact with my skin.
I don’t respond. I’m incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
Our clothes end up scattered on the floor. Soon we’re naked against each other. Our movements are clumsy and hungry. My hand slips between her parted legs and hers caresses my erect cock. We’re nothing but desire and impatience.
I lift her in my arms, her legs wrap around my waist. I carry her to the back of the couch, which takes some of her weight.
“Take me,” she tells me. “Now.”
With one hand I hold her against me, with the other I guide my erection toward her slit. Her secretions make my tip glisten—she’s more than ready for me. Very slowly, I penetrate her, savoring every second.
The moan of pleasure she releases as her walls close around me drives me completely crazy. When I’m buried inside her to the hilt, her groan of pleasure nearly makes me come. I stop to give her time to adjust to me.
My lips claim her nipples in turn, teasing them with the tip of my tongue. Her body arches against mine. She’s so tight.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I breathe against her ear.
“Come on,” she begs me.
I bury my head in her neck and my hips move of their own accord.
My mouth leaves a trail of kisses on her throat. Her hands slip into my hair, pulling gently to bring me closer. My thrusts accelerate as pleasure builds between us.
“Yes, faster. Faster,” she pants, barely coherent.
We’re nothing but passion and fire as our skin slaps together. It’s good, it’s so good. I want this moment to last forever and ever.
Soon, however, I feel her convulse around me.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she says in a half-sob.
Our passion has never been this violent, this devastating.
“I love you,” I breathe in her ear as orgasm strikes us both and leaves me bare before her.
Her embrace tightens around me.
“I love you like I’ve never loved anyone,” I confess to her for the first time.
As I convulse and release deep inside her, she responds in a breathless voice.
“I love you too.”