Chapter 8
Adrian
The first time I brought flowers, I told myself it wasn’t a bribe.
Orchids, white and extravagant, in a matte black box.
I held them awkwardly behind my back as I rang the bell at Laurent Atelier, expecting to be ignored or, at best, scolded.
Instead, Vivienne opened the door right away, wearing a paint-stained shirt and the stern face she usually reserved for telemarketers.
“Adrian,” she said, crossing her arms. “What are you doing here?”
I fumbled the box forward, tried to sound casual. “These are for you.”
She stared at the flowers, then at me. “You think you can show up with a grand gesture and I’ll just forget the last decade?”
“No,” I said. “But I hoped it might start a conversation.”
She took the flowers and set them on a side table, not bothering to smell them. “What do you want, Adrian?”
I was honest, because I had nothing left to lose. “I want to know what would make it better.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “You can’t fix this with gifts.”
“I know that. Tell me how to start.”
She shook her head, more weary than angry. “You should have thought about that before you turned our marriage into a press release.”
That stung, but I nodded.
She looked down at her hands, picked at a loose thread. “I don’t know what would fix it. That’s the whole point.”
“If you ever do,” I said, “I’ll be here.”
She almost smiled, then caught herself. “Don’t wait for me. You don’t know how.”
She closed the door, gentle, not a slam.
I didn’t wait outside the atelier. That would have been pathetic, and I refused to be the man who camped on the sidewalk for a woman’s attention. Instead, I found a café across the street—a place with bad espresso and overcooked pastries—and made it my office for the next week.
Every afternoon, I ordered a double shot, sat by the window, and watched Vivienne work.
She was a machine: pinning, stitching, moving clients through like a surgeon on a time limit.
Sometimes she looked up and saw me, but she never waved.
Other times, she ignored me completely. Either way, I stayed.
The owner of the café started greeting me by name. “You like to watch the lady, eh?” he said, in an accent I couldn’t place.
“She’s my wife,” I said, and the words felt strange in my mouth.
The man shrugged. “Maybe bring cake next time. Women like cake more than flowers.”
I laughed, because it was easier than explaining.
A few nights in, I stayed later than usual. The lights in the atelier were still on, though it was well past closing. Through the window, I saw Vivienne at her desk, head in her hands, the rest of the world fading out around her. She looked up, caught my eye, and held it for just a second.
I thought she’d wave me away, but she didn’t. She just went back to her work.
When she finally left, she locked the door with slow, practiced movements, shoulders hunched. She crossed the street, not seeing me in the dark. I wanted to call her name, but I didn’t. Instead, I let her walk past, the scent of her shampoo lingering for a second.
The next day, I did the same thing. No flowers, no gifts, no words. Just me, sitting at the window, waiting.
It became a routine. The man at the café gave me my coffee before I asked for it. Vivienne grew used to my presence, or at least stopped looking annoyed by it. Sometimes she even smiled, just a little, when she saw me.
I kept waiting, not because I wanted to be pitied or forgiven, but because I needed to learn how.
After a week, I realized I wasn’t waiting for her at all. I was just hoping she’d let me stay in her orbit, even if only from a distance.
It was the closest I’d ever been to honest.