Mag-log inThe air in the hall was beginning to feel heavy.It wasn’t the lack of oxygen, nor the heat from the bodies. It was the weight of the unasked questions, the looks that evaluated me, the whispers that spread like fire on dry straw.I needed a moment of silence, of air, of distance.“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said to Tristan, squeezing his hand under the table.“Do you want me to go with you?”“No.” I smiled, a smile I hoped was convincing. “Stay here. Hold down the fort.”He hesitated but nodded.I stood up, moving away from the table with the elegance I had learned to force over years of social events. The navy blue dress swayed gently, the low shoes kept my steps steady.The bathroom was at the end of the corridor, a spacious and silent space with golden mirrors and marble sinks. But I never made it there.Erika blocked my path.She was surrounded by three women, the same ones I had seen beside her throughout the entire dinner, the same ones who laughed in unison every time sh
TWO MONTHS LATERThe Delyon mansion was different.It wasn’t just Cassius’s absence, although that already made an immense difference, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from the house’s shoulders.It was the light. The windows, which used to be always covered by heavy, dark curtains, were now open, letting the morning sun enter in golden waves.The dark mahogany furniture had been replaced by lighter, airier pieces. The walls, once covered with somber portraits of Delyon ancestors, now displayed landscapes and flowers.Matilda and I had worked tirelessly for a month after we returned from Paraty. Transforming the mansion into something it had never been: a home.“The house looks different,” August observed as we climbed the entrance steps. “It’s more… bright.”“It’s the sunlight, my love.” I adjusted his shirt collar, feeling the heat of the day. “The curtains are open.”“I like it.”“Me too.”The days that followed our return were a whirlwind of adaptation. Tristan needed to
The dining table in Paraty was full.It wasn’t a big table — the house had been designed for intimacy, not banquets — but we had improvised.We joined two tables, spread light tablecloths, and added extra chairs that Mateo had found in the basement. The result was a mosaic of people, laughter, and dishes that blended together.August was sitting between Aurora and Matilda, eyes shining as he told them about the crab he had seen on the beach. Thaïs, beside Mateo, gestured with enthusiasm, describing something I couldn’t quite hear but that made Mateo almost smile. Raphaël, his arm still in a cast but already more animated, tried to eat with his left hand, with mixed results that Anya never missed the chance to tease him about.Luca and Zahir argued about football as if they hadn’t spent the last few months fighting for their lives. Edda watched everything in silence, a glass of wine in her hand, an almost imperceptible smile on her lips. Gregor, still a little distant but already integ
The sun came through the windows of the room in Paraty, golden and warm, as if the sky itself had decided to bless my recovery. The room was spacious, airy, with a view that looked out over the sea and the green mountains rising on the horizon. Far from the gray fog of Munich. Far from the smell of blood and gunpowder.Far from everything, except her.Anya was sitting in the armchair beside the bed, eyes fixed on the book she pretended to read. I knew she wasn’t reading. I knew because her eyes moved to me every three seconds, and because the page she was “reading” had been the same for twenty minutes.“You’re watching me,” I stated, my voice still a little hoarse.“I’m taking care of you.”“Taking care isn’t the same as watching.”“For me, it is.”She closed the book, finally, and stood up. The movement was fluid, natural, as if she had rehearsed the scene hundreds of times. She walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and ran her hand through my hair, a gesture so intimate I still wasn’t
The house in Paraty was silent that morning. Not the oppressive silence of the Delyon mansion, which always seemed to be waiting for something terrible. It was a peaceful silence, broken only by the singing of birds and the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks down below.I was on the veranda, gaze lost on the horizon, when I heard the sound of the car coming up the dirt road. My heart raced, not from fear, but from anticipation. I knew who it was. I knew that after months of anguish, weeks of escapes, she was finally arriving.I got up from the chair so quickly I nearly knocked over the teacup. I ran through the house, bare feet pounding on the wooden floor, ignoring the dizziness that had been following me lately.The front door opened before I could reach it.She was there.Thaïs.Her red hair, now longer, fell over her shoulders in messy waves. The suitcase lay abandoned on the floor behind her, as if it no longer mattered. Her eyes — those eyes I had known since adol
The television was tuned to the news channel, as it had been for days. I couldn’t turn it off. I couldn’t stop watching. Every headline was a punch, every speculation a new open wound.“Cassius Delyon hospitalized after a fall at the mansion.”“Son takes over the empire amid scandals.”“Tristan Delyon’s statement: the lies and the truths.”I was sitting on the sofa in my living room, a cup of already cold tea in my hand, eyes fixed on the screen. Tristan spoke, and every word was a piece of a puzzle I couldn’t put together.Cassius fell down the stairs? I didn’t believe it. Cassius was too careful to fall. Too methodical to make such a banal mistake.Tristan defending Cassius? That was even stranger. The hatred between the two of them ran so deep it seemed part of the Delyon mansion’s landscape. What could have changed?Something was happening beneath the carpet. I could feel it. I could smell it. Like smoke before the fire.But I didn’t know what. And that consumed me.The phone vibr
The apartment where I was hiding on the outskirts of Salzburg was small, dirty, with walls that smelled of mold and dampness. I lived on canned food and tap water, the money running out, the fake documents feeling more and more fragile. With every siren in the street, my heart raced. With every kno
After the bath, when we were already wrapped in the bedsheets, August still sleeping in the room next door, Tristan pulled me close.“Tell me more,” I asked, my head resting on his chest, my fingers tracing circles over his scars.“Tell you what?”“How it was. The war. The men you killed. The monst
The weeks in the cabin stretched like a fever dream, a suspended time between what we had been and what we were becoming. Tristan healed slowly — the stitches on his abdomen dried and fell away, the broken ribs stopped hurting with every breath, the fever finally broke. But there was something in h
The Meyer family’s country house was two hours from Munich, hidden among hills covered in vineyards that, at this time of year, were bare and brownish, just like everything inside me. It was an old property, inherited from my great-grandfather, who used it as a summer refuge. Now, it served as my e







