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CHAPTER 8: The Ex and The Jealousy
Veröffentlichungsdatum:
27.08.2026 02:29:39
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Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 8: The Ex and The Jealousy
Le gala Weyland n'était pas facultatif. Voici ce que disait le courriel : _Soirée de remerciement des clients. Tenue de soirée. La présence des chefs d’équipe de Carter & Co est fortement recommandée._Traduction : Damian voulait que je sois là.Je suis restée plantée dans mon appartement, à contempler la robe accrochée à ma porte. Bleu marine. Longue jusqu'aux pieds. Simple. Professionnelle. Le genre de robe qu'on porte quand on ne veut pas qu'on nous regarde de trop près.Maya a envoyé un texto : _Tu y vas, n'est-ce pas ? Parce que j'ai besoin de détails. Est-ce qu'il va se prosterner en public ?_Je n'ai pas répondu. Je suis allé.La grande salle de bal de la tour Weyland était un véritable écrin d'or et de cristal. Deux cents personnes en smoking et robes de soirée sirotaient un champagne plus cher que mon loyer. La silhouette de la ville scintillait derrière les baies vitrées.J'ai mis dix minutes avant de le voir.Damian était au bar, en pleine conversation avec un membre du c
Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 7: The Project That Broke Us
Le siège du groupe Weyland était silencieux à 23 heures. Un silence pesant. Un silence tel que le bourdonnement de la climatisation semblait presque imperceptible. Je n'aurais pas dû être là. Mais le conseil d'administration voulait le projet final de rénovation du hall d'entrée sur son bureau pour vendredi, et seule Elena de Carter & Co pouvait valider les documents. Damian m'avait envoyé un courriel à 21h47 : « Le client en a besoin ce soir. Pouvez-vous venir ? Je serai dans mon bureau si vous avez besoin de quoi que ce soit. – D. » Pas de « s'il vous plaît ». Pas de « désolé ». Juste des faits. Un jour à la fois. À partir d'aujourd'hui. Je me répétais que j'étais là pour le projet, pas parce qu'il était dans l'immeuble. Le 42e étage était tout en verre et en acier. Mes talons claquaient sur le marbre tandis que je marchais vers la salle de conférence transformée en salle de crise. Des plans étaient étalés sur trois tables. Des échantillons de pierre, de tissu, de bois. Mon
Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 6: The Unsigned Papers
The Thai food was getting cold.Damian hadn’t moved from the spot I left him in, three feet inside my door. Like if he took one more step, I’d call security. Like if he breathed too loud, I’d remember why I left.“Spicy tuna,” he said quietly, nodding at the bags on my counter. “Extra wasabi. And mango tea. Less ice.”I remembered telling him that once. Five years ago. On our second date. We’d gone to that terrible place on 8th with the plastic chairs and the AC that never worked. He’d complained the whole time. Then he’d gone back the next week by himself and memorized the order.“Why are you here, Damian?” I asked. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.He finally looked up at me. God, he looked awful. The suit he’d been wearing last night was wrinkled now. His jaw had stubble. And his eyes—his eyes were red.“I told you,” he said. “The papers.”He picked up the manila envelope and held it out. My name was on it. _Elena Carter v. Damian Weyland_. The date stamped on the top: six mon
Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 5: The Realization
3:14am. My phone lit up the dark. Harsh white light across my ceiling.Unknown number.I almost ignored it. Rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head. Then it rang again. And again.On the fourth ring I answered, heart already pounding. "Hello?""Elena." His voice was rough. Tired. Like he’d been awake for days. "It’s me."My chest tightened. "Is everything okay? Is someone hurt?"A long pause. I could hear him breathing. In my apartment. In the dark. "No," he said finally. "No one’s hurt.""Then why are you calling me at 3am, Damian?"Another pause. Longer this time. "I... I went through our wedding photos today. For the first time.""Why?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted."Because my assistant asked if I wanted to digitize them or throw them out," he said. "And I realized I don’t remember the last time I really looked at you. At us."I sat up in bed. The sheets were tangled around my legs."The photo of us cutting the cake," he continued. "City Hall. You’re laughi
Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 4: The Ghost in His Office
He started showing up everywhere. It wasn’t obvious. Not at first. At the construction site for the new Meridian Gallery I was designing. I was talking to the foreman about steel beams when I glanced up and saw him. Standing by the fence in a hard hat, tie tucked into his shirt. Talking to the site manager like he owned the place. Which, technically, his investment firm did own 30% of it.He didn’t wave. Didn’t come over. Just watched for ten minutes and left.At the coffee shop two blocks from my office. Same corner table. Black coffee. Laptop open. Earphones in. He was there Tuesday. And Thursday. And the next Monday.The barista started asking if I wanted "the usual" and if I wanted it "sent to the man in the corner too."At the charity gala I attended for a client. The one for children’s art programs. I was working the room, smiling, talking about donor walls and exhibit lighting. And there he was. Leaning against a pillar near the bar. Whiskey in hand. Watching me work the roo
Cinq Ans Trop Tard CHAPTER 3: Six Months Later
"Carter & Co." The gold letters on the glass door still made my chest tight every time I saw them. My firm. My name. No "Weyland" attached to it. No one’s last name but mine.Six months. That’s all it took to go from a laptop on my kitchen table to a 2nd floor office in SoHo with 12 clients and 4 employees. It wasn’t Weyland Group money. But it was mine."Ms. Carter?" My assistant Maya poked her head in. She was 24, bright, and the first person I’d hired. "The Weyland Group meeting is at ten. They specifically requested you."I froze, pen halfway to my notebook. Ink bled a little dot on the page. "Weyland Group?""Yeah." She grinned, completely unaware of what those two words did to me. "The CEO’s office called personally. He said he wanted ‘the best interior designer in the city’ for the HQ redesign. I told them that’s you."The best. After five years of silence. After papers sitting unsigned on his desk for six months. After I’d walked out and told him not to call."Okay," I
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