LOGINDiane
The change in air pressure, the cold draft on the steam, even before the sound of the door. My eyes open.
He is there, in the frame. A dark silhouette breaking the field of white steam. He says nothing. He watches.
My whole body freezes, then, paradoxically, relaxes further. It has happened. The intrusion. It was inevitable. The escape into the water was only a respite, an illusion.
I don't move. I don't try to cover myself. The water is cloudy,
BéatriceHe laughs again. Then he becomes serious again. He looks at me."Are you sure? Sure you want this? Because after, we won't be able to go back. After, it will be us. Really us. With everything that implies.""I'm not sure of many things right now. But of you, yes. Of you, I'm sure."He kisses me. Again. Long. Passionately. I feel his hands exploring softly, cautiously. One stays on my face, the other goes down along my neck, my shoulder, my arm. He stops at my hand, intertwines our fingers."I wish so much," he murmurs, "I wish so much we were somewhere else. That we were in a normal place, with a normal bed, without an IV, without monitoring, without risk.""We'll pretend," I say. "Pretend we're at your place. Pretend the door is closed. Pretend the world doesn't exist.""Deal."He kisses me again. This time, I feel more passion, more urgency. His hand comes back to my
BéatriceShe settles in. She takes out her pen. She asks my name, my date of birth, my address, my general practitioner. I answer mechanically, my mind elsewhere, my mind with him, with what he was going to say, with what he didn't say.The nurse finishes her questionnaire. She puts a bracelet on my wrist. She is kind, efficient. She explains that we'll go up to a room, that someone will come get me in a few minutes.When she leaves, we are alone again. But the moment has passed. The instant is broken. Lorenzo says nothing. He waits."What were you going to say?" I ask."Nothing. It's not the time. Not here. Not now.""Lorenzo...""Later. I promise. Later."I want to insist but a contraction comes. Less strong than the previous ones, but present. I close my eyes. I breathe. When I open them again, he is there, very close, his hand on my arm."Are you okay?"
BéatriceHis thumb traces a path on my cheekbone. It's so soft, so tender, so dangerous. I should turn my head away. I should say something. I should stop this. But I can't. I can't because I want it too much. Because I need it. Because for too long I've been depriving myself of tenderness, of contact, of him.The door opens. He withdraws his hand. Doctor Vasseur comes back with a paper in her hand. My face is on fire. My heart is beating too fast. I hope she doesn't see anything, doesn't guess anything."So," she says, sitting on a rolling chair facing me. "Here's the situation. You had a strong warning. The cervix is changed compared to the last ultrasound. It's shorter, softer. But it's not open. That's the positive point. The babies are not being born right now."I sigh. A weight lifts. Lorenzo squeezes my hand tighter."However," the doctor continues, "it's a very clear alarm signal. Your body is telling
BéatriceThe car stops in front of the maternity emergency room. Lorenzo cuts the engine and turns to me. His look is intense, worried, determined."I'm going to get a wheelchair. Don't move.""I don't think I can move anyway."He gets out and runs. I stay alone in the car, still short of breath, hands resting on my belly. The babies are moving. They are moving a lot. As if they are agitated too, as if they sense that something is wrong.The door opens. Lorenzo is already there with a wheelchair, already undoing my seatbelt, already sliding his arms under my knees and behind my back."I'm lifting you. Ready?""Ready."He carries me to the wheelchair with that same ease that troubles me so much. His arms are firm around me, his chest against my shoulder, his breath in my hair. He settles me delicately, with gestures so tender it squeezes my heart. He pushes the wheelchair toward
.BéatriceI stay curled up, short of breath, heart pounding, thoughts confused."How was it?" he asks."Strong," I say. "Really strong. Stronger than the others.""We're going to the hospital.""No, I...""Béa. Listen to me. I'm taking you to the hospital. It's not negotiable. It's not an option. It's what we're going to do. Now."He stands up. He looks at me."Can you walk?""I don't know. I'll try."I sit on the edge of the bed. I put my feet on the floor. I stand up slowly, leaning on the nightstand.And then, another contraction.Immediate.Violent.I sit back down abruptly, my legs giving way, my breath cut off, everything cut off."No," I say. "No, I can't. I can't walk. It's coming back. It won't stop.""I'll carry you.""Lorenzo...""I'll carry you to the car. I'll b
He pushes my bedroom door open with his foot, approaches the bed, lays me down on it with a gentleness that squeezes my heart, that squeezes something else too, that awakens sensations I shouldn't have, not for him, not now, not like this."Thank you," I say, adjusting my pillow behind my head, trying to find a position where the contraction is less present, less oppressive."I'm staying," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed."You shouldn't stay, you should go back down, Aurélie is all alone downstairs, she must be wondering what's happening, she must...""She knows what's happening. She knows I'm with you. She knows I'm watching over you. She understands.""Understands what?"He looks at me. Really. His blue eyes, so blue, incredibly blue, plunged into mine, and I feel my heart racing, beating much too fast, beating for the wrong reasons, for reasons I shouldn't have."She understands that I am the father of your children," he says softly. "That I have responsibilities. That I ca
DianeBut it's not fatigue or horror that strikes me. It's the expression. Or rather, the absence of expression. The face is smooth, as if sculpted from alabaster. The eyes, though immense, reflect nothing. They look, they absorb, but they give nothing back. It's the gaze of a predator who
DianeThe silence after the gunshot is a living entity. It settles, dense, heavy, replacing the very air. It absorbs the last echo of my own broken voice, the guards' grunts, Volkov's breathing. It clings to the padded walls, the silk drapes, making everything deaf, muffled,
DianeVolkov's violence is methodical. It's not passionate, it's punitive. Each thrust is a punch, each withdrawal a tearing away. He twists my wrists, bites the skin of my shoulder until it bleeds, turning my body into a silent battlefield. I don't cry. I don't scream. I cou
DianeThen comes the dress. It glides over my skin like a second skin, colder than the first. The satin molds to every curve, encases me, transforms me into a statue. The tiara is placed on my forehead, a cold that radiates to my temples. The diamonds of the earrings catch th







