LOGINAURÉLIE
The day begins like a lie.
I'm in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. My gestures are mechanical. Butter on the toast. Coffee filtering. The sun enters through the window, casting circles of light on the tiles, and all of this should be beautiful, should be peaceful, should be exactly what I drea
AURÉLIEI check the table. I relight the candles that blew out somehow. I look at the lasagna in the oven. I smell the scent of tomato and cheese filling the house.It's perfect.Everything is perfect.The front door.My heart leaps.I almost run. I open the door.Lorenzo is there. In the doorframe. He has his jacket over his shoulder, his backpack, his tired look from every evening."Hi," I say, hanging from his neck.
AURÉLIEI get up. I go to Lorenzo. I wrap my arms around his waist, I press my belly against his back, I rest my cheek between his shoulder blades."I'm glad you're both here. Both of you. That's all I wanted. To bring you together. To have you near me."He doesn't answer right away.His muscles are hard under my arms. He doesn't relax against me the way he usually does.Then he places his hands on mine."I'm glad too," he says.His voice is strange. Strangled. As if he were holding something back.
AURÉLIEThe day begins like a lie.I'm in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. My gestures are mechanical. Butter on the toast. Coffee filtering. The sun enters through the window, casting circles of light on the tiles, and all of this should be beautiful, should be peaceful, should be exactly what I dreamed of for months.We are all together.Béatrice and Lorenzo under the same roof as me.My belly against the table, my two loves within reach.So why do I have this knot in my throat?Why can't I stop th
BÉATRICEShe approaches. She takes me in her arms. Her belly against mine, our children separated by so little flesh, so little tissue."Thank you for being here," she murmurs into my neck. "It does me so much good to have you."I hold her tighter. Too tight. As if I could hold back time, hold back the confession, hold back everything that's going to collapse."Me too, it does me good."Lie.She goes upstairs.I stay downstairs, in the darkened living room. Seated on the couch, hands on my belly, eyes in the
BÉATRICEDay is here. Full. Cruel. It enters through the gaps in the shutter, draws bars of light on the floor, on the bed, on me.I haven't slept. Not a second. My eyes are dry from having cried so much, my head is heavy, my belly is taut. The babies stir as if they sense my disorder, as if they want to remind me they are there, that they heard everything, felt everything.I should get up. I should go take a shower, erase this night from my skin, from my hair, from everywhere. But I remain there, nailed to the bed by the weight of what we've done.His scent is still on me. In my sheets, on my pillow, between my legs. Everywhere. I breathe it in despite myself, I soak in it, I d
BÉATRICEHis hands leave my back, come to rest on my belly. With infinite gentleness. As if I might break. As if my children were made of glass.He closes his eyes. He concentrates. He feels their movements beneath his palms. A tear slides down his cheek. Then another.He places his lips on my skin, there where our children are growing. A kiss. Two. Three. He kisses my belly as one kisses an altar, as one kisses a miracle."I'm sorry," he murmurs against my skin. "I'm sorry for not being there the way I should be. I'm sorry for all the hurt I'm causing. I'm sorry."Each kiss is a prayer. Each kiss is a forgiveness he asks
Dimitri VolkovThe silence of my suite after her departure is more eloquent than any tumult.I remain near the large picture window, hands in my suit pockets. I contemplate the sparkling city spread at my feet. My empire. A network of lights and shadows that I control
DianeHis limousine waits for me outside, I get in accompanied by Liam.The limousine glides through the city streets, a cocoon of silence and steel. The night, through the tinted windows, is only a blur of stretched lights, as if the outside world were fleeing, indiffer
DianeI get into the car. My father sits beside me. Liam closes the door, a dull, final sound, then takes his place in front, next to the chauffeur.The journey is a tunnel of silence. The city streets, so familiar, scroll past the tinted windows like a disconnected silent film. None of us speak. M
DianeBreakfast is a theater of silence. The dining room, immense and icy despite the sun striking the tall windows, echoes only with the clinking of porcelain. My father is already there, behind The Financial Times, a paper barrier separating him from me, from the world, from the reality he create






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