Chapter 1 — The Door of the Unknown

Clara

The sky is low, heavy like my tired eyelids. A fine rain traces gray veins on the windows of the French door, blurring the view of the impeccably manicured garden that I myself planted over the years. Every flowerbed, every bush has a story. Hours spent digging, watering, shaping… to make this house a cocoon. My cocoon.

Nothing is left to chance here. Not the cushions rigorously aligned on the pearl-gray sofa, not the white linen curtains I wash every fortnight, not even the scent of cinnamon and smoked wood lingering in the air since I relit the candle near the fireplace. Everything here speaks of me. Of us. At least, that's what I believed.

I glance at the wall clock. 6:47 PM. Éric is late. Again. The little second hand seems to dance with a mocking grin. I've stopped asking him questions. I know the answers: "a meeting that ran late," "the ring road was jammed," "a colleague in trouble." Always something. Always a reason. And yet… this slow drift between us, I feel it, like you feel a tide rising without even hearing it.

I get up for the fourth time in ten minutes, go get a glass of water that I don't drink, then come back to the living room where everything seems frozen. Even time. Even me.

Then, the sound of an engine in the driveway. My heart skips a beat.

I approach the window. It's him. His car. I smile, despite myself. An old reflex of a woman in love, conditioned. But very quickly, that smile fades. He's not alone.

I freeze, my hand still on the curtain.

A silhouette gets out of the vehicle. Slender. Feminine. I squint. It's dark, the rain blurs the view. But I can make out her gestures. Slow. Precise. Calculated.

And then, he walks around the hood to open the car door for her.

Éric never opens the car door for me.

She gets out, pulls out a rolling suitcase. Not some old, shabby bag, no. A new, elegant model, camel leather. She adjusts it with a graceful hand gesture. Then she lifts her head.

I finally see her clearly.

She is… superb. Too much so. The kind of beauty that disturbs, that enters a room and immediately draws all eyes. She has that kind of perfect skin that no rain seems able to tarnish. Her face is made up just enough. Her brown hair waves indolently over her shoulders. She doesn't seem tired, or even out of place. On the contrary, she seems perfectly in her place, as if she knew she was going to enter here. As if she had prepared for this moment.

I slowly step back from the curtain. A shiver runs through me. Not from cold. From unease.

The door opens abruptly. The damp air rushes into the entrance.

— Honey! I'm here!

His voice is louder than usual. Forced. He wants to sound natural, relaxed. He fails.

I approach, my footsteps echoing on the too-silent parquet floor. My gaze slides over her. She observes everything. The walls, the paintings, the soft lighting… and me.

— Clara, meet Jade, says Éric, placing a hand on her shoulder.

That hand… it lingers a second too long. Jade. The name clicks softly between his teeth. Almost tenderly.

— Jade is… my cousin. On my mother's side. Distant, but family nonetheless, you see?

I don't say anything right away. My brain grapples with this information. A cousin? What cousin? He never mentioned her to me.

— I don't remember you ever telling me about her, I say, my tone calm but acidic.

He smiles. Too wide. Too fake.

— We reconnected recently. F******k, family research… She's going through a difficult time, she needed a place to land. I thought we could host her for a few days. She's family, after all.

He speaks quickly. His eyes avoid me.

She, on the other hand, stares at me. She extends her hand.

— Thank you for having me, Clara. It's really generous.

Her voice is soft, polite. But there's that note. That little something I can't quite name. Not provocation, no. Something more subtle. A way of testing my reaction. Of sizing me up.

I shake her hand. Firmly. Harder than I should. She doesn't flinch. Her gaze holds mine, without blinking.

She smiles at me. Not an embarrassed smile, nor a grateful one. A calm smile, almost amused.

I know that look. That look of a woman who knows what she's doing. Who enters a house knowing perfectly well what she's come for.

Éric bends down towards Jade's bag.

— I'll show her the guest room. Would you mind waiting for us in the living room?

I nod.

He disappears with her up the stairs.

I remain alone in the entrance hall.

And there, in this sudden silence, something cracks. Not a fear. An intuition.

She is not his cousin.

She is something else.

Something I can't yet say out loud.

But that I already feel biting under my skin.

I take refuge in the living room. Sit down, cross my arms. I stare at the fire in the fireplace, struggling to catch. The wood crackles faintly, like a distant breath.

The parquet creaks upstairs. Low voices. A burst of feminine laughter.

I close my eyes.

When they come back down, Éric comes and sits next to me. He places his hand on my knee. Automatic gesture. Empty.

— She'll stay a few days. Just long enough for her to settle a bit. She has no one left in the area. And it makes me happy to help her.

He looks at me, searches for my reaction.

I give him nothing. My face is frozen.

— Of course, I say simply. One doesn't refuse family.

Jade sits in the armchair opposite. She crosses her legs, straightens her back. She observes every corner of the room. A predator analyzing its new territory. She doesn't say it, but she's already at home. Or rather… she acts as if I were the guest.

Silence settles in.

Long. Thick. Uncomfortable.

She takes a sip of the tea she made for herself without asking. She smiles, recognizing the flavor.

— Cinnamon. I love it.

I look at Éric. He avoids my gaze.

And there, I understand.

Something is not right in this story.

An invisible door.

And on the other side… there is the truth.

And it's going to hurt.