Chapter 2 — The Game of Lies

Éric

I'm having trouble breathing. Not because I'm nervous—well, not only. It's this damn house. Lately, it seems to judge me. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every silence becomes a mute accusation. Even everyday objects the rug Clara loves, the ceramic vase we brought back from Siena, the curtains she chose so carefully remind me of what I've betrayed.

And tonight, I've added more poison to the air.

Jade.

When she got out of the car, in the rain, with that smile she knows how to dose so well… I felt my throat tighten. She is both my mistake and my temptation. My downfall, perhaps. But too late. She's here. And now, I have to manage. Find the unstable balance between audacity and caution, between what I show and what I hide.

Clara.

Her look when she saw us… I recognize it. It's not anger. Not yet. It's that sharp intuition, that kind of sixth sense women have when something changes. She doesn't know. Not precisely. But she senses. And that "sensing" is a thousand times more dangerous than a direct suspicion.

Women always sense. They read what isn't said. They track silence like others scent blood. And Clara… Clara is formidable when she doubts.

I tell myself I'm not a liar. That this isn't me, all of this. But I lie. And I lie well. Too well. It's become an art, a rhythm, a well-oiled machine. A steady gaze, a calm tone, a dose of manufactured tenderness.

— Jade is… my cousin.

It came out in one breath, almost effortlessly. I even managed to put a hint of awkwardness into it, as if I were ashamed to impose this presence on her.

Cousin. On my mother's side. It's vague, distant, perfect.

And yet, in the second that followed, I saw Clara's jaw tighten. Her gaze pierced me like a blade. She didn't interrupt me. She didn't ask questions. But she looked at me… really looked at me. And that's when I knew: she's piecing together a puzzle I thought was invisible.

I go up the stairs with Jade. Her bag in my hand. My "cousin," my mistake.

She climbs slowly, without hurrying. She glides her slender fingers over the banister, looks around like an inspector. She doesn't feel invited here. She acts as if she's coming home.

— It's charming here, she murmurs, a smile on her lips.

Charming. In her mouth, it sounds like a polite insult. She finds the place too square, too orderly. Too Clara. She never liked that. She prefers disorder, movement, instinct.

— You'll sleep here, I say, setting the bag down in the guest room.

She steps forward, circles the room like a hotel critic. Her gaze skims the white walls, the ironed bedding, the photo frame on the dresser (a photo of us two, Clara and me, in Lisbon… ironic sting).

— Looks like a Scandinavian decor catalog, she breathes.

She looks at me over her shoulder. That's when I smell her perfume. That sweet, deep, almost animal scent that makes me stupid. My stomach tightens despite myself.

— It's Clara. She likes things in their place.

She approaches. Slowly. Too slowly. And I know what she's doing. She's playing. As always. She likes to push limits, brush against the edges.

— And you, Éric? she whispers. Do you like it? When everything is in its place?

I could answer her. Make a joke. Say I like order, that it reassures me. But I say nothing. Because the truth is, I no longer know what I like. What I want.

I look at her.

And in her eyes, I see that familiar and dangerous thing: power. The one she has over me. The one I give her.

We don't touch. Not here. Not yet. It would be too soon. Too obvious. But she brushes my hand, softly. And that furtive contact is worth a thousand caresses. Because it's forbidden. And we both know it.

— Behave, I breathe, my throat tight.

She laughs. Softly. An almost tender laugh. And that laugh follows me when she closes the door behind her.

I go back down.

Clara is in the living room. Straight as a statue. Her teacup in her hands, but she's not drinking. She's frozen. I know her. She's thinking. Analyzing.

I sit next to her. Place a hand on her leg, as always. A learned, repeated gesture, without warmth.

— She'll stay a few days. Just long enough for her to get stable. She doesn't really have any bearings anymore.

She doesn't answer me. She looks at Jade, who has settled into the armchair. Perfectly at ease. Too at ease. She crosses her legs, observes the room, breathes in the atmosphere. She appropriates the place by her mere presence.

I feel trapped between two worlds. The one I built with Clara. Stable. Predictable. And the one I triggered with Jade. Instinctive. Wild. Uncontrollable.

— Cinnamon. I love it.

That sentence pierces through me.

I slowly turn my head. Clara does too.

Her gaze lands on me. Icy. Inquisitive.

She understood.

Cinnamon tea is hers. Her morning ritual. No one else drinks it here. I never offered it to Jade. And yet… she recognizes it. She names it.

I cough. An evasion.

— I'll get another log for the fireplace.

I flee. Literally. My heart pounds in my chest. I go to the garage, lean against the wall.

Fuck.

It's slipping away from me. Too fast. Jade plays too hard. Clara is too lucid. And me… I'm not up to what I've set in motion.

Later, Clara goes to bed. Without a word.

I stay in the kitchen. A long time. Staring at the tiles. Listening to the clock tick. Wondering how long I've been lying. And why I didn't stop. Maybe because, despite everything, I still love Clara. Or maybe because I'm afraid of her. Afraid of what she would do if she knew.

And Jade… she's an escape. An abyss. A hunger.

I go upstairs. Slowly. Like a condemned man.

Clara is lying on her side. Back turned. She breathes softly, or pretends to. I slip into bed. Her warmth barely reaches me. I reach out my hand. Place it on her hip. She doesn't move.

My heart clenches.

Jade is a few meters away. Upstairs.

And me, I'm here. Near a woman who still loves me, without knowing I'm destroying everything.

I'm trapped in a labyrinth I drew myself.

And what I feel tonight is neither triumph nor pleasure. It's vertigo.

A terrifying vertigo.