Chapter 3 — Where It All Began

Éric

I can't sleep.

The silence in the bedroom is almost oppressive. You hear nothing, except Clara's steady breathing, lying beside me. Or maybe she's pretending. Clara has this way of retreating without a sound, of slipping away without shouting, but her absence is felt like a silent slap. The sheet between us becomes a wall. An invisible frontier. A barrier I haven't crossed for weeks. Since her.

Jade.

Always her.

She haunts me. In my insomnia, in the corridors of my mind, in every vacant space of my body that Clara no longer touches. She's there, like a persistent echo. I close my eyes, and it's not memories of my marriage that come back. It's hers. Her laughs, her hands, her voice deep, slightly husky, that grain in her intonations that drills into my memory.

I let her in, worse: I called her.

And it all started eight months ago.

In Lyon.

A legal conference like so many others. Three days of flat presentations, unreadable PowerPoints, limp discussions on case law. I came out of obligation, to represent the firm. I dragged myself there without much motivation, convinced I'd return with more fatigue than interest. I was tired already. Worn out, actually. And then… her.

I remember it as if it were this morning.

The cocktail room was bright, almost too bright. Cold spotlights, beige carpeting, mechanical waiters passing between groups of jurists entrenched in their certainties. And me, alone by the wall, a glass in my hand. I watched faces without seeing them.

And she was there.

Leaning on the counter, a glass of red wine in her hand. No badge around her neck. No embarrassed air. She hadn't come to learn. She had come to disturb. She wore it in her eyes.

Her eyes met mine. There was nothing innocent in that look. Neither provocation nor submission. Just an evidence. As if she had been waiting for me. As if she knew what I had come looking for, even before I realized it myself.

Nothing flashy about her. A simple black dress, but devilishly fitted, slightly slit on the thigh, revealing a bare shoulder. Her skin was pale, but not fragile. Her mouth red, dazzling, like a promise. She didn't look. She trapped.

And me, like a fool, I fell for it.

I approached. Not to talk to her. Just to exist in her field of vision. Maybe so she would chase me away, maybe so she would devour me. I don't know what I hoped for. Or maybe I do. Maybe I already wanted to make a mistake. A real one. A mistake you choose in silence.

— You look as bored as I am, she said, without even turning around.

Her voice. It was a soft slap, raspy, almost too calm. An end-of-night voice. A voice you don't forget.

— I admit I've experienced more thrilling things, I replied, not hiding my smile.

— And yet, you stayed.

— Professional duty. And you?

She finally turned to me. Slowly. She planted her eyes in mine, and I had this strange feeling: she was reading me. Not like an open book. Like a verdict. Cold. Final.

— I came to see how far you would go.

I remember laughing. A nervous, surprised, troubled laugh.

— Sorry?

— Don't play naive, Éric.

She knew my first name. I felt a little shiver. Not of fear. Of excitement. Of vertigo.

— Have we met before?

— No. But I've read you.

She took a sip of wine without taking her eyes off me. And at that precise moment, I felt the ridge line. That line I should never have crossed.

But I did.

Her name was Jade. Jade Derval. She wasn't a lawyer. She wrote. Sharp articles. Online columns about power, the law, the hypocrisy of the elite. She had talked about me, apparently. She had dissected me without knowing me. And that night, she had decided to see if I was as conforming to what she had guessed.

I don't really remember the rest of the cocktail. Nor the handshakes, nor the exchanged cards. I only remember that sentence she breathed into my ear as she left, leaning against me, while I could already feel the warm perfume of her neck:

— If you come, don't knock, just enter.

She gave me the name of her hotel. An address. Not a room number. She knew I would come.

And I went.

It took only three hours for everything to tip over. For my body to forget Clara, for my wedding ring to cease being a promise and become a lie.

Jade wasn't gentle. She was burning, demanding, sensual. She took me like a challenge, pulled me into a vertigo I had never known. With her, it wasn't just pleasure—it was loss of control. She looked at me like a man she was going to undo. And I let her.

When I came home the next day, Clara was already asleep.

And I lied.

Like I still lie. Every day.

I turn over in bed. Clara breathes calmly. She's slipping away from me, she feels it. I still love her, I think. But not in the same way anymore. I've become multiple. Divided. In pieces.

I close my eyes, but Jade is there.

She returns, without shame, without remorse. Her laugh, her scratches, her silences.

She returns, because deep down, I never let her go.

And I'm no longer sure I want to.