Chapter 2

The next morning, Chantelle woke with a heavy body, laden with fatigue and uncertainty. She sat up slowly, took her phone in trembling hands, and opened the Notes app. Her fingers mechanically typed: twelfth time. These words resonated deeply within her, heavy with meaning.

She placed the phone on the small table beside her, ready to move on, when suddenly a notification sounded. Curious, she looked up at the screen and a fragile smile illuminated her tired face. A bank transfer of 8,000 euros had just been credited to her account.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. This gesture, as discreet as it was, brought her a bit of comfort amidst the chaos.

She sat back down, still under the effect of this surprise, then opened W******p. She searched for a number she had never dared to dial before. Hesitant fingers typed a simple word, charged with gratitude: Thank you.

She paused for a moment before pressing "Send." It was the first time she had taken the initiative to write to him. Until now, their exchanges had been limited to the places he indicated to her, always in the shadow of night and silence. This time, it was different.

She got up and headed outside to take a taxi to the hospital.

She stopped in front of a glass door. The sign read:

"Dr. E. Wood, Attending Physician." She breathed in softly, knocked.

— Come in, a calm voice called from the other side.

She entered.

The office was sober, tidy, bathed in light filtered by half-open blinds. Sitting behind his desk, a young man, barely thirty, looked up. He wore thin-framed glasses, and his white coat was impeccably ironed.

— Dr. Wood, she said simply, taking a seat across from him.

He nodded with a professional smile.

— Miss Chantelle?

— Yes. I've come to settle the fees for my grandmother's hospitalization. She placed the envelope on the desk. Eight thousand, as agreed.

The doctor looked at her for a moment, perhaps surprised to see her return so quickly with the sum.

— That's very good. It will allow us to move things along. He opened a drawer, took out a file, and began to scribble a few words.

— We're going to start with a series of in-depth examinations: a brain scan, a complete blood test, and a neurological evaluation. The comatose state is stable, but we want to rule out any edema or slow bleeding. He looked up. Then we'll adapt the treatment plan based on the results.

Chantelle slowly nodded.

— How long for the results?

— Between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. He paused. I won't hide from you that the prognosis will depend mainly on her reaction in the coming days. But now, at least, we have the means to do something.

She pressed her lips together, holding back the emotion in her throat.

— Thank you. Her voice was low, but sincere.

— You can go see her. She won't wake up today, but... sometimes, hearing a familiar voice can help. Even unconscious, the brain picks it up.

She nodded again.

— I'll go by. Just for a moment.

She picked up her receipt, slipped it into her bag, and left without another word.

Behind the glass, her grandmother's silhouette appeared tiny in that large hospital bed. Wires emerged from her frail arms, connected to a monitor that emitted a regular beep. An IV dripped slowly, as if it were counting the seconds in her place.

Chantelle stood frozen.

She placed a hand on the glass.

— Grandma... she breathed through the glass. Her voice broke.

She didn't cry. Not here. Not now.

But she felt a dull tearing in her chest.

— I'm here. I'm doing everything I can. Hold on... please.

She stayed there for a few more seconds, her gaze fixed on that motionless face, then straightened up before leaving the hospital.

Chantelle got into the taxi, silent. Destination: her father's house. Tonight, her stepsister's fiancé was supposed to come to dinner for the first time, and Gérard had insisted that she be present.

Arriving in the upscale neighborhood, she briefly observed the large, well-aligned villas behind their automatic gates. In front of hers, her father was waiting.

— Chantelle, welcome, he said in a dry tone.

— Thank you, she replied, trying to pass.

He stopped her.

— I'm honored that you're here. I think your sister Mégane and your stepmother will be very pleased.

— I came only because you insisted. You wouldn't stop yelling in my ears. Nothing here interests me today.

Without another word, she entered the house.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, a woody scent reached her. The interior was impeccably decorated: polished marble, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, modern furniture in beige and gold tones. But all of this became blurry, insignificant, the moment her eyes landed on the man sitting on the sofa.

He was there, as if emerging from an icy dream.

Tall, with a straight and elegant posture, legs crossed nonchalantly. His carefully styled black hair contrasted with the pallor of his skin. An angular jaw, symmetrical features, a thin but firm mouth. His eyes, a pale gray almost translucent, seemed to survey the world with glacial indifference. He wore a three-piece anthracite suit, tailored, without the slightest imperfection. A handsome man. But with a distant beauty. Untouchable. Almost intimidating.

She stood frozen for a second, caught off guard.

It was at that moment that Rhonda, her stepmother, arrived at a brisk pace, perched on her stiletto heels, a dazzling smile plastered on her face.

— Ah, there you are at last! she said, gently taking her arm, as if they were the closest in the world.

Then, she turned towards the seated man:

— Let me introduce your future brother-in-law, the CEO of the Wilkerson Group. Mr. Collen, this is Chantelle, my husband's youngest daughter.

Chantelle felt her stomach knot.

The Wilkerson Group? That's where she worked. She had never seen the president, never known what he looked like. He was known for staying in the shadows, never appearing at any event, delegating his affairs to subsidiary directors. She could have crossed paths with him without knowing who he was.

And now, she discovers him... here, in her father's house, under the label of "brother-in-law."

She swallowed her surprise, forced herself to remain dignified, upright. Her voice, calm and distant, cut through the silence:

— Mr. Collen.