Chapter 5

Chantelle returned home. Her small apartment, modest but warm, enveloped her like a reassuring cocoon. The walls, painted in soft tones, bore the imprint of her personality: small frames, a few plants, books piled on a cheap bookshelf. Nothing luxurious, but everything had a soul. Unlike her father's house, cold and imposing, here she felt at home. Safe. At peace.

She removed her shoes, sighed deeply, then let herself fall onto the sofa. She had barely placed her phone on the coffee table when a notification appeared on the screen. A message, unsigned. As always.

"Tonight, 11 PM."

She frowned. This was unusual. The man who bought her in the shadows was never in a hurry. He contacted her at spaced intervals, as if he wanted to maintain a cold, methodical distance. But tonight, he was calling her again, barely two days after their last encounter.

Something was wrong, but she went anyway.

At 10:50 PM, she left her apartment, like an automaton, movements precise, breath short, thoughts stifled. The streets were calm, dark, full of that complicit silence that envelops premeditated wrongs. A black car was already waiting, engine running, at the usual corner. As soon as she opened the door, a gloved hand reached out to hand her the blindfold. She tied it herself, slowly, docilely. The rules hadn't changed.

The ride was mute, dense, saturated with a dangerous calm. She saw nothing. Didn't speak. Asked no questions. As always.

The door opened. He led her in without a word, his hand firmly pressed against the small of her back. No tender gesture. No hesitation. She immediately recognized the woody, familiar scent. But tonight, it was different. Heavier. Almost suffocating.

He turned her around abruptly, pressing her against the wall. His hands roamed her body, but this was no caress. It was possession. She felt his breath against her neck, hot and rapid.

She gasped, surprised, tense, her palms flat against the wall.

— Wait... please... she murmured.

But he didn't stop.

What followed was a blur of sensation—intense, overwhelming, consuming. He was relentless, and she found herself lost in a haze of pleasure and confusion. She repeated "stop... please..." several times, but he continued, as if each gasp only drove him further.

And then, everything changed.

His rhythm slowed. His movements became gentler. He caressed her face, her throat, then kissed her—for the first time, on the mouth. Long and deep. Silent. When he took her again, it was without violence. Slow. Deep. His hands traced her ribs, her stomach. He wasn't taking anymore. He was cherishing.

She stopped fighting. She surrendered completely. She held him, her fingers still trembling, but calm now. He still didn't speak. But he stayed. And for the first time, she didn't want to flee.

She lost count of how many times he loved her that night.

He carried her to the shower. Later, they were in bed again. And again. At some point, she was above him. At another, his lips brushed the blindfold over her eyes. Then it all started again.

Her mind floated somewhere far from her body. She had lost all sense of time. She no longer knew if she had cried out. She no longer knew if there had been an end. Everything became blurry.

He said nothing.

And she asked for nothing.

She fell asleep without realizing it.

---

When she opened her eyes again, daylight was hitting the wall in front of her. She sat up with a start, heart pounding. She looked for a clock, a watch, her phone. When she finally found it, she felt sick.

12:42 PM.

— Shit... The lunch with that damned Paterne!

She got up hastily, staggering. Her body was sore, marked. Kisses, red traces, fingerprints on her skin. He had left his signature on her. A signature invisible to the world, but which she felt with every step.

She grabbed a long-sleeved black dress that covered everything. Put on makeup hastily. Tied her hair back to hide her neck. No time to eat. No time to think.

The Hotel Le Grand displayed its luxury without restraint: sparkling marble, crystal chandeliers, impeccably dressed waiters. Chantelle moved forward, her heart still heavy from the previous night, her heels echoing softly on the shiny floor.

At the reserved table, she saw him.

A shiver of disgust ran through her.

The man sitting there, dressed in a poorly tailored suit, a grotesque gold watch on his wrist, was short, bald, his eyes gleaming with a too-insistent light. His slimy smile stretched as he saw her approach, as if he had just spotted a much-anticipated dessert.