로그인Élianor
I leave the room, his delirious yet painfully accurate words echoing in the silent corridor. Women who return. My mother, a ghost in a poisoned man's mind. Myself, returned to this valley I had fled. The man you're harboring. Marcus, also returning, to claim what, in a way, belongs to him.
I am caught in a net woven by past and present, by madness and truth.
---
Marcus
I watch her leave from the chalet window. She w
ÉlianorThe last car has disappeared down the gravel driveway, carrying with it the smell of fear, discreet sweat, and the sour perfume of defeat. The silence that settles in the grand ballroom is heavy, laden with the echoes of the words I hurled like knives, and the polite murmurs that followed, as false as flowers on a grave.I am alone in the center of the room, the chandeliers extinguished one by one by Martha. Alone, except for him.Marcus has not moved. He is near the cold fireplace, a silhouette cut out against the deepening twilight. He says nothing. He observes. Always. This man observes as others breathe. And his silence, tonight, is heavier than all the hostile stares I faced.Triumph should be a warm liquor in my veins. It is only cold sand in the pit of my stomach. I won. I saw necks bend. I saw shame tinge glances. I forced "regrets" between clenched teeth. And yet… the void.The first to sign, Antoine de
I take a step. Marcus moves in mirror, a ghost at my side."You might have thought it was just childhood. Carelessness. I know it was cowardice. Yours. And that of your parents, who let it happen."I stop before the Desmarais. He, his face congested, tries to hold my gaze. In vain."Your business is on the brink, Monsieur Desmarais. Your dairy smells of despair and mold. Without my contract, what will you do? Sell to whom? To me, for a pittance. Or to a foreign consortium that will lay everyone off."His wife emits a small sound, a stifled sob."I could save you. But why would I? Why would I show a compassion you systematically denied me? Do you remember the Harvest Festival, eight years ago? Your nephew 'accidentally' pushed my chair as I was sitting down. I fell. Heavily. And you laughed. All of you laughed."Memory is a scalpel. I sink it in, slowly, and I turn. I cite dates, places, exact phrases. I resurrect every humiliation, e
"Absolute power does not consist of striking, but of suspending the moment when the blow could fall. And making that known. It consists of transforming the tormentor into a willing spectator of his own fear. And the victim into an eternal judge."ÉlianorThe gun room is a secret chamber, at the heart of the Hammond house. Here, my grandfather kept his hunting rifles and trophies. Tonight, it is here that I arm myself. The dress is not a choice; it is a declaration of war. Black silk, heavy, cut like the uniform of a forgotten regiment. It does not shimmer. It absorbs light. Before the antique mirror with its tarnished gold frame, I do not see a woman. I see a principle. The principle of cold, calculated vengeance, served on a silver platter.My hands do not tremble as I apply the makeup. They are steady, surgical. The lipstick is the only color, a gash of vivid blood on the marble of my face. The chignon is so tight it pulls at the skin on m
ÉlianorI leave the room, his delirious yet painfully accurate words echoing in the silent corridor. Women who return. My mother, a ghost in a poisoned man's mind. Myself, returned to this valley I had fled. The man you're harboring. Marcus, also returning, to claim what, in a way, belongs to him.I am caught in a net woven by past and present, by madness and truth.---MarcusI watch her leave from the chalet window. She walks toward her car, back rigid, but her step is less assured than on the way there. The hospital took something from her. Or gave her another burden.My fingers brush my cheek. The mark has disappeared, but the memory of the contact is indelible. The violence of her hand. The earlier softness, far more devastating.The cell phone on the table vibrates. My contact at the hospital. A terse message."Condition stable. Marked mental confusion. Paranoid delirium. Police questionin
ÉlianorThe hospital smells of antiseptic and anxiety. A scent that clings to the skin, to clothes. I walk through corridors under sickly lights, my step too quick, my heart a block of ice that refuses to melt. The memory of the kiss, of the scene in the kitchen, spins in my head like a furious swarm. I need to cling to something concrete, dark but familiar. A father's betrayal is ground I know. Better than the disorienting ground of a desire that betrays me myself.My father's room is a white and blue cell. He lies there, smaller than in my memories. Tubes snake from his arm. A machine emits a regular, monotonous beep, proof of life. His complexion, yesterday waxy and livid, has regained a more human pallor. His eyes are open. They follow me when I enter, but they are glassy, clouded. The poison has done its work beyond the body."Élianor… Is it you?"His voice is hoarse, worn, but there is a note of astonishment, of… happiness? It is disco
ÉlianorThe hospital smells of antiseptic and anxiety. A scent that clings to the skin, to clothes. I walk through corridors under sickly lights, my step too quick, my heart a block of ice that refuses to melt. The memory of the kiss, of the scene in the kitchen, spins in my head like a furious swarm. I need to cling to something concrete, dark but familiar. A father's betrayal is ground I know. Better than the disorienting ground of a desire that betrays me myself.My father's room is a white and blue cell. He lies there, smaller than in my memories. Tubes snake from his arm. A machine emits a regular, monotonous beep, proof of life. His complexion, yesterday waxy and livid, has regained a more human pallor. His eyes are open. They follow me when I enter, but the gaze that greets me is no longer that of animal panic from last time. It is the calculating gaze, weakened but present, of Hervé Hammond."Élianor."His voice
ÉlianorLilou shakes her head, clinging to a more concrete logic.— But we must come from someone. We have eyes, hair… Léon has black hair, I have blonde hair like you, Mom. So… maybe we don't have the same daddy?The question,
SabrinaHer fingers are still tracing lazy circles on my back. Sweat is beginning to dry on our skin, creating a thin, salty film that sticks us together. The silence is heavy, satisfied. Then his voice breaks the spell, low and curious."And Liora? How is she?"I smile, burying my face against his
LioraFive years.Five years of watching the slow demise of the printing press, counting unpaid bills, smiling until my jaw ached. The club's air is unchanging: a scent of stale wax, old wood, and muffled despair. I stand straight, hands flat on the back of an armchair
ÉlianorWhite.An immaculate, gentle white that wraps around everything. It is the first thing I perceive. An absence of color, of weight, of cold. A diffuse, soothing light.Is this what heaven feels like?I have never truly believed in heaven. Hell, yes I know it well. I have walked through it. B







