Fleur

I entered the building, walked up the five flights of stairs because the elevator had been busted since I moved in, and then got my key in the lock. The door opened, and I entered my small apartment, the one-bedroom flat with a kitchen that also served as a laundry room. I flicked on the light switch and then gave a small jump at the sight of the man sitting in the armchair like a goddamn gargoyle. “Jesus…” I gave my keys a squeeze before I tossed them on the table and set my purse down. “I told you to stop doing that.”

He continued to sit there with his elbows on his knees, his shoulders broad in his jacket, his eyes down on his fingers as he gripped his phone. It took him a moment to lift his chin and look at me, his hazelnut eyes full of self-loathing. “If you don’t want me here, then pick up your fucking phone.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Adrien.” It was nearly two in the morning, but the City of Lights still had people on every corner, riding their bikes to the opposite side of town or smoking in the cafés downstairs. Au Pied de Cochon was right near my apartment, one of the few restaurants in Paris that basically never locked their doors or turned off their lights because it was open almost twenty-four hours. I’d eaten there a couple times after my shift, but mostly just to wind down with a cigarette.

He rose to his feet, in dark jeans and a leather jacket, raindrops visible on the material like it had sprinkled on him during his walk from the car. He left the green armchair and came close to where I stood by the round dining table, which held a vase full of flowers that I’d grabbed from the market yesterday. “I found a marriage counselor⁠—”

“I don’t want to go to counseling,” I snapped. “I want a divorce.” I’d asked for a divorce the moment I’d discovered his infidelity, a treason he didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself. But he’d made that request impossible to grant. Made me jump through endless hoops, just to get rejected by the court—because he’d paid everyone off.

“We’re Catholic. We don’t believe in divorce⁠—”

“So you fucked around under the assumption I would never leave?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t want to make this marriage work. I’m a fine piece of ass who doesn’t need this shit. I want a man who keeps his word and is so brutally honest that it’s almost cruel. You are not that man, Adrien.”

The anger flickered across his face, but he tightened the reins on his rage. “I made a mistake. I told you it wasn’t an affair. She meant nothing to me.”

“But she was worth your marriage?”

His nostrils flared, but he still didn’t yell like he normally would. “There was a lot of shit going on at work and I had too much wine to drink, and she came on to me. I had a moment of weakness. I’m fucking human.”

I rolled my eyes. “More like a Neanderthal.”

His desperate eyes were locked on mine. “I said I was sorry about a million times.”

“I don’t want an apology. I want a divorce. I want you to stop popping up in my apartment like you still own me.”

“You’re still my wife⁠—”

“Fuck you.”

He drew in a slow breath and closed his eyes briefly. “You wouldn’t be this angry if you didn’t still love me.”

“I’m just an angry person, Adrien.”

“You’re a passionate person, Fleur. There’s a difference,” he said. “It happened once, and it won’t happen again. I will do anything you want to make this work because, despite what you think, I love you with everything I have.”

I stepped away because I didn’t want to look at him anymore. Rain started to pelt the windows and the skylight above the kitchen. The curtains were open, and the light from the lampposts illuminated the city and the wet pavement in the rain.

“Fleur.”

I kept my back to him.

“I’ll never give you a divorce. Every time you submit your paperwork, the judge will deny it. You will never remarry because your marriage to me will remain intact. The only way I’ll lift those restrictions is if you try to make this work.”

I continued to look out the window.

“If you work on this marriage with me.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, and I felt the cold from the windowpane. I could see my reflection as a faint outline. The city below was so beautiful, but it was hard to appreciate it when I felt so low. I never shed a tear in front of him. I turned to the feeling that was the easiest to feel—which was anger. “Were there others?”

“No.” His answer was quick, almost too quick.

I turned around and faced him, studying his hard eyes. His hair was dark like espresso, and his eyes were warm like hazelnut. His Italian ancestry was visible on his skin, and he spoke both French and Italian, one of the things that had attracted me to him. Marriage was such a profound experience that changed everything, and my marriage had left all kinds of scars. Even when we were so far apart, I still felt attached to him. But I didn’t want to be attached to him. “Were there others?”

His eyes flinched slightly when I asked the question again, a subtle hesitation. “No.”

I studied his face, searching for a hint of a lie and unsure how to decipher what I saw. But I knew that I shouldn’t even have to ask the question, that I shouldn’t have to wonder if it was a lie or the truth. “I need to think.”

“There was no one else⁠—”

“I need space, Adrien. Stop blowing up my phone and lurking in my apartment like a goddamn stalker so I can have two seconds to think.” I turned back to the window and watched a water drop streak to the bottom and disappear.

He lingered for a moment, his eyes hot on my spine, but then his feet eventually shifted and he left the apartment, taking as long as possible, as if I might ask him to come back.