Todos os capítulos de Remember me naked: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

AlexandreShe collapses in my arms without warning, like a weight of fevered silk. My first instinct is to push her away. She smells of alcohol, chaos, urgency. And yet, I stay there. Her fragile body fits against mine with disarming familiarity. I should be disgusted. I am. But not in the usual way. Not with the cold repulsion I feel for women who are too easy, those who throw themselves at the first rich man like heat-stricken dogs. She is different. I really look at her for the first time. And I freeze. This dress too demure for this bar. This clumsy makeup. Those disheveled, almost childlike hair. And that gaze… My God. That gaze. Clouded by alcohol, but not empty. A gaze that implores, that seeks an anchor. One last chance to feel something. To be seen differently. — You’re truly beautiful, she murmurs, gripping my collar, her voice thick. How much do you want… to spend the night with me? I feel my temples tense. — You’re looking for a man? Like this? Stumbling? — Obviously…

LyraThe neighborhood reeks of resignation.The walls are covered in mold, leprous, blackened by time. The windows barricaded with boards or plastic sheeting tremble in the wind. With each step, my heels sink into cracked asphalt, soaked with dirty water. Torn trash bags lie in front of the stairwells, and a starving cat slinks between my legs with a growl.I move forward, my gaze low, my limbs still numb from that night when I gave everything, lost everything, regained everything.I ascend the stairs. The smell of rancid frying, damp laundry, and poorly digested anger envelops me immediately. In our home, nothing breathes. Nothing shines. Not even love.I open the door. It creaks as always.Cassandre is there. Slumped on the old brown couch with torn armrests, a cup of coffee in hand. Hair tangled. The look of a queen in a rotten kingdom.She shoots me an angry glance, eyebrows furrowed:— Where were you yesterday? You didn't come home! You must have ended up with that wild guy!Her

LyraI have never seen a house so big.I stand frozen on the threshold, my mouth slightly open, unable to take another step. My gaze catches on the ceiling, the floor, the walls, as if I were searching for a flaw, a hint that all of this is just a theater set. But no. Everything is real.The floor shines beneath my feet. White marble, streaked with golden veins. So pure, so perfect that I fear to soil it with my worn shoes. The walls rise high, a creamy white bordered with finely carved woodwork. And the chandeliers… Lord. Cascades of crystal hanging, capturing light and scattering it into thousands of stars around me.I do not dare to touch. I do not even dare to breathe too hard. I feel like if I move suddenly, everything will collapse. And I will find myself back where I was yesterday: that gray alley, that dirty kitchen, that life without light.— Come in, my dear. You are home now, whispers the woman beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.Home.Those two words strike ha

LyraThe dry click of the handle abruptly pulls me from my concentration.The office is shrouded in a muted semi-darkness. Light filtered through the blinds casts pale lines on the walls, and the discreet ticking of the clock heightens the sense of urgency. Lucas and I are hunched over a tangle of documents spread haphazardly on the presidential desk. Time-stained sheets, unreadable stamps, anomalies too numerous to be coincidences. A crossed-out pay slip, an unsigned transfer, medical records that don’t match the files.Everything reeks of concealment.And we shouldn’t be here. Neither in this office nor in this truth.I quickly close the file we were examining, sliding it into a slightly ajar drawer. My hand trembles slightly as I push aside an ink-stained notebook. Barely enough time to pretend we belong here before the door slowly opens, as if reluctantly. The air seems to freeze.Two silhouettes appear in the doorway.And my heart stops.It’s him:The man from that night. The one

CassandraLying is a second language. An alternative breath. A skill I learned very early, just as others learn to walk.As a child, I was that docile girl, hair neatly pulled back, knees pressed together, voice always too low. I was praised for my calmness, my impeccable demeanor. But no one loved me. Not really. I was dressed like a porcelain doll, fragile and silent, placed on a shelf without ever being spoken to. No one asked me how I felt. They demanded that I be silent, that I please, that I smile. Always.So I learned.That a well-placed glance was worth more than a scream.That a sweet smile, finely sharpened, could cut more surely than a knife.And since then, I have never told the whole truth. At least, never completely.When I met Alexandre for the first time, I knew.Not what I wanted. Not really.I didn’t know if I desired him, or if I just wanted to… have him.To possess him. To add him to the long list of my victories.Perhaps both.He had this strange calm, this silent