Lahat ng Kabanata ng Remember me naked: Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

CASSANDRAI have been awake for a long time.But I keep my eyes closed.I breathe slowly, deeply, like an actress waiting for her cue. The sheet still wrinkled beneath me, the silence of the room, the bland smell of hospital products… everything is calm.Too calm, but it’s not the calm of comfort.It’s the calm of emptiness.Alexandre is not here.He should have been here.Sitting by my bedside, fingers tightly clasped around mine, eyes wet with anxiety, voice trembling. He should have begged me to forgive him. To stay strong. To endure a little longer, for both of us.But there is nothing.No breath, no word.Just this absence.And I know, without being told.He is with her.I smile.Slowly, coldly, like one smiles at the moment when the last piece of a Machiavellian plan falls into place.Because he doesn’t know.He knows nothing of what I have done.Of everything I have destroyed to have him for myself.Of everything I have risked to erase Lyra from the equation.I orchestrated eve

LYRAThe door gently closes behind Dr. Legrand, carrying away the weight of gazes, the tension, the suspended doubts, the analyses awaiting, and leaving behind only a vibrant silence, a calm breath, and the two of us, gathered in a parenthesis where nothing else seems to exist but the warmth of this moment, the breath of this man a few centimeters from me, warm, slow, anchored, like a thread stretched towards the light.I dare not turn my head, not just yet, for fear of breaking this fragile miracle, as if his gaze could still consume me, dissolve me, or worse, extinguish, disappear.But he is there, Alexandre, so close, so solid, his hand firmly linked to mine, his body anchored next to mine, like a rock standing in the still wavering universe, he says nothing, does not move, and yet I feel with every breath that he holds a hurricane of words, a storm of emotions, a fear always ready to burst forth, he who, not long ago, looked at me as one looks at a specter, distant, frozen, almost

RaphaëlI don't think.My fingers dial the number as if it were an emergency, as if calling could turn back time, piece together the fragments of a past I've never been able to hold in place, as if hearing a voice, just one, could calm what has been screaming inside me since everything collapsed, this nausea that clings to my throat, this hatred I drag with every step, this morbid need to understand why, how, to what extent I was allowed to walk in the dark, believe in half-truths, build myself on emptiness.One tone, then two and three.And then this familiar voice, tired, distorted by something I can't immediately identify.— Hello?I sit up straight, as if stung, and the anger, this anger that I tried to bury under shame, rises to the surface all at once.— You knew, didn’t you? You knew about her. You knew who she was. And you said nothing.Silence.Not the silence of doubt, no. The one that weighs, that measures, that waits to see how far I'm willing to go.Then a sigh. An annoye

CASSANDREThe light is dimmed, soft, almost unreal. The sheets smell of chemical lavender and recent disinfection. The nurse came an hour ago, checked my vital signs, gave me a polite smile before closing the door, as if everything was fine, as if I were an ordinary patient.I am lying on my side, one hand resting on my stomach. Empty. But nobody must know that.Not yet.He will come. Alexandre will come. It took him some time, yes. But he must have been shaken, obviously. He needs to understand, to process.He was lost, confused, manipulated. But I am here. I am the one who loves him. The one who stayed when everything was collapsing. The one who protected his name, his image, his reputation. The one who erased Lyra Belval as one cleans a festering wound.He will thank me one day.I caress the blanket, in a slow, almost feline gesture. Everything is ready. The speech. The tears. The tale of pain. Of loss. The victim is me. It’s always me.Time passes.I look at the clock on the wall.

DANIELI stand there, frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, as if her words had nailed me to the ground, as if her voice, in its trembling fragility, had suddenly illuminated everything, shattered everything, disarmed everything.Lyra did not scream, she did not beg, she spoke as one bleeds, slowly, painfully, in silence, but with a truth that leaves no room for pride, no room for anger.I ache inside my chest, that dull pain that cannot be relieved, that regret that clings to the throat, that bitter remorse of not having seen, not having heard, not having been there at the right moment.And I finally understand.I understand that I did not come for her, not really, not entirely. I came for myself. To save what little hope, dream, of what we could have been, as if I could fix everything with a word, a presence, a glance, as if she still belonged to me a little, somewhere.But she does not belong to me.She does not belong to us.And I have to say it.I take a step toward her, slowl