Lahat ng Kabanata ng Remember me naked: Kabanata 111 - Kabanata 120

ALEXANDREI watch her, sitting in the bath, her hair still damp, her skin slightly pink from the warm water. Every feature of her face, every curve of her body irresistibly draws me in. My heart races, but I know… I must wait. Her recovery, our little miracle to come… everything reminds me not to give in to urgency.And yet… I’m aroused, and I can’t hide it. My eyes briefly travel down her legs, her stomach, her arms, taking in those harmonious shapes that drive me crazy.Lyra raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile forming on her lips.— Well… I see you’re enjoying the show, she says in a tone that mixes mockery and amusement.I feel my face flush.— It’s not… I mean… I murmur, unable to find a credible excuse.— Oh, stop… You can’t hide it, Alexandre, she adds, bursting into laughter. Look at you! Even your eyes betray what you’re thinking.I restrain myself from groaning, but a nervous laugh escapes me despite myself. She’s right, of course. And I can’t blame her. Her laughter, that

CASSANDREI knew my threats would have an effect. All morning, I imagined the nurse returning, a bit ashamed, with a tray worthy of me: steaming pasta, a perfectly golden salmon fillet, a refined dessert. I was ready to forgive her.But when the door finally opens… it’s the same tray. Exactly the same.Gray mashed potatoes, steamed fish. Doubtful-looking applesauce.I blink. — Is this… a joke?The nurse, impassive, places the tray on the small table. — It’s lunch, madam.— Again with "madam…" I sighed, outraged. But this isn’t what I asked for.She gives me a neutral smile that reeks of forced diplomacy. — The doctor has given instructions for your diet. This menu is suitable for your recovery.I stare at her, incredulous. — The doctor? You mean… a man who doesn’t know me and thinks I’m going to survive on… this?She doesn’t respond, preferring to neatly align the cutlery. A pointless gesture, since I won’t touch it.— No, but seriously, I said, crossing my arms. Do you realize th

CASSANDREI had sworn to remain calm.To remain dignified.To be irreproachable, like a marble statue amid the tumult.A rock of composure, a model of elegance even in the storm.But there are limits.And those limits have just been shattered.It all started with that disgusting noise: the squeaking of the cart's wheels, a metallic, grinding sound that sliced through my skull like a rusty saw. It was her, of course. Always the same. The syrupy nurse, the one who serves me defeat on a platter under a veneer of concern.She approaches, placing her grim offering before me: a grayish mush, a steamed fish that reeks of resignation. I look at her, ready to bite, when she casually drops:— Mr. Alexandre is not here today. He went home with his fiancée.…A silence, then an immense void, a black chasm opening beneath my feet.I slowly lift my head, like a queen insulted in full throne.My voice is a scalpel.— What did you just say?She shrugs, impassive.— We were informed that he wouldn’t b

CASSANDREI hardly slept. First, because I was hungry all night (how can anyone seriously digest steamed fish?), and then because I replayed a thousand culinary escape plans in my head. None were viable.I had imagined:1. Corrupting the nurse with promises of an invitation to a starred restaurant. (Rejected in advance: her morals are as rigid as her bun).2. Simulating a dramatic relapse with convulsions and delirium. (Too exhausting to maintain for several hours).3. Attempting an escape through the window. (But I checked last night: I'm on the fourth floor. And I’m not Spider-Woman).Anyway, by morning, I was still sulking over my fate when the door opened.But it wasn't a nurse. Nor a doctor.No. It was two police officers. In impeccable uniforms, caps firmly on their heads, notepad in hand.I blink, mouth agape. — What… but… why are you here?The taller one speaks in a grave voice, as if announcing the end of the world: — Miss Cassandre Lefèvre? You must come with us.I cough

CASSANDREThe van smelled of rubber, rancid sweat, and… defeat. An unbearable odor for someone like me. The air was thick, saturated, almost tangible. Each breath felt like swallowing a cloud of dust and despair.I was sitting on a metal bench, strapped in as if I were a national threat (which, objectively, is true: I have brought down more men with a smile than any war). The vibrations of the engine shook the entire vehicle, and the chain attached to my wrists clinked with every bump like a funeral bell.The other passengers, "co-detainees," if one wants to be vulgar, were eyeing me from the corner of their eyes. One was chewing gum like a bored cow, her jaw keeping time to an invisible song. The other, as broad as a bulldog, sported tattoos that climbed her neck like brambles. She looked like she had won a scar contest. Me, I was dignified. The handcuffs on my wrists weren't chains; they were invisible Cartier bracelets."What did you do to end up here?" the gum-chewing cow shot at