Semua Bab Remember me naked: Bab 71 - Bab 80

LyraThe handcuffs dig into my wrists.Each step echoes like a slap. The floor of the police station is cold, slippery. The smell of plastic, metal, and dried sweat makes me feel nauseous.They make me sit in a windowless room.A chair, a table, a one-way mirror. And this harsh light that crushes your face like a spotlight in an arena.I say nothing. I can't. My throat is tight. My breath burns my lungs.I am here, sitting like a criminal.When I am the one who has been destroyed.I lower my eyes to my wrists. The red mark of the handcuffs. The chafed skin. I grit my teeth. Don't cry. Not yet.But it's stronger than me. I tremble.And the tears come.— Damn it…I close my eyes. But it flows anyway.I cry, I cry for real. I am not like her, Cassandre is a manipulator. I cry because I know: I know that I fell into her trap.I know I will pay for something I didn't do.And above all, I know that no one will believe me, neither the police nor the witnesses.Not even Alexandre, and that th

CassandraThe world returns in fragments.A white light, a steady beep, the smell of antiseptic. And this pain. This dull, deep pain, lurking in my belly like a wounded beast that has been attempted to be drowned, but still breathes. I float somewhere between two waters, neither alive nor dead, suspended, held on a leash by the IV drip and the sedatives.My tongue is paper, my lips cracked, I want to speak, but silence crushes me. I want to move, but my body betrays me, numb, heavy, as if each bone had been filled with lead.And then, a silhouette, first blurry, shadowy, then clear. Like a stroke of ink on a blank page.Alexandre, sitting there, next to me.His elbows propped on his knees. His face buried in his hands. His back hunched with exhaustion. Guilt. Worry. He is there, always there, I had anticipated it, I had wanted it. And he came. Like a faithful dog. Like a king who still believes he holds power.A shiver runs through me, but it is not fear, nor pain. No, it is

Lucas The silence that follows my declaration weighs like a guillotine. The flashes still crackle, blinding me, the journalists' voices unleash into an unbearable cacophony. But I hear nothing. At this moment, there are no microphones, no cameras. Only a name echoing in my head: Lyra. A movement catches my attention. A young officer, his face set in a worry he cannot conceal, approaches the commissioner. He whispers something in his ear. I see it. I see the commissioner’s face tighten, stiffen, as if a cold shadow has just passed over him. My instinct immediately begins to scream. I jump down the step. — What’s happening? I ask in a tone so sharp that the noise around us falls silent. The officer flinches, his eyes landing on me with a sickly hesitation. His lips tremble slightly. — Mr. Belval… we… we were about to transfer your sister to a secure room, as agreed. But… — But what? He takes a step back, as if my gaze is pinning him in place. — We… we found her… uncons

CassandraThe smell of hospital corridors is always the same: a mix of antiseptic, cheap medications, and fear that clings to the skin. The white walls, the flickering fluorescent lights like tired eyes, the hurried footsteps of nurses… Everything annoys me. Everything exhausts me. But tonight, there is something else. A tension that makes the air heavier, as if the entire building is holding its breath.I am sitting on the bed, my leg in a cast, my hair pulled back into a messy bun. The television mounted on the wall in front of me continuously broadcasts the news. The voices of the journalists form a background noise that I do not pay attention to. Until that name shatters the silence: Belval.My heart skips a beat. My fingers tighten on the rough hospital sheet. I suddenly lift my eyes to the screen.Lucas Belval.He is there, live. In front of a tide of microphones, cameras, flashes assaulting him like a storm. His dark suit, perfectly tailored, contrasts with his tense face, his

LucasI don’t know how long I stay there, frozen, listening to Lyra's irregular breathing, my hand tightly clasped around hers. Time dilates. All I feel is this overwhelming weight in my chest, this rage simmering, ready to tear me apart from the inside. I feel the burn rising in my throat, but I don’t let go. I can’t. Not now.I slowly pull out my phone. My fingers tremble, not from fear but from too many intertwined emotions: anger, worry, a pain I hadn’t anticipated. I find my parents' number and press it.Three rings. Then my father's deep, familiar voice:— Lucas?I grit my teeth.— It’s Lyra. She… she’s in the hospital, but…A heavy silence falls on the other end.— But what? my mother replies, her voice pale, already trembling.I take a sharp breath, unable to say everything in one breath.— She’s pregnant, three months along.A crash is heard on the phone, as if my mother dropped something. My father doesn’t speak right away. When he resumes, his voice has that steely tone he