I Surrender to Them のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 131 - チャプター 140

PAST — 11 YEARS AGOOLIVIERPARIS, FRANCE — PHYSIOTHERAPY CLINICMy muscles burn as if someone has driven needles into every fiber.I try to lift my right arm, but it trembles like an abandoned puppy in the cold. The physiotherapist — a woman with a persistent smile and merciless hands — holds my elbow, guiding the movement."One more time, Mr. Lefèvre."I swallow the bitter taste of effort and obey. The arm rises, centimeter by centimeter, until the tremor becomes uncontrollable and it falls back onto the mat like a piece of dead meat."Shit," I mutter, dripping sweat.Henri watches, standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed over his impeccable suit. He says nothing, but I see the tension in his jaw. Eight months ago, I could have lifted that same arm to drive a knife into a man's throat before he could blink. Now, I can barely hold a glass of water."You're making progress," the physiotherapist lies with professionalism.I give a smile that doesn't reach my eyes."Of course I

PIERRE DUMONTMy tongue still burns with the taste of her—a mix of red wine, bitter lipstick, and that unmistakable tension she insists on keeping between us, as if I couldn't feel, in every ragged breath she tries to disguise, how much she wants to give in.But she doesn't give in.Not yet.And that's what fascinates me.I watch as she cuts the filet with precise movements, her fingers steady, but her breathing still uneven—the same breath that caught when my tongue scraped the corner of her lips. She didn't moan, didn't pull back. She just stopped, as if her body had forgotten, for a second, how to function.And I loved that.Now, we eat in silence, the air between us charged with everything left unsaid. She avoids my gaze, focusing too much on her plate, as if that piece of meat were the most interesting thing in the world. I let her. I know when to press and when to retreat—and now, she needs a false sense of control.As soon as we finish lunch, I put away the leftovers with preci

PAST - 10 YEARS AGOPARIS, FRANCE – OLIVIER'S MANSIONTwo years.Two years inside that white prison, breathing the same sterile air, hearing the same silence broken only by the noise of machines and the distant footsteps of nurses.Two years being treated like an invalid, a corpse that stubbornly refused to rot.But now I'm home.My mansion on the outskirts of Paris is silent, almost ghostly. The curtains remain closed; the bulletproof glass filters the sunlight, turning it into something pale and harmless. There are no servants, no visitors. Just me, the walls, and the ghosts that have accompanied me since that night.I walk slowly down the main hallway, my ebony cane striking the marble with a hollow sound. My body is not what it was—it never will be—but I no longer tremble as before. I no longer fall.The living room is exactly as I left it. Books organized by order of importance, not alphabetically. The grand piano, covered by a cloth, waits for hands that still lack the strength

PIERRE DUMONTThe week felt like an eternity, each day dragging my anxiety to new heights. Sending the message to Elizabeth about our weekend plans was a step I let echo in my mind, accompanied by the idea of a contract outlining our relationship—something purely physical, without emotional entanglements. I waited anxiously for this day to arrive. The Rolls-Royce Phantom glides silently along Rue de Rivoli, its Italian leather seats enveloping us in a luxurious embrace. Elizabeth watches Paris pass by the window, her long fingers tracing invisible patterns on the darkened glass. The reflection of the city lights dances in her green eyes—two deep lakes where I would willingly drown.Antoine reserved a table for us at Le Grand Véfour, one of the oldest and most exclusive restaurants in Paris, where Napoleon and Victor Hugo once dined. The place breathes history, with its gilded mirrors, delicate frescoes, and a reverent silence that seems to muffle even the sound of silverware against f

PIERRE DUMONTThe bathroom steam still clings to my body as I step out, the towel wrapped around my waist and my hair dripping over my shoulders. I expect to find her in bed, between the sheets, perhaps still asleep or already awake, smiling at me with that look that leaves me breathless.But the room is empty.I put on the first pair of shorts I find, not bothering to dry my hair. I go down the stairs in long strides.I hear music coming from the kitchen.And then, the smell. Golden butter. Cinnamon. Fresh coffee.I reach the kitchen, and there she is.Elizabeth.With her back to me, wearing only one of my shirts—a navy blue silk one. The sleeves cover half of her hands, the thin fabric outlining the curve of her hips as she sways slightly to the rhythm of the music coming from her phone. A messy bun leaves golden strands falling over her nape, and for a moment, I stand at the door, forgetting how to breathe.She's… dancing.Not one of those rehearsed dances, but those small, intimat