All Chapters of Cinq Ans Trop Tard : Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

The ballroom at the Weyland Tower glittered like it was trying to apologize for something. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across marble floors so polished I could see my own reflection staring back at me. Two hundred of New York’s elite sipped champagne that cost more than my monthly rent used to. A string quartet played something soft and forgettable in the corner, the kind of music meant to fill silence without anyone actually listening.And on the stage, my husband was talking about EBITDA.Damian Weyland. CEO of Weyland Group. 32. Worth 4.2 billion dollars. And he looked exactly like the man I married five years ago. Sharp jaw. Dark hair always a little messy like he’d run his hands through it after a long day. That navy suit tailored to his shoulders made him look dangerous even when he was talking about quarterly reports and shareholder value.The MC tapped the mic. The sound echoed. "And now, a few words from our host, Damian Weyland."Applause. Cameras flashing. Th

"Carter & Co." The gold letters on the glass door still made my chest tight every time I saw them. My firm. My name. No "Weyland" attached to it. No one’s last name but mine.Six months. That’s all it took to go from a laptop on my kitchen table to a 2nd floor office in SoHo with 12 clients and 4 employees. It wasn’t Weyland Group money. But it was mine."Ms. Carter?" My assistant Maya poked her head in. She was 24, bright, and the first person I’d hired. "The Weyland Group meeting is at ten. They specifically requested you."I froze, pen halfway to my notebook. Ink bled a little dot on the page. "Weyland Group?""Yeah." She grinned, completely unaware of what those two words did to me. "The CEO’s office called personally. He said he wanted ‘the best interior designer in the city’ for the HQ redesign. I told them that’s you."The best. After five years of silence. After papers sitting unsigned on his desk for six months. After I’d walked out and told him not to call."Okay," I

3:14am. My phone lit up the dark. Harsh white light across my ceiling.Unknown number.I almost ignored it. Rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head. Then it rang again. And again.On the fourth ring I answered, heart already pounding. "Hello?""Elena." His voice was rough. Tired. Like he’d been awake for days. "It’s me."My chest tightened. "Is everything okay? Is someone hurt?"A long pause. I could hear him breathing. In my apartment. In the dark. "No," he said finally. "No one’s hurt.""Then why are you calling me at 3am, Damian?"Another pause. Longer this time. "I... I went through our wedding photos today. For the first time.""Why?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted."Because my assistant asked if I wanted to digitize them or throw them out," he said. "And I realized I don’t remember the last time I really looked at you. At us."I sat up in bed. The sheets were tangled around my legs."The photo of us cutting the cake," he continued. "City Hall. You’re laughi

Le siège du groupe Weyland était silencieux à 23 heures. Un silence pesant. Un silence tel que le bourdonnement de la climatisation semblait presque imperceptible. Je n'aurais pas dû être là. Mais le conseil d'administration voulait le projet final de rénovation du hall d'entrée sur son bureau pour vendredi, et seule Elena de Carter & Co pouvait valider les documents. Damian m'avait envoyé un courriel à 21h47 : « Le client en a besoin ce soir. Pouvez-vous venir ? Je serai dans mon bureau si vous avez besoin de quoi que ce soit. – D. » Pas de « s'il vous plaît ». Pas de « désolé ». Juste des faits. Un jour à la fois. À partir d'aujourd'hui. Je me répétais que j'étais là pour le projet, pas parce qu'il était dans l'immeuble. Le 42e étage était tout en verre et en acier. Mes talons claquaient sur le marbre tandis que je marchais vers la salle de conférence transformée en salle de crise. Des plans étaient étalés sur trois tables. Des échantillons de pierre, de tissu, de bois. Mon