Mister Perfume

Between Legacy and Fire

Priscilla’s Point of View

His lips have left mine, but I still feel their burning imprint. My breath is short, my hands trembling, and yet I didn’t push him away. Then his words fall, heavy, irreversible: "I don’t promise you love. But I offer you… something casual. A way to sort out our feelings."

I freeze. Casual. The word echoes in me like a slap. It’s not what I want to hear, not what I believe I can accept. "You’re asking me to trample on my principles," I whisper, my voice shaking.

He doesn’t back down. His eyes burn, sincere. "I’m only asking you not to run."

I turn away, unable to hold his gaze. My heart races too fast. I want to say no, to stand up, to leave. But my legs refuse. Because despite myself, despite my anger, I feel the temptation.

He slides the card across the table, his fingers brushing mine one last time. His eyes still burn, but he says nothing more. "Tomorrow night," he murmurs, "I’ll be waiting for you at my place."

I lower my eyes to the card. It burns in my hand like a live coal. "If you come… I’ll know you’re ready to face this fire with me. That you’re ready to stop running. And if you don’t… I’ll know tonight was just an accident for you. That you chose to erase me."

His words strike me like a gentle blade. Not a threat. A truth. I close my eyes, my breath uneven. Everything in me screams to flee, to throw away this card, to never think of it again. But another voice, darker, more dangerous, whispers that I want to see him again. That I want to feel that burn once more.

I’m left alone, lost in my turmoil. Between my principles and my desire. Between fear and longing. Between shadow and fire. And I understand that tomorrow night, whatever I decide, nothing will ever be the same.

I leave the bar, Mathieu’s card burning in my hand. Each step echoes like an escape, but I know I’m not only running from him. I’m running from what I carry inside, what I refuse to face.

The night is heavy, and my steps drag me back home. When I open the door, the smell of alcohol and smoke hits me at once. Empty glasses litter the place, muffled music from a neighbor’s party still throbs through the walls. "Finally, you’re home," Meredith spits, sprawled on the couch, a bottle in hand. Her voice is hoarse, aggressive, like a slap. "You think you’re better than me with your serious airs?"

I froze, unable to answer. Anger rises, but so does the sadness I refuse to admit. "You think this is normal?" I say, my voice

trembling. "Drinking like this, going out every night, coming back drunk and forgetting everything?"

She bursts out laughing, a broken, almost cruel laugh. "Normal? Nothing’s normal, girl. Life’s a damn masquerade, so you might as well burn it to the ground. You should learn to have fun instead of judging me."

Her words cut like a blade. Fun. As if her excesses hadn’t destroyed pieces of me. "You don’t understand," I murmur. "You never did. While you drank, while you danced, I grew up alone. I carry your absences."

She straightens, her eyes shining with alcohol, her voice sharp: "Stop your drama, Priscilla. You think I asked you to play the martyr? You think I’ll apologize? Never."

I feel tears rising, but I refuse to let them fall. "And I… I never knew how to love you without breaking myself."

Silence settles, heavy, saturated with everything that was never said. Meredith looks away, takes another gulp, as if my words were just background noise. And I understand that this wound will never disappear.

Mathieu’s Point of View

I push open the heavy door of my house, and silence greets me as always. This mansion is immense, sublime, every detail breathing fortune and power. But behind these walls, there is only me. And this emptiness.

I cross the hall, my footsteps echoing on the marble. The chandeliers shine, rare paintings stare back at me, but none of it brings warmth. I rebuilt everything, regained everything. And yet, I remain alone.

I sit in the living room, facing the bay windows. The moon lights up the garden, but my mind is elsewhere. I think of her. Priscilla. Of that kiss she didn’t push away. Of the card I left her. Tomorrow night.

I know I gave her a choice. But in truth, I exposed myself. Because I had sworn never to fall again.

I recall my marriage. The wreckage. Everything I did for my ex-wife. The trips, the gifts, the sacrifices. And above all, what I neglected: the family business. The legacy my father entrusted to me. I let it collapse, blinded by the illusion of a love I thought eternal.

I remember the fights, the betrayals, the bankruptcy. I remember my father’s disappointed gaze, gone too soon. I carried that shame like a scar.

Today, I am a millionaire again. I rebuilt my fortune, brick by brick, deal by deal. I am ready to reclaim the company I lost, to wash away the humiliation, to finally honor my father’s legacy. "I must not," I murmur. "I must not fall again."

And yet, I already feel myself yielding. Because her eyes haunt me. Because that kiss marked me. Because, despite my promises, I want her.

I remember the day my wife left. I had already lost almost everything. The family business had collapsed, debts piled up, and I was nothing but a shadow of myself. The looks of my associates, the whispers in the corridors… everything reminded me of my failure.

She looked at me with icy contempt, her suitcases in the hall. "I didn’t sign up for this, Mathieu," she said, her voice sharp. "I won’t share your ruin."

I remember trying to hold her back, reminding her of everything I had done for her. The trips, the gifts, the sacrifices. But she no longer listened. "You lost your company, your legacy, your pride… and you still think I’ll stay?"

Her words pierced me. Because she was right: I had lost everything. But what I hadn’t understood was that I was about to lose her too.

She slammed the door, and I was left alone. Alone with the ruins of my marriage. Alone with the shame of betraying my father’s memory. Alone with the certainty that I was worth nothing.

That day, I swore never to fall in love again. Never again give a woman the power to destroy me.

And yet… Priscilla. Her eyes, her turmoil, that kiss she didn’t push away. She is a crack in my armor. A burn I hadn’t foreseen.

A Few Minutes Later

Steam still rises from the bathroom when I step out, a towel knotted at my waist. The hot water soothed my muscles, but not my thoughts. I walk down the corridor of my vast, silent home, each step echoing as a reminder: I rebuilt everything, but I remain alone.

I stop before the bay window in the living room. The moon lights up the garden, and my reflection in the glass throws back the image of a powerful man, but marked. Marked by Priscilla.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. My heart tightens instantly. FSJ. For weeks, I’ve been waiting for this message. For years,

I’ve dreamed of reclaiming what was torn from me. The export company. My father’s legacy. The pride I had lost.

I grab the phone, my fingers still damp. The message flashes, short, sharp: "It’s confirmed. The purchase is validated. Tomorrow, the company is yours."

I close my eyes. A shiver runs through me. I rebuilt my fortune, brick by brick, deal by deal. And tonight, I’ve recovered what I lost.

But in the midst of this victory, another image intrudes. Her eyes. Her turmoil. That kiss.

I clench the phone in my hand. I’ve reclaimed my empire. But she… she is the only thing I cannot control. "Tomorrow night," I murmur, "I’ll know if I truly win… or if I lose again."