《The Wife I Betrayed Twice》

Chapter 5: The Devil's proposal

I sat in a taxi and watched the streets of Paris flit by, from the cluttered but life-filled 18th arrondissement to the fabled 8th arrondissement, with its glitzy lights and pricey spaces. The heart beats uncontrollably in the chest, and the palms of the hands sweat with tension.

Last night, the man named Lucas de Noaye, his assistant handed me a solid black business card with just a gold-plated name and a number, and a restaurant on Ferdinand Foch Avenue. His tone was incontrovertible: “Miss, Mr. Noaye will be waiting for you here at seven tomorrow evening.”

I don't have a choice. Anthoine's pale face and the Doctor's icy urging, like two whips, drove me toward this unknown, possibly humiliating date.

The taxi stopped in front of what looked like a private residence. The waiter, in his crisp uniform, pulled open the door for me, confirmed my name, and respectfully ushered me in. It was eerily quiet, with a carpet soft enough to drown out all sounds, and the air smelled of expensive cigars and a touch of vanilla. We passed through a gallery of classical paintings and stopped at a heavy carved wooden door.

The waiter silently opened the door and made a“Please” gesture to me.

The room was small but luxurious. There was a small table in the middle, by the window, with Lucas de Noaille's back to me, looking out at the night. He turned, still in his perfectly tailored dark suit, his ice-blue eyes in the dim light like a frozen lake, without any heat.

“Sit down,” he said in a low, impersonal voice.

I sat across from him, clasping my hands under the table, trying not to shiver. The table was set with fine silver cutlery and Crystal Cups, but I felt they gleamed like torture devices.

He didn't speak at once. He just looked at me with that scrutinizing eye, as if he were evaluating a product. This silence is more difficult than any questioning.

“Mr. Noaye,” I ventured, breaking the silence. “You wanted to see me?” I knew it was a silly question, but apart from that strange stare, there shouldn't be any overlap.

Instead of answering directly, he picked up a brown paper bag on the table and pushed it in front of me. “Celeste Martin, twenty-two. Born in Lyon, adopted by the Martin. His adoptive parents died in a car accident three years ago, and he is raising his congenital heart defect brother, Antoine Martin, alone. He now lives in Montmartre and sells paintings on the street, with a very precarious income and a lot of debt.”

His tone was even, as if he were reading a perfectly ordinary report, but every word stuck like a pin in my heart. My Life, my embarrassment, everything I desperately wanted to hide and protect, there was no escape in front of him.

A chill ran from the soles of the feet to the top of the head. “You're investigating me?” My voice trembled with anger and a touch of fear.

“Of course,” he said, leaning forward, his icy blue eyes locked behind me, “Getting to know someone is the most basic step before I make any offer.”

“Offer?” I catch the word, more anxiously.

“Yes, a deal,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “I need a girlfriend for a year. And you need money, a lot of it, to save your brother's life.”

In spite of my premonitions, I felt a twinge of vertigo and intense humiliation when the words came out of his mouth so bluntly and so starkly. My cheeks burst into flames.

“To be your. . . lover?” The word came almost through my teeth.

“You can understand that,” he said. “During the year, you will be required to live in my house, to accompany me to necessary social occasions, and to meet all my requirements.” He paused, then added, “In private, of course.”

The businesslike tone of his voice embarrassed me more than mere desire. It was as if it were not a physical transaction, but a commercial contract on which he had already drawn up the terms.

“Why me?” I heard my dry voice asking. “Because I look like your. . . old friend?” I remembered his dreamy name, Emily.

His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, and then grew more profound. “It doesn't matter. What matters is whether you accept the deal.”

He picked up another, thinner folder at hand, opened it, and shoved it in front of me. It was a list of the estimated costs of a medical plan, followed by a long string of zeroes that stung my eyes. At the bottom of the list is a signed warranty agreement promising to cover the cost of Antoine's surgery and any subsequent rehabilitation, signed by Lucas de Noaye.

“It's a down payment and a gesture of good faith,” he said, leaning back in his chair and regaining his former aloofness, “If you sign off, tomorrow your brother can be transferred to the best cardiovascular hospital in France with a team of top specialists. You Don't have to worry about any of the costs.”

Great Temptations, like Sirens' songs, ring in my ears. Anthoine is saved! The thought almost instantly destroyed all my hesitation and self-esteem.

But I forced myself to look up at him. “SO. . . a year from now?”

“The contract is terminated, you and I are square,” he replied crisply. “You will be compensated enough for the rest of your life and your brother's, and you can go wherever you want and start a new life.”

What a generous offer. I would trade a year of my freedom and dignity for Anthoine's life and the safety of our future. It sounds like the best deal ever.

But why does my heart hurt so much? I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, on the hope of saving my loved ones, a step that would plunge me into an unknown, possibly unrecoverable abyss.

I looked down at my slightly gnarled fingers from years of painting and at the cheap but comfortable dress in the Montmartre Sun. Once you nod, that girl Celeste Martin, struggling to pursue her independence and her dreams, may actually be dead.

“I. . .” My throat seemed to be choked with something.

He seemed to see my struggle, but he was not in a hurry, just waiting patiently, or indifferently, for my reply. Like an experienced hunter, he had already laid the trap, knowing that his prey had no choice.

I think of Antoine's weak smile at me from his hospital bed. I think of him holding my hand and saying, “Sister, don't work too hard.” I think of the doctor saying, “The sooner the better, or...”

I Can't lose Antoine. He's the only family I have left in the world.

Dignity, dreams, freedom... ... In the face of life, seems to become light.

I took a deep breath and raised my head with all my strength to meet his unperturbed eyes.

“I. . . Need to see the contract,” I said softly, with a hint of fatalistic determination.

A faint, almost imperceptible emotion passed under his eyes, as if he had expected satisfaction. He raised his hand slightly, and his assistant, who had been standing like a shadow by the door, immediately stepped forward and placed before me a thick, formal contract that had been prepared.

“I'll give you one night to think about it.” He stood up and looked down at me as if in control. “Give me an answer at ten tomorrow morning.”

He left the room without saying goodbye.

I sat alone in that suffocating luxury space before a contract that would determine my fate. I reached out and ran my trembling fingers across the cold paper cover. There was no title, just a blank page, like the years I was about to enter, with no future in sight.

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