《The Wife I Betrayed Twice》

Chapter 6: Sign My Name

I barely slept that night.

The luxury of the Foch Avenue restaurant seemed to cling to my skin. Back in Montmartre, the cold walls and paintings in the corners of my small but familiar apartment made me feel anything but safe.

The contract, on my small wooden table, like a red-hot iron, I dare not touch, but can not look away from the top.

I thought over and over about what Lucas de Noaye had said, his cold eyes, his businesslike tone. . . “A deal”, “For a year”, “To meet all my requirements”... ... and these words rolled in my head, forming a vast web of humiliation, and wrapped around me.

I went to the window, pushed it open, and the cold late-night air rushed in, dissipating some of the tightness in my chest. Downstairs, the streets of Montmartre have quieted down to a sprinkling of dimly yellow streetlights. It is noisy, chaotic and even a bit run-down, but it is free. I can breathe here, Paint Here, be Celeste Martin here.

Once that contract is signed, Will Celeste Martin still exist?

I picked up an old photo frame on my desk. Inside was a picture of me and Anthoine, with my late adoptive parents, Martin and his wife. It was taken in Lyon's home, the sun was shining, and everyone had a smile on their face. Foster parents are such kind people, they gave me a home, gave me the name“Celeste” and a new life. As they died, I held their hands and promised to take care of Anthoine.

But Now?

Anthoine lay frail in his hospital bed, his heart slowly losing its vigor. The doctor's words were still ringing in his ears. “The operation can not be put off any longer, Miss Martin. We mean, preferably within the next week. Moreover, the current hospital equipment and specialists... ... perhaps you should consider a transfer to George Pompidou European Hospital, where Professor Henri Étienne Sainte-claire Deville is the leading authority on the subject, for a fee .... ..”

Fee. Another expense. It is like an invisible mountain, which has been pressing on my back for three years, let me breathless. I've been painting, picking up scraps of speech, and even going to restaurants to wash dishes, but the money I've saved is a drop in the bucket compared to the huge surgery and rehabilitation costs.

Lucas de Noaye offered more than money. The best medical team, the best time to operate, the best hope for Anthoine's survival.

Dignity? A Dream?

In the face of Antoine's life, they seem so pale, so luxurious, even. . . ... So selfish.

Can I bet my so-called dignity on Antoine's chances of survival? I Can't.

The tears came without warning, not a grievance, but a deep, helpless sadness. For the Freedom I'm about to lose, for the ego I must trample, for this cruel, choiceless life.

I sat back down at my desk and shivered as I opened the contract.

The terms are cold and detailed. It establishes my obligations: to live in a place designated by him, not to leave or have intimate contact with others (especially men) without permission, to cooperate with his social needs at all times, and“To ensure that Mr. Noaye's reasonable personal needs are met”. It also lists his obligations to pay Anthoine's full medical and rehabilitation costs, to provide food, clothing and shelter for me, and to pay a seven-figure“Compensation” when the contract expires.

What a fair trade. With a clear price tag, Buy My Life for a year.

My eyes fell on the blank space at the signature. They need to sign Celeste Martin. The name carries the love of my adoptive parents and twenty-two years of my life as an individual. And now it's about to be sold.

I picked up the pen, the nib hanging over the paper, as heavy as death.

I think of Lucas de Noaille's grim face, of him looking through me at someone else. I'm just a shadow, a substitute. For the next year, I will live in the shadow of a dead woman, which is more frightening than any physical torture.

“Sister...”

I thought I heard Anthoine calling me. He was too young, too young to die.

Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and let two lines of scalding tears fall beside the signature on the contract.

The Nib of the pen falls.

It took almost all my strength, to control the tremor in my wrist, to write my name, Celeste Martin, in that blank space, stroke by stroke.

The handwriting was a little askew from the shaking of my hand, not as smooth as my usual signature. It's like a brand, a proof of submission.

After finishing the last letter, I seemed to be drained of all strength, slumped in a chair, the hands of the pen rolled to the ground, issued a clear sound. It's over. From this moment on, I no longer belong to myself.

At ten o'clock the next morning, my cell phone rang on time. It's Lucas's assistant.

“MS. . Martin, Mr. Noaye asked me to inquire about your decision,” said the voice on the other end of the line, as calm and unemotional as ever.

I looked at the signed contract on the table. My throat tightened. It took me a moment to say, “I. . . agreed.”

“Okay. Please have the signed contract ready. In an hour, I'll arrive at your place to pick you up and your luggage. Mr. Noaye would like you to check in today. The transfer of your brother, Mr. . Anthoine, has been initiated in parallel, and he will be taken to the George Pompidou European hospital this afternoon, under the personal responsibility of professor Henri Étienne Sainte-claire Deville.”

The efficiency is really high. It's frighteningly high.

Hang up the phone. I'm looking at this tiny apartment. It was filled with all the remnants of my life -- unfinished paintings, stray sketches, cheap paint, ticket stubs for movies I'd seen with Anto. ... where I used to dream of the future, of having my own show in some small gallery.

For now, it's all on ice.

I started packing. I don't have many things, a few simple changes of clothes, some toiletries. I hesitated, but put my sketchbook and a set of regular brushes in my suitcase. Painting is my only spiritual sustenance, I can not abandon it.

Finally, I picked up the family photo, wrapped it carefully in a soft cloth and placed it on the bottom shelf of my suitcase. It's the only proof I can take of“Celeste Martin.”.

An hour later, there was a polite, regular knock on the door.

I opened the door and Lucas's assistant was standing outside, followed by a uniformed man who looked like a driver.

“Miss Martin, are you ready?” The assistant's eyes flicked to the tiny suitcase at my feet.

I nodded and leaned over to let him in.

He picked up the contract, took a quick look at the signature and put it in a briefcase. The driver silently lifted my suitcase.

“Let's go,” the assistant gestured.

I took one last look at the small space that held so many memories, then turned and closed the door. The click of the latch seemed like the end of an era.

Downstairs was a sleek, imposing black rolls-royce, out of place in the literary atmosphere of Montmartre. Passers-by cast curious or envious eyes, they will not know that the car to pick up, is a signed contract of the soul.

The assistant opened the door for me. I bent down and settled into the impossibly soft leather seat, which smelled of cold wood, like Lucas de Noaye.

The car drove smoothly out of Montmartre. Through the dark windows of the car, I watched the familiar cafes, painting shops, laughing couples gradually away, and finally disappeared in sight.

I didn't cry. The Tears had run dry last night.

At this moment, I was left with only a kind of numb calm, and a fate of unknown, deep fear.

We crossed the Seine and headed for the heart of Paris's power and wealth, an area I'd never really set foot in. I don't know what awaits me, but from the moment I put my name to the contract, Celeste Martin's story has turned a completely different page.

And this page is destined to be filled with shadows and struggles.

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