The Mark of Chance••√•• Pure Love

chapitre : 17

The Quebec winter gave way to a timid spring, then to a generous, green summer. In the little white house, life had organized itself, taking on a gentle, circular rhythm centered on the belly swelling, round and firm, under Marina's hands. She often spoke to it, whispering secrets, hopes, promises. Sometimes, a little pointed bump, an elbow or a heel, would answer her palm, and a bottomless wonder would wash over her fear.

Paul was the architect of this nest. He had found remote work in IT, setting up his desk in a corner of the living room. His presence was never intrusive, always adjusted to Marina's fluctuating needs. He cooked comforting meals on days of fatigue, read aloud passages from parenting books when her eyes grew tired, and massaged her swollen feet in the evening without a word that wasn't gentle.

But pregnancy was an unpredictable hormonal cyclone. There were days when Marina, overwhelmed by nameless anguish, would cry for no reason over a bowl of soup. Others when irrational anger would seize her against Paul, because he put the cups away too noisily or breathed "the wrong way." She felt monstrous, ungrateful.

"Why do you stay?" she spat at him one afternoon, her face bathed in tears of rage and shame. "You see what I'm becoming! A hysterical witch! It's not even your child, you don't have to put up with this!"

Paul had set down the book he was reading. He didn't approach, knowing his proximity could, on days like these, be perceived as aggression. He simply met her gaze, calm, like a lake after a storm.

"I stay because this is where I want to be, Marina. Not next to the perfect, serene woman you think you should be. Next to you. The real one. The one who is afraid, who is angry, who is strong and fragile at the same time. Put up with? I'm not 'putting up' with anything. I'm sharing. It's different."

These words, repeated in different forms with each crisis, slowly made their way in. They eroded the shell of guilt she had built for herself. And in the crack, something else was germinating. A different warmth. A new attention to the way his blue shirt brought out the grey of his eyes. To the sound of his laugh, low and reassuring, when he talked to the neighbor's dog. To the absolute safety she felt when, asleep on the sofa, she would wake up covered with the blanket he had placed over her.

It was confusing, cluttered by the immense gratitude she owed him. Was it love? Emotional dependency? A transference of feelings she couldn't have for Chris? She didn't dare give it a name, afraid of tainting the purity of Paul's gift, afraid of fooling herself, afraid of everything.

One stifling summer evening, as they ate in silence, lulled by the song of cicadas, the baby moved with unusual vigor. Marina placed her hand on the rounded side of her belly, and without thinking, she reached her other hand towards Paul, laying her fingers on the back of his hand resting on the table.

"Here," she whispered. "He's having a party."

Paul froze, surprised by the contact. Then, slowly, he turned his palm over and welcomed her fingers. He gently placed his free hand on the belly she offered. They stayed like that, connected by this living bridge dancing between them. Marina felt a warm current run through her arm, different from the baby's kicks. It was soft, deep, and terribly frightening.

Their eyes met. In Paul's, she didn't read pity, nor simple friendship. She saw an ocean of contained tenderness, and a silent question, as vast as it was shy.

Marina's phone, on the table, vibrated.

The spell was broken. They withdrew their hands as if burned. Marina, her heart racing for a reason she wouldn't admit to herself, grabbed the device. It was an unknown number, French. A ball of ice instantly replaced the warmth in her chest.

The message displayed, short, and with a coldness that froze the summer air.

Unknown: Don't move anymore. I'm here. I will never leave you alone again.

The blood drained from her face. She let out a small, choked cry and dropped the phone as if it were burning. It bounced on the table with a sharp sound.

"What is it?" asked Paul, his face shifting from softness to maximum alert in a second.

Without a word, she handed him the phone. He read the message. His features hardened, his face closed like a prison door. All the softness accumulated over the past months was swept away by a soldier's vigilance.

"'I'm here,'" he read aloud, the words falling like stones into the silence. "'Here. In Quebec.'"

Marina wrapped her arms around her stomach, a nausea of pure fear twisting her insides. The refuge was no longer one. The walls of the little white house suddenly seemed made of paper.

"Chris…," she gasped. "It has to be him. He found the money. He found me."

Paul jumped up, scanning the room as if looking for an invisible enemy. He checked the lock on the front door, glanced out the window into the now-threatening night.

"Not necessarily," he said, his voice low and tense. "Léna is just as capable. 'I will never leave you alone again.' That could be a threat, not a promise. A way of saying: you won't escape me again."

The idea was perhaps worse. Léna, here, in their tranquility. With her hatred and her schemes.

"What do we do?" Marina whispered, her voice that of a lost little girl.

Paul came back to her and knelt before her chair, taking her hands. His hands were warm, firm.

"We don't panic. First, we block this number. Then, tomorrow, we go to the local police, with all the evidence: Léna's threats, the anonymous transfer, this message. We explain the situation." He squeezed her fingers. "And you're changing your phone number. Tomorrow."

"And… what if they're outside? If they're watching us?"

Paul followed her gaze to the black window. The moonless night was ripe for ambush.

"I'm not leaving the house," he said. "I'll sleep on the sofa, as usual. But I won't sleep deeply. Tomorrow, I'll install discreet security cameras. Motion detectors." He looked up at her, and in his eyes, she saw an absolute, almost savage determination. "No one gets near you, Marina. No one. Not him, not her. I promise you."

The promise was strong, but the message echoed in her head, sinister. I'm here. Someone had crossed the ocean. Someone had obliterated the distance she thought was saving.

The fear returned, familiar and icy. But this time, it didn't completely overwhelm her. Because beside her, there was Paul. The man who had just held her hand to feel their child move. The man whose eyes, a moment earlier, had shown her much more than friendship. The man who was now transforming into a guardian, ready to fight for her.

The confusing feeling she had for him morphed, in the urgency of the threat, into a certainty as simple as a heartbeat: she needed him. No longer just as a friend, but as a partner. An ally in wartime.

The sweet bubble of their summer had just burst. Outside, in the warm Quebec night, the enemy whoever it was had just announced its presence. And the real battle, the one for her child's safety and the fragile happiness she had begun to glimpse with Paul, was only just beginning.