The Mark of Chance••√•• Pure Love

chapitre : 16

The days following Paul's departure were a strange waltz. The solitude, first crushing, gradually became space. Marina grew accustomed to the house's creaks, the crackle of the old radio she left on to fill the silence, the precise route to the grocery store where the baker, named Élise, was starting to recognize her and slip an extra pain au chocolat into her bag with a wink.

The nausea, persistent, marked her mornings. She had made a first appointment with a town doctor, a Dr. Lambert with a paternalistic smile who had examined her with a kindness that had nearly made her cry. Everything was fine. The heart was beating. A little bean on the ultrasound screen, blurry and miraculous. She had kept the photo in her apron pocket, touching it several times a day like a talisman.

It was in this state of vulnerability mixed with fragile determination that she received the transfer. The alert on her new phone chimed as she was trying to understand the instructions for a Quebec-style coffeemaker. She opened her banking app and was stunned. A large sum, a very large sum, enough to cover several months of rent, food, everything, had just been credited to her account. No reference, just a source account number she didn't recognize.

Her first instinct was immense relief, immediately followed by an intense warmth in her chest. Paul. It could only be him. He had said he would sort things out, that he would take care of her. This sum was his silent, discreet way of telling her he was watching over her, even from afar. That he was keeping his promise. She didn't even bother to send him a message to confirm. She was too moved, too filled with a gratitude that tightened her throat. She simply whispered "Thank you" into the kitchen's silence, eyes closed, imagining his calm smile. This tangible proof of his support gave her new strength. She was not a burden. She was… taken care of. Protected.

When Paul arrived a week later, it was on a day of sleet, a fine, icy rain lashing the windows. She heard him before she saw him: the sound of an engine in the driveway, hurried steps on the porch. Her heart leapt. She opened the door before he could ring.

He was there, slightly hunched against the rain, a travel bag in hand, melted snowflakes silvering his short hair. He looked tired, but his smile upon seeing her was so broad, so sincere, it lit up the dim entrance.

"You're here," he said simply, as if it were the most extraordinary thing in the world.

She invited him in, suddenly shy. The house, which she had begun to decorate with green plants and cushions bought at the flea market, suddenly seemed shabby to her. But Paul seemed to notice none of that. He set down his bag, took off his dripping coat, and his gaze swept the room before settling on her.

"You look well," he said, and she knew he was lying gently, but the lie was sweet.

He had brought provisions: tea from his mother, books, a thick, soft blanket "for the cool evenings," and a small box wrapped in gift paper.

"For the baby. Well, for you, for now."

It was a small music mobile to hang above the crib, with wooden birds that turned. A delicate object, full of tenderness. Marina held it in her hands, her eyes misting over again.

"And the transfer…," she began, her voice choked with emotion. "Paul, it's too much. Way too much. I don't know how to thank you."

A shadow of confusion passed over Paul's face, so fast she almost missed it. He slightly narrowed his eyes.

"The transfer?"

"Yes, the money you sent last week. For everything. The rent, the groceries…"

Paul froze. He looked at her intently, and worry replaced the confusion.

"Marina… I didn't make any transfer. Not yet. I was going to do it this week, once I was here, to open a practical joint account."

Time stopped. The hum of the radio, the patter of rain on the roof, everything disappeared. Marina felt the floor give way beneath her feet. The little wooden bird slipped from her fingers and rolled limply onto the floorboard.

"It… it's not from you?" she whispered.

"No." His voice was grave, tense. "Show me."

She grabbed her phone with a trembling hand and handed him the screen. Paul examined the statement, his face closing off as he understood. The sum was colossal. Anonymous. A financial cannon shot in the silence of her exile.

"Who else has your bank details?" he asked, his voice low.

"No one! Well… my bank in France, of course. But I changed them before leaving. Only you… and the rental agency here have the new details." A terrible, icy thought crossed her mind. "Unless…"

She didn't finish her sentence. They looked at each other, and the same horror painted itself on their faces.

Chris.

Could Chris have found her? Léna? But how? And to what end? A payment for her silence? An attempt at remote control? A perverse form of guilt?

"We need to contact the bank," Paul said, pragmatic, but the tension in his jaw showed he was as panicked as she was. "Ask for the source. Refuse the funds."

"No." Marina's response was sharp, surprising even herself. "Not yet."

"Marina, that money… it might be a trap. A way to track you."

"Or it's a means to survive without having to depend solely on you," she retorted, a sudden anger in her voice. An anger against the unknown, against this invisible hand that had just shattered the precarious balance she was starting to build.

She stood up and walked to the window, wrapping her arms around herself.

"If they found my account, they know where I am. Or they could find out. Sending it back might provoke them. Challenge them." She turned back to Paul, her face pale but determined. "I'll keep it. This money. I won't touch it. I'll leave it there, in that account, as proof. As a… war trophy. But I'll know it's there. And they'll know that I know."

It was a dangerous game. Irresponsible, perhaps. But Marina felt that backing down now would be to capitulate. Accepting this money, even if poisoned, was a form of power. It was the recognition, however twisted, that her child, that she, had value. A price.

Paul looked at her, seeing the fragile woman transform into a protective lioness. He understood he couldn't make her change her mind.

"Alright," he said finally, sighing. "But we open another account tomorrow. An account I'll fund. And we'll set that money aside. At the slightest sign, the slightest problem, we block it. And you promise me you'll tell me everything. Every unknown call, every strange feeling."

She nodded, grateful for his presence, for his unwavering support, even in the face of this new threat.

That night, as Paul slept in the small living room he had turned into a guest room, Marina stayed awake. The rain had stopped, giving way to a night sky of deep blue, studded with unknown stars. She placed a hand on her stomach.

"You see, little one?" she murmured. "Even here, the past follows us. But we are stronger. We have an ally. And we have their money now."

A joyless smile touched her lips. The refuge she thought she had found had just revealed a flaw. A breach through which the shadow of her past life could still infiltrate. But instead of terrifying her, this thought hardened her.

The next morning, making coffee, she caught Paul discreetly examining the outside of the house, checking the locks, the windows. He met her gaze and gave her a reassuring smile, but she saw the vigilance in his eyes.

They had entered a new phase. The fortress phase. And the first assault had not been a shout or a threat, but a silent transfer, a financial time bomb placed on the threshold of her new life. The quietude was over. The shadow war had just begun, and the first blow had been struck from across the ocean, by a hand she could not yet identify, but whose weight, cold and determined, she could already feel closing in around her.