The Mark of Chance••√•• Pure Love

chapitre : 18

The money had returned. Like an obstinate tide, the same exact amount had flooded Marina's account again. This time, there was no anonymity. The transfer identifier was clear: C. Durand. Chris.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Paul and Marina stared at the screen, silent. It was no longer an abstract threat, an elusive "they." It was a name. A signature. An admission that burned their eyes.

"Is he mocking us?" Paul murmured, his voice laden with cold anger. "Does he think he can buy silence? That he can settle this like a debt?"

Marina didn't answer. She stared at the name. C. Durand. Three syllables that summed up all her nightmares and, secretly, a part of her most buried desire. It wasn't Léna. It was Chris. Chris knew. Chris was acting.

"This is too much, Marina," Paul declared, standing up, resolute. "We change everything. Now."

He spent the afternoon running around. A new SIM card, a fresh Quebec number, unknown to everyone except him, the doctor, and the baker Élise. Then he took her to the bank, where he opened a new account in the name of Marina and "Vasseur, child to be born." A clean account, with no history, which he funded with his own savings.

"This one," he said, handing her the card, "is yours. Chris's... we leave it. But we don't touch a cent. It's poisoned money."

But the poisoned money was a signal. And the signal had been received.

A few days later, on an afternoon when Paul had gone out for quick groceries they were out of milk and bread the doorbell rang. Marina, who was sorting baby onesies, jumped. Paul had his key. Élise? She wasn't expecting anyone.

Heart pounding, she approached the door, glancing through the peephole.

And the world stopped.

Chris was there. On her little wooden porch, in the golden late-afternoon light of Quebec. He seemed taller, thinner, his features drawn by a fatigue that wasn't just from jet lag. He wore a simple dark coat, hands shoved in his pockets. His gaze, those grey eyes that had troubled and frightened her so much, were fixed on the door as if he could see through it.

Paralyzed, she watched him. Then, with a slow, trance-like movement, she turned the key and opened the door.

They stood facing each other for a moment, separated by the threshold, separated by months of silence, by an ocean, by a child. The air between them was electric, charged with everything that had never been said and everything that had just happened.

"Marina," he finally said, his voice hoarse, worn.

She couldn't find words. She took a step back, tacitly inviting him in. He crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. His gaze swept the modest living room, stopping on the pregnancy armchair, the bird music box, the little knitted booties on the coffee table. He saw the nest. The nest she had built without him.

Then his gaze dropped to her belly, so round, so obvious under her summer dress. A wave of shock, mixed with stupefaction and raw emotion, passed over his face. It was one thing to know. It was another to see.

"Léna... she threw it in my face during an argument," he said, as if answering the silent question in Marina's eyes. "She was... beside herself. She spat it all out. The towel. Your pregnancy." He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to chase the image away. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. Not like that. Not that it was... possible."

Marina finally found her voice, a fragile thread. "The transfers... that was you."

"Yes. It was all I could do. The only gesture I could make without her... without her completely exploding." He took a step forward but stayed at a respectful distance. "I couldn't abandon you. Not to that. Not with... with my child."

The word "my" resonated in the room, heavy and dangerous.

"He's not yours, Chris," said a cold, clear voice behind him.

They both turned at the same time. Paul was on the threshold of the front door, left ajar, a grocery bag in his hand. His face was a stone mask. He must have heard them.

"He is Marina's," Paul continued, entering and setting down his bag with terrifying calm. "Period. You signed your abdication the day you let her leave alone, pregnant, under your wife's threats. The money is dust. It buys no rights."

Chris turned livid, his fists clenching. "You... who are you again? The knight in shining armor? She needs support, not a bodyguard!"

"She needs peace!" Paul thundered. "And you, you are the storm. You and your wife. What did you come for? To throw a little more chaos into her life?"

That's when the silhouette appeared in the doorway, blocking the light.

Léna.

She was there, elegant and venomous in a wrinkled travel suit, her gaze sweeping the scene with the icy satisfaction of a predator who has finally cornered its prey. She must have followed Chris from the airport.

"Of course," she whispered with a terrible smile. "The little threesome. Touching."

Marina instinctively recoiled, both hands flying to press against her stomach, a shield of flesh against the venom glittering in her sister's eyes.

"Chris, my dear, you run so fast when it comes to her," Léna said, advancing, her contempt enveloping her husband like a shroud. "You're pathetic. You think your money can buy you a clear conscience?"

Then she turned to Marina, and her smile widened, cruel.

"And you, Marina. Have you no dignity? I told you to disappear. To take care of your bastard son alone. But no. You need a man, is that it? Mine not being enough, you're collecting them now?"

The word "bastard" struck the air like a whip. Chris growled: "Léna, enough!"

"ENOUGH?" she screamed, turning on him, all restraint gone. "Enough of your pretenses? Enough of your eternal love for this little goody-two-shoes? She's carrying your bastard, Chris! The fruit of your sick obsession! And you're here, playing the repentant father? You're nothing but a coward. A coward who didn't even have the courage to touch her to make his child!"

The insult was so vile, so precise, it stole everyone's breath. Marina was trembling all over, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, her hands clenched so tightly the knuckles were white on her stomach. Protect. Must protect.

Paul had physically interposed himself between Marina and Léna, his broad back forming a shield.

"Get out," he said in a low voice vibrating with contained fury. "Both of you. Now."

"You have no right here," Léna grimaced.

"I have more right than you," Paul shot back without flinching. "I'm the one who's here, every day. The one who supports her without destroying her. The one who loves this child unconditionally. So get out. Before I call the police for trespassing and harassment."

Chris looked at Marina over Paul's shoulder. In her eyes, he no longer saw the confused tenderness of the past, nor even anger. He saw an animal terror, and a mother's determination that chilled him. He also saw, behind her, the nest she had built with another man.

"Marina... I...," he attempted.

"Leave, Chris," she said in a broken whisper. "If you have any of the love you claim to have for me left... leave. And never come back. The money... keep it. We don't want it."

It was the final blow. Chris lowered his head, defeated, less by Paul than by the absolute despair in Marina's voice. He took Léna by the arm, who resisted for a moment, throwing Marina one last look laden with promised hatred.

"This isn't over," she breathed.

Then they disappeared, leaving behind a silence as heavy as after a m******e.

When the door closed, Marina collapsed into Paul's arms, sobs shaking her violently. He held her close, murmuring soothing words, his own hands trembling slightly from adrenaline.

The sanctuary had been violated. The ghosts of the past had crossed the ocean and rung the doorbell. But they had left. And in the crucible of this confrontation, something had been sealed. Paul's loyalty. The definitive break with Chris. And the certainty that the war with Léna was now global. She had tracked them here. She would never let go.

As Marina's sobs subsided, Paul looked at her, wiping her tears with his fingertips.

"They know where we are now," he said softly. "We can't hide anymore. So we'll fight. But this time, we'll do it out in the open. And together."

In her stomach, the child moved, as if in echo. The battle for her peace had just entered a new phase. And the front line was now at the threshold of their home.