Is it always going to end like this? On creased sheets, as human wreckage, the silence interrupted by our languid breathing?

It is Friday night, and a city is teeming with life below us. From the sexual tension during dinner to our realised passions, this is the world of the marvellous. I float in its haze as the ochres of fading sunlight glow through the linen curtains. I will not sleep because I love to be here. I lay in Mademoiselle’s tender arms, cocooned together.

These soft Balearic melodies are usually heard at sunrise, not sunset, yet this is a new dawn. Aveline is all the elements of my fantasy lover made real, a fiery tempest that quakes the fundament of my soul. As the embodiment of the moment, a tuneful melody wafts through the musky air like my nebulous desires.

Monsieur dozes, he should; he was magnificent. He slayed Mademoiselle’s lusts; I was a voyeur and an accomplice. Taken from behind, I chased her clit in a soixante-neuf; my fingers were the soft feathers goading her writhing body. She bucked for all she was worth, squirming on her impalement. Hunting her down, her tight sex filled with his shaft; she clenched hard and wailed to take the last of him. It leaked from her to find my open mouth waiting. Obedient to the last, the tip of my tongue teased out her aftershocks.

We both carry what he gave us, and the tang of her essence remains on my lips. I can still feel him there, a dull ache, and I am sure Mademoiselle is the same.

Her delicate fingers tap for attention. My dishevelled hair, matted by sweat, rustles on the pillow. Those baby blue eyes greet me, and her thumb runs over my dimpled cheek. My vision blurs as she places her lips on mine. Like Aquarius, she carries fresh water and pushes it into my mouth, revitalising more than a dry throat. She draws a swirling pattern on my flank, and another cooler kiss keeps me in this corporeal realm. Her caress glides over my face, neck, shoulder, and breast; her thumb circles my nipple. Like a babbling brook, it tingles downwards and pools between my thighs.

“Madame?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“I do not want tonight to end.”

I murmur in agreement, “Neither do I.”

She gestures to the door.

-=-

We creep away as thieves and abscond, leaving Monsieur to sleep.

We are what women can do with our typical patience, and we incite by increments. What we need can be described by where we touch. We know the places that soothe, tingle and encourage… we know where to excite.

Pressed to her simpering lips, she finds my soothing kiss. Twisting our bodies, it pushes our breasts together, and my hand rests on her slender waist. Our limbs caress with a rising restlessness; my provocative hands magnetised to her sublime curves, reciprocated by her delicate fingers, tingling my spine. The flickering flames are there in our eyes.

“Madame, When you went to Gare Du Nord. I did not ask, how did you feel?”

“Excited, afraid… alive, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, “Like me, did you enjoy exhibiting yourself like that?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, it was very intense.”

The recollection inspires me to pepper her neck with more kisses.

“Would you do it again?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” nuzzling her ear, “for you, I would.”

“Eat me, Madame.”

Each kiss is a wet, lingering signpost to my final destination, and the hand on my shoulder signals her impatience. A flick of my tongue on Mademoiselle’s salt-tinged skin is a tantalising innuendo of what will come. My gaze meets her expectant eyes. Her legs are wide open, feet still planted on the bed, as I hold the soft mound of her breast and toy with its hard nipple. My thumb circles her clit. Eye-to-eye, a string of saliva falls onto the hillock of her sex. On impact, she gasps black-mouthed. 

Mademoiselle bobs as jetsam on a roused ocean, her sex offered to devour. It rises and falls as two smooth pillows cleaved by delicate labial lips, clit prominent… it peeks through its candy pink hood. My lips kiss her inner thighs, closer and closer to the prize, encouraging her whimpers. She opens like the petals of a flower with a flick of my tongue. Her hands grip the bedsheet as muted whimpers petition for more with a metronomic cadence.

“Madame,” she gasps, drifting away on the pleasure.

I take it as a luscious peach. Reunited with Mademoiselle’s bittersweet confection, those soft gasps rise, and my lips ensconce her clit. Variations of fingers and tongue send airy moans rising in the muggy air. The waves of rhythmic muscle build, and Mademoiselle reveals her struggle. Looking into her narrowing eyes, her sex captured in my mouth, this is our music now.

When she despatches its tumult, I am there as an endless caress as if touched everywhere, all at once.

We are every fingertip graze and succulent kiss; We adorn each other with our lips and tongues. We journey through the whimpers, the moans, and those cries of ecstatic bliss. We are the consolation and temptation to do this again. Nothing is savage or forced; this is our instinctive flow of give and take as dominant and submissive. I seek her reward by providing pleasure. She provides my gratification from the lust I inspire.

During these dark hours, we burn brightest of all. It is muted, soft and tender; we take up an anti-posed position with Mademoiselle on top. I am the caress over the back of her thighs and pert behind, each nuzzling our sensitive folds. She is the tongue that lashes my sensitive clit. We are the struggle and mercy as we buck and writhe in the search for release. She cries out first and devours me, feeling her pleasure, throwing me over the edge.

The late hours tick over into the small ones, and we are lost in timeless ecstasy. Reclining, unhurried, gazing into our smouldering eyes, we rub ourselves together, clasping and guiding each other. She has the chain in her hand, and I revel in how I am tethered as their property.

“You will be our submissive in public, Madame. Everyone will see… they could see this, and so much more.”

My instinct is to lunge as I moan from the pit of my stomach, “Oh, fuck… yes, Mademoiselle.”

“Then, we will, all three of us.”

Now, my fatigue is a forgotten memory. My leg is in Mademoiselle’s embrace, and she sucks on my toe, propelling me to give my last. Flushed by our exertion, speckled by beads of sweat, we squeeze the last pleasure from our bodies. Mademoiselle holds on, waiting for me to seal our wonderful experience, and we shake in climax together. We glow with weariness, grinning widely, light and carefree, floating away on a tide of heartfelt kisses.

Free from my collar, we share one last intense kiss and join Martin. Snuggled between them, there is no more surly energy, and we sleep in this soporific tangle.

-=-

It is Tuesday, breakfast, and I gaze at my husband sitting at the table opposite. Tearing off a piece of croissant, I am a little foggy-minded, and we are content in the silence between us. It is another day, but it is not. We might be three, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Life can be reduced to a tedious routine. Just imagine what it is like when everything is tinged with desire, every interaction and every chore is a step towards something spectacular.

Saturday evening... my God, it was a hot mess. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, and Aveline was with Angelique all day, but Martin and I could not be sated. Only on Monday did we treat the day with the contempt it deserved and rested. Our imaginations had other ideas...

Looking across the table, Martin is suited, clean-shaven, and suave as fuck. He looks up, grins, and we share the moment.

For all the drama, heartache and mistakes I have made in life, I choose men to love. Aveline occupies somewhere that brings emotion to our carnality; I am fond of her. It strikes me that this was a new routine, yet it is very familiar now. The thought wanders into something more profound; I could not do this with anyone else, only Aveline and Martin. She is so demure with the charisma of an old soul wrapped in a nubile body. She can be maddening yet inspiring; her courage, intelligence, authenticity, and beauty are captivating. Those expressive eyes have incredible pathos, from ice-cold austerity to endearing warmth.

Anyone else would be an imposter, and these days are a special gift. I am married and will love him forever; I am confident of that. If our ménage à trois has only a few days left, we will seize each day with all our energy.

I glance at the preliminary sketch on canvas that waits on its easel. I am wearing one of my husband’s old work shirts again. He looks up, admires my laissez-faire attire, and snorts with a shake of his head.

“You always paint like that.”

I chuckle, “If only they knew when they admire the finished work.”

It is thin material, quite opaque; my dark nipples can be seen through the fabric, and I am not wearing any panties. It is symbolic; the shirt is the shroud that keeps my husband close. My naked body beneath is the unhindered vessel of emotion, requited, unrequited, and all those in between.

“Madame, you are making it difficult to leave for work,” he grins.

Oh fuck, Martin… keep talking like that, you will be late.

I lean forward, propping my chin on my hands, and my expression is unmistakable, “Yes, Monsieur, but I make it easy for you to run home and take me.”

We smile, it is there, and we have to wait. We serve different masters during working hours.

I sip my coffee and look at the clock. If Aveline is going to work, she should be going soon. Maybe she has a noon start and late finish, a private viewing at the Gallery. It happens.

It rouses a smile, Lilou Bouchard. The gallery event is tomorrow evening, and my picture is one of three given prominence. She called early, informing me that it has attracted considerable interest and she will only accept closed bids. I admit she is true to her word and is always a businesswoman. Also, she is keen to direct the disappointed towards me for potential commission work. Naturally, this would come with an introduction fee for her.

The purpose of her call was an invitation to discuss this over lunch… lunch! Yes, drop everything, Ines; you have been summoned. I am delighted in the same way the condemned are invited to their own execution.

I hope she is paying.

“Okay, I better get going, or I will be late. See you later,” Martin dips in for a goodbye kiss.

“I love you… Monsieur.”

Oh, it is a wicked, wicked grin.

His hand grazes my face, and he reciprocates, “I love you, too... Madame.”

Those first three words swell my heart, and the last makes me quiver.

To the diminishing sound of his footsteps, the front door clicks shut.

Aveline comes from her bedroom in bare feet; they are thundering. She is blanched white, and whilst fair-skinned, something has taken the colour from her. She thumps through the lounge in that scanty black robe, breasts jiggling, and her hair flounces. Picking up a chiffon blouse, it hovers centimetres above the floor, swaying as she passes, and her bedroom door closes abruptly.

Something is wrong; maybe she is only late for work.

I finish the last sips of my coffee and scraps of croissant.

I should see how she is.

-=-

“Aveline?”

I can hear the rush of a hairdryer. She might not hear me. It feels crazy, but I knock.

The hairdryer is off, and the door opens. A lump rushes to the back of my throat. Standing in the doorway, Aveline is in her bra and panties, and I struggle to maintain eye contact. Those long tresses fall onto her naked shoulders, dappled in the early morning light. It illuminates her smooth skin and evocative azure eyes.

The frisson we tried so much to quell at the weekend is back… with a vengeance.

I am caught off guard, “Aveline, is everything all right? No work this morning?”

She sighs as if to cast off a burden. Her eyes reveal that familiar determination, and she loops her fingers into the shirt. Pulling me to her, she plunges in for an urgent kiss.

“Mademoiselle, Madame. I am fine.”

Oh fuck, I was not expecting this.

I am brought into her embrace and experience the full tirade of her hunger. Her tongue in my mouth is an eel in its first throes of life; her roaming hands are an ever-shifting maze, and there is no escape. My mind teeters from my readiness to work and topples on this surge of arousal. She understands how spontaneity incites me.

Her hands are everywhere, tugging at the buttons, trying to cast the shirt from me. Her hands tire of these mechanics, and they are inside the fabric. If it is a test, I undo my shirt, and her fingers rise over my body, squeezing my breasts. It falls as a puddle around me just as her hand cups my overheated sex, rubbing it with a single determination.

“Fuck,” I gasp as she stokes the rising inferno.

My head is swimming. Clearly, she is going to work this morning… on me.

“Hold back your hair.”

Oh God, no, not this.

I am collared and chained.

“Close your eyes.”

And I find myself blindfolded.

Led from her bedroom into the living space, she guides me around obstacles. Mademoiselle spins me around once, twice, and I have lost my bearings.

“Mademoiselle, the blinds…”

She remains silent, and the sound of naked feet pitter-patter away. They return, growing louder as she approaches.

“Feet apart, Madame.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

The leash is held short, and I can feel her hot breath upon me. There is only the finesse from her hand upon me, stirring at my cunt. The rising waves of hot lust force me to whimper. Deprived of my senses, they make these intense sensations even more acute.

“Do you know what I am going to do? Madame?”

I shake my head, “No, Mademoiselle.”

“Good.”

Those agile fingers swirl at my sex, bringing me to the boil. I am fidgety and sensitive, I understand my body, and if Mademoiselle is minded, a hasty orgasm is imminent. Panting, I am led forward, and the heat from the sun intensifies. I know I am close to the wide frontage of our lounge space. She takes one hand, and I understand her intention. Reaching out, I find the warm pane of glass, and my other joins it soon enough. I am bent at an oblique angle, and there are no blinds to hide my naked body.

My mind reels. These are identical five-storey buildings designed by Haussmann, our side is an apartment block, and across the road, they are offices. If I am seen, they will witness how Mademoiselle takes me. I am caught in two minds, to revel in my exhibitionism or call out her name and end this.

I vacillate, and in these seconds, that thing is slick and cold and runs down the cleft of my behind. A firm hand grasps my hip, and it edges into my aching cunt. Impaled by degrees, it is snug in that soaked pocket, and I groan, sweeping all my concerns away.

“Yes, Madame, you are a hungry slut. Do you want them to see this?”

“Mademoiselle…” I waver as her metronomic rhythm destroys my indecision.

I know the grace of her movements too well; she drives and thrusts with all the prowess of my husband. Of course, she has seen this many times and is an assertive doppelganger. The blazing morning sun bathes my naked body, and old recollections spice my arousal. I am naked and walking on a naturist beach. Inspired, I push back to meet her thrusts.

“Mmm, Madame, you want them to see you being fucked? Blindfolded, collared and chained.”

Oh fuck, I… I cannot help this.

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” I implore.

I am betrayed as the sticky sounds of my impalement rise. My writhing body pushes the envelope of Mademoiselle’s patience, yet the leash remains slack. Her variations force me to chase it, to animate my body and seek urgent fulfilment.

“Madame, look at you. You need this!”

“Desperately, Mademoiselle.”

I hear the synthetic sound of her phone camera shutter, click, click, click. I plunge back and forth excitedly as she remains static. I am eager for its fill, my imagination in open rebellion to my situation. This apartment is our temple of discretion, yet I am willing to betray its sanctuary for my climax.

“I am sure your husband will appreciate what a whore you are, Madame.”

“Yes,” I moan, “he will, Mademoiselle.”

“I heard you earlier. Monsieur will come running and take you later. I am sure he will. I might let you have him as I did on Friday night.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle!”

“Would you like to fuck your husband? Tie him to the bed, and listen to my instructions. Make him so helpless that he cannot help it and fills your cunt?”

“Oh fuck! Yes! Mademoiselle!”

I am livid and accelerate my shoves back onto her. She pulls me back, shoves upwards, and fucks me harder.

“Yes, that’s it, Madame. Take it like the dirty whore you are.”

This urgency is what I crave, and it is a facsimile of how my husband fucks me at his most passionate. I pray that Mademoiselle is merciful and lets me climax while the zest of my need is fresh and vibrant. Moving together, my legs are quivering as tart smacks of my rump with her loins deepen my votive groans.

“Look at you, such a bitch in heat, Madame.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“Would you like to know that someone is watching you?”

It is an incendiary to my plight, and I cry out, “Oh fuck! Are they, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh fuck, they are, Mademoiselle,” she mocks.

It is rumbling through me, ominous and uncontrollable. The tension is swelling, not by degrees but something powerful and sudden. My compulsion to push back and meet each thrust clatters our bodies together. I am baying like the weekend, moaning hard with each long thrust into my drenched cunt.

“Oooh, Madame… you like being an exhibitionist,” delivered with a shrill tone, she is clearly excited, “He is very handsome.”

“Yes! Mademoiselle!”

“I am sure he would love to fuck you as you eat my cunt. I will fuck him and take his seed as you watch.”

Oh God, she knows how to push my buttons.

“Yes, fuck yes! Mademoiselle.”

We are a cacophony of sound and furious motion as I begin to yelp, desperately close to orgasm.

“Mademoiselle…I… ”

“Yes, Madame, show him your orgasm.”

My arms and legs quake and the chain tightens, forcing my head up. I am undone, and the scorching release convulses my body. Rippling spasms lock and release on that thing inside. I am shaking, shivering as if cold, bathed in warm sunlight.

Suddenly empty, she leaves me panting on jelly legs, and I hear that thing thud on the floor. I am revealed like this, trying to recover from my obvious orgasm. Walking is difficult, but I am positioned to where she wants me and told to kneel. Pulled between her thighs, I am led to the heady musk of her sex and devour her with relish. Her leg is lofted and rests over my shoulder, draping it over my back to symbolise ownership.

All of my gratitude, status, and concerns matter for nothing. With helpless eyes, Mademoiselle holds that leash, and I am latched to her writhing cunt. Beguiling her with my caress over her breasts, she flails as soft feminine whimpers calcify into potent cries. The chain is dropped, and her fingers run through my hair and clasp me there. She is yelping as her body twists, calling out my name as she shudders and takes her climax.

-=-

“Ines?”

Aveline is still panting.

“Yes?”

Removing my blindfold, I blink as sunlight streams in from the windows. I am resting at Aveline’s feet, leaning against her leg, listening to her elevated breathing. Squinting, the strong sunbeams are too much, but I cannot lower the blinds naked.

I hear a snigger and look up, frowning at her amused expression.

“The sunlight reflects off the windows in the morning.”

A little slow to comprehend, her smile proves infectious, “You mean?”

“It means we could be there… fucking. No one can see in.”

“Aveline!”

We laugh.

“No man was watching you. No one was.”

I smack her calve, still amused.

“Still, Ines… it proves you are an exhibitionist.”

“I always knew you were trouble.”

“Good trouble, though?”

“Oh, the best kind,” I purr.

My intuition senses hesitancy.

“What is it?”

I see the same expression when she appeared at our front door all those days ago.

“What if I stayed longer than a month and I teach you more?”

From my wide grin, I am amenable to the idea, “How so?”

“Angelique’s lodger is staying,” and I see more than a flicker of disappointment.

It is incongruent with our situation, yet I know they are excellent friends.

“Ines… I will get a studio apartment, but could I stay longer while I look for one?”

Smiling, I nod, “I will need to speak to Martin, but I think he will agree.”

Flashing my eyes, Aveline understands the powers of my persuasion.

Retiring to the settee, my collar is removed, and I retrieve my shirt. Aveline is dressed in her robe, and we talk over coffee. Of course, these are mundane matters, and she offers to help with the bills. I admire her thoughtfulness. I was initially reluctant all those weeks ago, but what we have… works… it works very well.

Suddenly, I am seized and glance at the clock on the wall.

“Aveline, fuck! I am going to be late.”

She places her empty mug on the coffee table, “Late?”

“Lilou Bouchard, your boss,” I roll my eyes, “I have been invited to lunch. What about you? Not working today?”

“No…” her tone is distant, a contrast to her breezy attitude. “I am working late tomorrow. The Gallery Event?”

Acknowledging her, I smile, “Well, I need to get going,” and kiss her.

Aveline’s eyes, so fragile, gaze into mine. At once, she is Little Bird again, and I am taken in by the unusual occurrence.

“Ines… thank you. Thank you for everything you have done for me.”

“Aw! Come here.” I hug her, “No, thank you, Aveline. So many dreams have come true thanks to you. There will be many more, I am sure.”

I can sense her need to kiss me; when she does, its sensuality is an outpouring of sublime emotion. Holding her chin and from my eyes, I pray she understands what she means to me.

“You are wonderful, Aveline, but I need to go.”

“So are you, Ines.”

-=-

The taxi driver will only take me so far up the hill on Rue Lepic. As I walk up the winding road towards Montmartre’s busier streets, I can afford to dawdle in the cooler shadows. I will not be fashionably late. As tourists meander, it is the perfect summer’s day with an acid-blue sky and not a single cloud. It lifts my mood, already buoyed that Aveline might stay with us a little longer.

On the hill, the typical Parisian blanket of humid summer heat is countered by a cooler breeze. It wafts through my long linen dress, billowing it. Cinched by a lop-sided belt, adorned by a whimsical sandy straw hat and tan roman sandals. I look the part of a bohemian of old, complete with a matching leather handbag.

Soon, it will be the holiday season. I indulge myself with the notion that Aveline might be tempted to come with us to Cap d’Agde. It sends a shiver of excitement down my spine as I walk into Place du Tertre.

At the Gallery, I introduce myself and wait. The scent of jasmine will not calm me. I am on my guard. Sitting, I pick up a magazine and flick through its pages. I must choose every word carefully, and each gesture checked before I set it free.

“Coucou!”

“Lilou!”

Oh God, here we go… again.

“How are you?”

I nod, “Excellent, thank you. Wow, Lilou, I love your suit. Ivory really suits you!”

“Oh, this?” She downplays it.

It is Chanel… have some sense of style. They are not rags.

“Ines, you are glowing. What is your secret?”

Being fucked hard by your assistant with a big black thing… no… smile, be polite.

“You know me, I always like to enjoy the sunshine. It is a fabulous day today.”

“Yes, it is. Come, I have a table booked.”

Around the corner from Place du Tertre, we eat al fresco under a parasol. It is as pleasant as I can hope for, and Lilou is in good spirits. She is very generous with her praise and informs me that the price my picture commands exceeds her estimate. I drink a healthy gulp of wine when she tells me the highest bid so far. Despite her fee, Martin will be delighted… hell, I must curtail my grin.

“My darling,” she places her hand on mine, “There will be some disappointed patrons. These are people that do not like the word ‘no’.”

“This is good for business, then?” I offer, unsure if I would like to meet them.

“Absolutely. Now… we offer them the chance of a commission, unique and inspired by your original.”

I mull over her words, “Okay. I can do that.”

“Excellent!” she gushes, “Of course, I would take them through the process and set their expectations. The price…” and she fans herself with excitement. “It is an excellent price. You will do very well.”

Honestly, she cannot contain herself. I do not want this to be infectious, but it could be worth a lot of money.

I put down my wine glass, “We are getting to your fee, yes?”

She leans in, “Oh, I will give you a choice.”

I grin, “A choice? Lilou, are you feeling okay?”

“Of course!” and she sits back in her chair, “Everything is wonderful!”

No… that is not Lilou. Something is wrong.

“So… this choice?”

Lilou propels herself forward, placing her hand on mine.

“Yes, it is a mere ninety per cent!”

Something is very wrong, and it lurches in the pit of my stomach.

“Erm… Lilou… that is not a choice.”

She squeezes my hand, “My dear, or it could be nothing… and no commissions. In fact, I can make sure you never get any work again. I will make you a pariah.”

“L… Lilou?”

“Aveline Quincampoix? Have you heard that name before?” her slow drawl raises a sickening smile on her lips. “I understand she lives with you,” she repeatedly tuts, “in a highly immoral way.”

Shaken hard, I am in front of another tigress. I reel mentally as if punched and must not let it show. My craven need for discretion is exposed on a cobbled street in front of someone that should be the last person in Paris to know.

I take my wine glass, and sip at it, stalling for time.

Looking at her, Lilou thinks I am cowed. I send my pictures and prints to all corners of the world via my website, and she cannot stop that. Commissions for galleries? After all this drama and the fees? Only if I absolutely must.

Her eyebrows frame a sense of smug self-congratulation.

Lilou’s scent carries on a zephyr breeze, and it jars with me like so many things. The kinds of things that are a little more than innocuous, but not so much to question them. Such is my need for survival, my intuition is my shield, and it is firing like streaks of lightning. Working backwards, the facts are jumbled until I arrange them in order… then, they tell their story.

It is plausible, and this is a risk, but I will not be judged or beholden to Lilou Bouchard. My need to fight is roused, her sickening grin has not shifted, and I respond with a flinty expression from my own.

“Lilou, your perfume… it is Shalimar. It has been yours for as long as I remember.”

She chuckles, “And?”

“Aveline returned with a hint of Shalimar on her clothes on Sunday evening. How was last Sunday, Lilou? You spent all day with her, yes? Aveline is the dominant, and you are the submissive?”

There is a flicker in her eyes, a pang of raw emotion.

“Do not take me for a fool. You have an apartment in Marais. I have seen it in Paris Match.”

“This is preposterous!” She scoffs.

“We know you as Angelique, and I take it the lodger is your husband? So, Aveline was moving in because you promised to throw him out?”

Staring into Lilou’s eyes, she begins to waver and gives a solitary nod, crestfallen, “Yes.”

If my suspicions are correct, I should tread carefully.

“Do you love her?”

She is visibly upset, “Yes, and she loves me.”

I do not want to empathise, but I do.

“Oh, Lilou…” I sigh, “Now, we have established the truth.”

I sip my wine for fortitude, not in celebration.

“I assume you have met Gaspar Quincampoix recently? Or double-o three-and-a-half as my husband calls him.”

“Yesterday. They want Aveline to come home.”

“She is twenty-one!” I hiss, and instantly, I temper my emotions. “You know, you should meet her mother. She takes a very dim view of immorality… and will happily tell you in public to your face.”

The insinuation is enough, and Lilou cannot look me in the eye.

“Now… here is my choice.”

If my suspicions are correct, my main concern is Aveline’s welfare.

“Lilou, you can tell me what you have done to Aveline.”

“Or what?”

Oh, she is going down fighting. I have to bear my claws.

“Or, I will make sure Madame Quincampoix comes to your Gallery Event, and if she will not, I will be there. You can explain your torrid affair to your husband and patrons. I would rather be an infamous artist than an adulteress. Now… what have you done to Aveline?”

All it takes is one raised eyebrow; I am deadly serious.

“I…” she croaks, “I fired her this morning.”

My suspicion is correct, and I feel nothing except the pain of disappointment. Aveline looked so shocked, thundering through the apartment.

“You ended the affair too?”

“Yes,” she swallowed back her emotions, “Gaspar told me about you and her. She lied to me, she is a libertine, and your arrangement is what? A ménage à trois?”

If I ever get my hands on Gaspar Quincampoix….

“And you are being unfaithful to your husband. Such high moral standards, Lilou.”

She shrugs.

I sigh, letting my vexation dissipate, “Did you think for one second that she might have lied to us too? There is no way I would have agreed to it, knowing this.”

She mutters something inaudible under her breath, and I do not want to see her cry in self-pity. Finishing my glass of wine, I discard my napkin on the table and rise to my feet.

“You will write Aveline an excellent reference, the best. I will make sure you do this. Send the money for the picture to my account. Take your fee if you must, but there will be no commissions. Do not interfere in my work.”

I see a tacit agreement, and she tries to look proud.

“I will remember this, Lilou, and I am sure the Quincampoix family have long memories, too. It would be a shame if they found out about your affair.”

In the split-second glance into my eyes, she has a penitent expression. Shaking my head, I am torn. I have known Lilou for a long time, and she has infuriated me for most of it, yet, everyone deserves to find true love.

“Goodbye, Madame Bouchard.”

As I walk from Place Du Tertre, I see no faces, and my mind is a spinning mess of emotions. It is the strangest thing, I am not angry, and any happiness has gone. I am numb, and that is a sign of grief.

I must speak to Aveline because every story has two sides. Maybe then, I might feel something... anything.

-=-

At our apartment, there is no one there. Walking into Aveline’s room, it is tidy and empty, as if she was a ghost. The silence is unsettling. I cannot shake the feeling that a vital ingredient is missing, something that makes it our home. Holding the handwritten sheet of paper found on the neat bed. I sit on its edge, and it trembles in my hands.

Ines and Martin, I am truly sorry. You were right, Ines. I cannot go through life without hurt, pain and making mistakes. What we had was never a mistake. My mistakes were elsewhere. Now, I must be brave and face what I have done. I hope one day you can forgive me.

Aveline.

A tear falls onto the page. I had three lives, my public, my private, and my secret; I merged them together.

Now, I must pay the price.