“You finally realized that only your family is good to you?”
Victor’s voice was smooth, unreadable, but I knew him well enough to catch the sharp edge hidden beneath his words.
He had read through my silence, or perhaps, he had always known that I was merely trapped in Raphael’s web of sweet lies.
My fingers tightened around the phone, my throat dry as I finally admitted, “I’m ending it with Raphael. I’ll be returning to Paris.”
A pause. Then, the sound of a slow exhale, deliberate and measured.
“Good,” Victor replied, his tone betraying no emotion except for the faintest trace of vindication. “You should’ve never been with him.”
A surge of frustration flared inside me, a mix of residual heartbreak and the exhaustion of always being told what I should and should not do. “I don’t need a lecture, Vic. I just need you to keep your word.”
Victor hummed, a low, considering sound. “You’ll be taken care of the moment you arrive. Your fiancé is expecting you.”
My stomach twisted.
A fiancé. A stranger. Another man whose presence in my life was dictated by obligation rather than choice.
But anything was better than staying in London, drowning in Raphael’s deceit.
Victor’s voice softened, though it still carried the weight of finality. “Take care of everything for a week. I expect you back then.”
And just like that, the call ended before I could say anything more.
I lowered the phone, staring blankly at the dimly lit bedroom around me. The silence felt heavier, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.
That was Victor. The older brother I once knew—sweet, protective, always teasing me with his rare but affectionate smiles—had disappeared years ago.
By the time he turned twenty, he had abandoned the warmth of the Delaunay estate, choosing solitude over family.
Our parents had asked why, and his response had been curt, “It’s only right that I struggle alone. I’ll return only for important occasions.”
And he had meant it. Even though he still met our father at the office, Victor had become a ghost in our family—present in name, but absent in all else.
I was fifteen at that time, so I had longed for my brother’s presence, missed the way he used to ruffle my hair, missed the way he once doted on me with quiet affection.
But at twenty-four, I felt nothing.
I had convinced myself I could live without his shadow. That I did not need him anymore.
But I was wrong.
Victor had calculated everything. And I had walked straight into his plan.
I sighed, the weight of my decision pressing down on my chest like an unbearable burden.
Without a word, I quietly packed my belongings—the clothes I had once folded neatly into Raphael’s drawers, the make up lined up beside his, the scent of his cologne lingering on the fabrics.
I did not belong there anymore. It never had been.
I did not need to stay in his space, where every wall whispered lies and every memory was tainted by betrayal. I would return to my own apartment, where at least the silence was not filled with deception.
As I reached for my makeup bag, my phone vibrated against the wooden nightstand. I hesitated before picking it up, expecting a call from Victor or perhaps another unwanted message from Raphael.
Instead, my screen lit up with an unexpected name.
Colette Birkin, my classmate, the girl who had lingered on the periphery of my relationship, always watching, always prying.
I tapped the message open, my fingers tightening around the phone.
[Nadine, you know if Raphael’s parents would never approve of a Delaunay, right? So, you better prepare, since they have arranged our engagement. They’ve wanted this for years.]
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
I re-read the message, disbelief twisting into something sharp and bitter in my chest. My classmate who had pretended to be nothing more than an amused onlooker, watching my love story unfold like a passing drama.
Only then did I realize—she had been part of the script all along.
My hands trembled. I knew Colette and Raphael had known each other since childhood, had attended the same prestigious schools, and had walked the same privileged paths.
Unlike me, the stranger who had barged into his world uninvited, she had always been there.
Yet, I had never imagined the betrayal would be this close.
A horrible thought struck me. "Could it be that she was there too?"
My voice came out in a whisper, my mind racing back to the cruel laughter of Raphael’s friends, the way they had mocked me, discussed my body as if I were nothing more than a scandal to be exploited.
Before I could process it, my phone buzzed again.
The words sliced through me like a blade, cold and merciless.
[You didn't really think you were special, did you? Raphael and I have known each other since childhood. Our parents already decided our future. You were nothing more than a doll, something Raphael used to bring down your family for his own gain.]
A hollow laugh escaped me, void of humor and emotion.
I had been a fool.
To think Colette was just another student. To think she was just a friend in Raphael’s circle.
It turned out, she was part of everything, even Raphael’s plan.
My chest ached, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the sting of tears burning behind my eyes. But I refused to let them fall.
Raphael had already stolen enough from me—my trust, my first love, my dignity. But they would not take my pride.
With newfound resolve, I zipped up my bag, squared my shoulders, and stepped out of the room.
As I walked past the room, the door suddenly swung open.
The sharp click of stiletto heels echoed against the marble floor, sending a chill down my spine.
And then I saw her.
Colette.
My intuition had been right all along. She had been among them—laughing, indulging in the cruel spectacle of my downfall.
With effortless grace, Colette stepped forward, a delicate crystal glass of wine in her hand, her expression a picture of practiced innocence.
She smiled at me, her lips curling with an unreadable amusement, then glided closer, her eyes feigning warmth.
“Nadine,” she sang sweetly, slipping her arm through mine as if we were old friends, as if she had not just stabbed me in the back. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Apparently, you were here all along.”
Her voice was a melody of deception, gentle enough to fool the onlookers but sharp enough to make my stomach twist.
I jerked my arm away. “Stop pretending, Colette.”
But she only gripped me tighter, her nails digging into my skin in warning.
I could see the eyes of the other guests lingering on us, watching, curious—why was Colette Birkin, the golden child of the elite, treating me, the outsider, with such familiarity?
They did not know that every touch, every word from Colette was an act.
“What do you want now?” I asked her in a low but piercing tone.
Her smile never wavered as she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear.
“Are you asking because you’re stupid or pretending to be stupid, Nadine?” she whispered, her tone dripping with venom masked beneath honeyed sweetness. “I told you, our parents are still discussing the engagement. You, an insignificant nobody, should know when to step aside.
A cold fury spread through me. So, I tilted my head slightly, mirroring her closeness, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear.
If she wanted to play this game, I would give her something to choke on.
“Tell me, Colette,” I whispered, my voice as soft as silk. “Have you ever slept with Raphael?”
