Semua Bab Désiré Me 2: Bab 71 - Bab 80

 DianeDawn is a betrayal. It doesn't bring light, only shades of gray, detailing with cruel precision the scene of my imprisonment: the cold gilding, the luxurious fabrics that smother, the slumbering silhouette of the monster in his armchair. His breathing is steady, deep. A light snore, almost human, escapes his lips. This normalcy is the worst insult.My body is still lying on the bed, motionless as a tomb effigy. But inside, everything is frantic movement, a silent whirlwind stirring Liam's ashes and forging them into a single blade, into an irrepressible, primal need. Haste, suddenly, is everything. The idea of waiting one more day, one more hour, in this bubble where his scent, his breath, his very existence pollute the air, is unbearable.The plan isn't one. It's an impulse. A crack in the wall of ice I just built. The vengeance-creator is briefly overwhelmed by the wounded animal that wants to bite, right now, even if it means getting crush

 DianeThe night stretches on, a desert of salty tears and cold sheets. I cry until exhaustion, until my eyes are burning and dry, until my throat is a raw wound. I cry for Liam. I cry for my father, somewhere, knowing nothing. I cry for the woman I was before being brought here, a woman whose face is beginning to blur in my memory.Dawn finally filters through the heavy curtains, gray and weak. I'm lying on my side, eyes open, staring at the wall. Fatigue is a lead weight in every bone, every muscle. A dull torpor has replaced the storm. I have no more tears. Only a residue remains, an emotional limescale weighing on my eyelids.The bedroom door opens without a sound.I don't move. I don't even turn my head. I hear his muffled steps on the carpet, approaching the bed.He stops beside me. I feel his gaze on my back, on the nape of my neck I offer him, a passive target.— Get up.His voice is neutral, morning-like. T

 Dimitri VolkovThe jet slices through the azure with the precision of a scalpel. I should be working. Reports from my captains in New York and London await. The night's financial flows need analysis. Yet, the file remains open, the numbers dancing meaninglessly before my eyes.My gaze is drawn, again and again, to her.Diane.Sitting on the other side of the teak table, she stares at the nebulous view through the porthole. She hasn't moved since she finished eating. Her profile is spectrally pale, sculpted from cold wax. The shadows under her eyes, purple on skin too fair, are like bruises left by the night. Her hands, placed flat on her knees, are absolutely still. She looks like she's no longer breathing.So fragile. The thought imposes itself, as unwelcome as a blade.I've crushed financial empires. I've broken men as hard as granite. I've watched rivals disappear from the face of the earth without flinching. Fragility has n

DianeThe front door, a massive block of dark wood and brushed metal, vanishes into the wall without a sound. The entrance that opens steals the breath from my lungs. It's a cathedral hall, of calculated coldness. The floor is polished mirror-gray marble, reflecting the glass and steel structure of the ceiling, ten meters above. White, bare walls rise toward this vault. The space is so vast, so stark, that our twin silhouettes standing within it seem an intrusion, a stain of imperfection.He stands slightly ahead of me, silent, letting the impression swallow me. He watches my face, I can feel it. I strive to show nothing, but my skin must be paling further under the raw, diffused light falling from the glazed skies. The air smells clean, neutral, a scent of air conditioning and cold stone. No smell of life, of wood fire, of wax, of cooking. Nothing.— There, he finally says, his voice echoing slightly in the void. The Glass Sphere. My lair.He begin

 DianeStillness has become intolerable. The silence of the room weighs, a lead lid pressing down on my thoughts. I need to move. I need to occupy this flesh envelope, give it a sensation other than the cold glass or the oppressive void.I get up, my joints stiff. I walk towards the bathroom, my steps absurd in this white desert.The bathtub. That porcelain sarcophagus. It sits, round, smooth, offering a promise of weightlessness. An immersion.I approach. My fingers brush the edge, cold as well. I turn the taps. A rumble, then a gush of hot water, scalding, creating instant mist on the vast mirror facing me. I let it run. The steam rises, enveloping, fragrant. The water smells neutral, a scent of algae and mineral deposited by an over-perfect filtration system. But it is warmth. It is movement.I turn to face the medicine cabinet, a two-way mirror. I look at myself. A pale woman with dark-ringed eyes, her chignon still impeccable but