“Clear my schedule over lunch. They can manage without me during the briefing. I’ll be back in time for that job interview and the meetings afterward.”
“Uh, okay, are you sure? Should I schedule something else for you?” she asks.
“No, that’s not necessary. By the way, have you heard anything about the work being done in my apartment today?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
“Yes, everything went smoothly. The new doors have been installed, and I had the cleaning service come in, so you won’t even notice any work was done when you get home.” Perfect.
“Thanks, Donna, what would I do without you? See you tomorrow!”
I hang up, knowing exactly what I need to do tomorrow. Technically, I could call Bertrand and have him handle the purchase of the house. It’s his job, after all, and that would make the most sense. But I need to do this myself. I’m the one buying the house. It’s my money, and I’m the one who’ll live there. Of course, the main reason is probably that I want to see Nora again—not that I’m ready to admit that to myself yet. For now, I’ll just tell myself there’s unfinished business between us. She doesn’t get to decide whether or not I can buy that house. Tomorrow at noon, I’ll find her, and we’ll begin negotiations.
* * *
I continue driving toward my apartment. It’s truly breathtaking. Located on a quiet street in the historic center of Bruges, it offers an ideal blend of charm and modern convenience. Sure, the tourists and occasional horse-drawn carriages can block the streets now and then, but it’s worth it. I can park my cars safely underground, and in the evenings, when the city empties out, it’s incredibly peaceful. At times, you feel like you’ve stepped into a different, medieval world. The apartment itself is a penthouse in a renovated historic building from the 16th century. The ceilings soar to three meters, and the dark oak doors, floors, and tall windows still have the original stained glass in the street-facing section. Most of the walls are paneled, except for one with exposed brick, adding a rustic touch. This place exudes history and warmth, yet the modern finishes and luxurious details make it feel contemporary. The kitchen has a dark marble countertop, light green cabinets, and an AGA stove, which has never been used. Today, two interior doors were reinstalled after a full restoration. The rooftop terrace has space for an elegant dining table, a jacuzzi, and a lounge area, all surrounded by lush greenery that makes you feel like you’re in a jungle. The plants offer a level of privacy that’s rare in the heart of Bruges.
It sounds crazy to want to leave here, and yet I have a good reason for it. The rest of the building also belongs to me and houses my company. Initially, living above the office seemed like a brilliantly practical solution, but over time, it’s felt more like a disadvantage. I work hard—constantly, really—and I don’t mind being closely connected to the company. But the saying about keeping your work and private life separate? I’m starting to see the wisdom in it. I no longer want to be available 24/7, nor do I want my home to be perpetually associated with work. I’ll never sell this apartment. I’ve only lived here for two years, and it’ll undoubtedly come in handy during busy deadlines, but I also want a place that’s truly mine, a place to truly relax.
I drive into the garage, park in my usual spot, and take the elevator to my apartment. My private elevator doesn’t make any stops; it goes straight to the penthouse. At least that keeps work and private life somewhat separate. Once upstairs, I hang my blazer on the coat rack, place my car keys on the counter, and head straight to my dressing room for a set of fresh workout clothes. Over the years, I’ve learned that exercising is the best way to work through my frustrations, fears, or whatever else is clouding my mind. I’ve set up a separate room with fitness equipment and weights. I promise myself an hour of intense training to blow off steam and detach from the day’s demands. I quickly change, turn on my favorite playlist, and start my usual workout routine. I work up a serious sweat, cranking the music as loud as it’ll go, but I still can’t seem to silence my thoughts. The physical exertion feels good. I enjoy pushing myself, reveling in the burn of hard work, and most of the time, it’s enough to give me a mental boost.
Right now, however, the entire conversation with Nora keeps replaying in my mind. Her presence lingers, vivid and persistent. The louder the music, the harder it becomes to organize my thoughts. It’s a paradox—a mental workout that feels more like torture.
I finish my usual routine and call it quits after an hour. Sweaty, thirsty, physically and mentally exhausted, I head to the bathroom for a quick, cold shower. The icy water cascading over my body helps ease some of the tension. Goosebumps ripple across my skin as the cold works its way in. I wash my hair and scrub away the day’s grime.
Every time I shower, I think about how my skin sheds like a lizard’s, one of the rare fond memories I have of my mother. She used to joke that I was like a salamander, with a fresh layer of skin ready to emerge if I scrubbed the old one away thoroughly enough. It was her way of getting me into the bath when I was a child, as I hated water on my skin. But thinking I was a real salamander? That made all the difference.
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Just as I’m about to head to the bedroom, my phone rings. It’s Eric calling me back. I answer and put him on speaker, eager to hear his initial findings.
“Hey, Andreas, I’ve organized the info you wanted as best I could, but I’ll tell you now: this doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, compared to all the other people I’ve ever had to check for you, this one is quite a dull story. She was born and raised in Bruges, her parents are still together and have lived on the other side of the country since their retirement. They worked in hospitality their whole lives and owned their own business. I see little evidence of a close bond—no family photos, no contact, no trips together or dinners. Nora’s an only child, so no siblings in the picture. Her grandparents died before she was born or shortly after. She studied interior architecture, graduated magna cum laude. After that, she worked for an architecture firm for a few years, and since the beginning of this year, she’s been an independent real estate agent. She owns the business and the house where it’s located. She’s deeply in debt because of it, and it will take her years to pay it off. I don’t know how the business is doing because the first fiscal year isn’t over yet. I see a few close friends and a cousin she’s often tagged with on social media. She’s not very active on the platforms herself, a Facebook account that hasn’t been used in years, on Instagram an average of one post a month, all innocuous content. There’s a separate account for her business, which mainly features interior photos and the houses she’s selling. She goes running occasionally. Four regular routes on Strava. Last year she took a photography course, and she spends quite a bit on sandwiches and salads. I think a speeding ticket is about the worst thing she’s ever done in her life,” Eric concludes. “At first glance, Nora doesn’t seem like much of a threat to society.”
“Okay, are there any relationships worth mentioning?” I ask as casually as possible.
“I knew it! This is personal, isn’t it?” Eric asks excitedly.
“Eric, just say it already.” I don’t share his enthusiasm.
“I saved the best for last—she’s single. Right now anyway, because she did have a steady boyfriend a few years ago. The only one I could find, by the way. His name is David Devolder. He seems to be with someone else now. From what I can gather from comments on photos and timelines, there was some overlap between those two relationships. In other words, I think Nora was cheated on.”
“Thanks for the info, Eric. Feel free to send me the links to her online profiles, that’s all for now,” I say professionally.
“One more thing, Andreas,” Eric says quickly.
“What?” I ask, curious.
“Good luck, buddy!” he practically shouts. I’ve rarely seen Eric this excited.
“Shut up, Eric,” I say dryly just before hanging up.
Luckily, Eric knows this is exactly the reaction he could expect from me.
I think about the information I’ve received. The first impression I had of Nora is actually confirmed by the story Eric just laid out. She’s an ambitious woman working her way up in the world, with a chosen framily instead of relying on her blood relatives. Not a materialistic woman at first glance, nor someone seeking attention online. We seem similar in some ways, but unlike me, Nora seems pure and innocent. She’s probably broken and disillusioned in love.
The information Eric gave me has somehow put me at ease. I can form a fuller picture of who she is and now perhaps better understand why she reacted so strongly. The frustration and unchanneled anger that had been simmering in me seem to settle as I process the facts. I hate how everything always has to be analyzed and sorted out before I can find peace. A small event can send me spiraling into endless overthinking. Thinking becomes a desperate attempt to regain control and grasp reality. I recognize this coping mechanism now—it’s almost a logical response to years of feeling powerless—but stopping it or letting go is another matter entirely. Exercise helps, loud music too; any distraction works, but today, the need to know and understand was just too great. Thankfully, Eric’s information brought relief this time, and for the first time since meeting her this afternoon, I feel like I can refocus. As my thoughts finally become ordered and controlled, I get ready for the last two meetings of the day, one floor down.
Chapter 5
