Chapter 2
Maxime
The azure blue tie around my neck feels like a noose. The shirt cuffs encircle my wrists like shackles. Concealing my discomfort, I sink onto the chair that Monsieur Allard has just offered me and open my briefcase.
"We should get to the formalities," I say, taking the folder from my bag and placing it on the worn wooden table.
My business partner slips his hands into the pockets of his corduroy pants and saunters to the floor-to-ceiling terrace door. He stops in front of the dusty, murky glass and gazes outside at the terrace in need of renovation, beyond which lies a wild garden. He doesn't respond but breathes in and out with effort.
I clear my throat and open the folder. "This is the purchase agreement." I cautiously glance over at him, but he does not react. "So... um... I'll go ahead and read it out, alright?"
His shoulders twitch. "Go ahead," he replies, turning to face me but still positioned near the exit as if he needs to keep an escape route open.
"La révolution et le luxeacquires from Charles Allard a flat-roofed villa, built in 1835, with a living area of one thousand four hundred square feet and a plot of six thousand square yards," Iread from the documents, loosening my tie knot with my index finger to get some air at least.
Monsieur Allard takes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Have you ever lost something that meant a great deal to you?" he asks, tapping a cigarette out of the pack.
Now, I'm the one who doesn't answer. He doesn't need to know that more than four years ago, I lost something that meant the world to me. I'm here to buy this run-down villa on behalf of my boss, Pierre. He will renovate it extensively, and then I will sell it as a luxury property to the highest bidder. That's my job. He pays the rent and keeps the fridge stocked.
"This building has a soul," the man by the terrace door continues thoughtfully. "My wife's soul."
Oh God, please no. I don't want to think about lost souls, especially not female ones.
He lights the cigarette and takes such a deep drag that his cheeks transform into deep craters. "Selling the villa will weigh heavily on her."
I lower the purchase agreement. "Do you want to reconsider the deal?" I ask, fully aware that my boss would never forgive me if he found out.
You have to be tougher, Maxime. We are businessmen, not social workers!he rages in my thoughts.
"Well,"—Monsieur Allard lets the ashes from his cigarette fall to the stone floor—"she already hates me anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."
"Divorced?" I ask even though I should agree and direct his focus back to the contract. We still need to finalize the purchase price and review the clauses together.
Don't leave the contract with him for review, my boss demanded yesterday at our headquarters in Paris, his expression serious.He must sign it immediately after you've softened him up.
"Divorced and deceived." My business partner snorts with effort. "At least she didn't get this house here. So, in a way, I won, didn't I?"
Underneath my jacket, I start to sweat. Clearly, this woman has broken his heart. Dealing with something like that is not easy. Actually, it's impossible.
He inhales his cigarette as if his life depends on it and steps closer.
"Women are curious creatures, don't you think?" He asks, releasing a cloud of smoke into the air.
Absolutely. You think you know them. You believe they are the best reason to face your problems and become a better person. But then—in an instant—they do things that lead to only one possible conclusion: You have no idea who they truly are.
"They lie and cheat," Monsieur Allard says amid my thoughts. His hand wanders over the grain of the wooden table. Suddenly, he looks directly at me. "You know what I believe?"
Silently, I shake my head.
"The more we do for them, the more deceitful they become," he says, his mouth turning downward, his jugular pulsing. "They take advantage of us, make us dependent on them, and then gleefully drop us when we least expect it."
I bite down hard on my tongue to keep the words welling up inside me from escaping. But they leave my mouth as soon as I lessen the pressure. "Why do they do that?"
There it is. The question that has plagued me for years. I've tried to suppress it, but deep down, I know I’ll find peace only when I have the answer.
With a scornful laugh, Monsieur Allard reaches for the purchase agreement. "Because they enjoy it. And now I'm going to enjoy selling that bitch's legacy." With those words, he settles into the chair opposite me, tosses the cigarette to the floor, andstamps it out. Then he immerses himself in the first page of the contract.
Absentmindedly, I watch him. So this is his way of coping with the breakup. Bitterness, combined with a desire for revenge and satisfaction.
