Four days. Four days of silence from Henri feel like death by a thousand cuts.
My calls go straight to voicemail after one ring—he's deliberately declining them. The messages I send remain unread, those cruel gray checkmarks on WhatsApp never turning blue.
No more romantic French poems slipped under my door. No more surprise appearances with flowers. No more texts asking about my day.
I've become what I feared most—the abandoned woman, unwanted and alone except for two babies who depend on me for everything.
"He's not coming back, is he?" I whisper to Catrice during her morning feeding. She just stares at me with those dark eyes, so much like Adrian's it hurts.
My phone buzzes. Adrian. Of course it's Adrian—he's been relentless since Sunday, sensing blood in the water like the shark he is in business.
This time it's a listing for a penthouse on the Upper East Side. Five bedrooms, private terrace, a nursery already decorated in neutral tones.
The message reads: "Perfect for raising twins. Great school district."
Yesterday it was: "Cyprus has beautiful family resorts. The twins would love the beach. Three weeks this spring?"
The day before: "Thinking of taking March off. We could focus on what really matters—our family."
Each message is another reminder that Adrian's offering security, stability, everything I need materially, while Henri offers nothing but devastating silence.
"What do you think?" I ask him when he arrives for his Thursday visit with the twins, gesturing at my phone where his latest property listing glows.
"I think you look exhausted," Adrian says, studying my face with those calculating eyes while bouncing Gatsby gently. "More than usual. Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine," I lie, setting Catrice in her bouncer, needing my hands free, needing to feel less vulnerable.
"Is it the Frenchman?" Adrian asks, his tone carefully neutral. "You seem... different since the weekend."
"Why are you doing this?" I deflect, gesturing at his messages. "The properties, Cyprus, taking time off. Why now, after everything?"
"Because I was an idiot who threw away the best thing in his life—his wise and the kids."
Adrian says simply, like it costs him nothing to admit it now. And all I can allow myself to do is to remain silent and let him speak those very important words that I needed most of all more than 8 months ago.
"Because our children deserve better than this arrangement. Because you deserve better than splitting your time between two worlds."
"You don't know anything about my worlds," I say sharply. And even more—I hate to admit he has a point.
"I know you're struggling," Adrian says. "I know you're trying to juggle too much alone. The offer stands, Elena. All of them. Whenever you're ready."
I can't give him definitive answers about his offers, can't think beyond the next feeding, the next diaper change. I exist in a limbo entirely of my own making, unable to move forward or back.
By Thursday afternoon, desperation drives me to do something I swore I wouldn't—I become a stalker. Henri's social media shows he has a business lunch at La Bernardin.
I leave the twins with Mrs. Chen, throw on my best dress, and take the subway to Midtown.
I wait outside the restaurant like a crazy person, watching through the window as he finishes his meeting. When he emerges, laughing at something his companion says, the sound cuts through me.
"Henri," I call out, and he freezes.
When he turns to look at me, his expression shifts to something worse than anger—he looks at me like I'm a stranger, someone he passes on the street without recognition.
The warmth that used to light up his face when he saw me is completely gone.
"Please," I say, practically running to him, not caring that people are staring. "Please, just give me five minutes. One more chance."
"Elena, this is inappropriate," he says, his voice formal, distant. "I'm working."
"Then after work. Please, Henri." I hate how desperate I sound, but I can't stop. "Let me arrange something special for us, somewhere we can talk properly, and I'll tell you everything. The complete truth this time, I swear."
And I mean it. I've decided over these four horrible days that if Henri truly loves me, he'll accept me with the twins. He said he wanted children with me—maybe he can love ones that already exist.
Maybe we can still build something real from the wreckage of my deceptions.
Henri studies me for a long moment, his gray-green eyes searching for something—sincerity, maybe, or just the strength to walk away.
"One evening," he finally says. "One chance to explain everything. But I choose the venue, and I'm paying. I'm still a gentleman, even if you've made a fool of me."
"Thank you," I breathe. "Thank you, Henri."
"The St. Regis, seven o'clock, room 1247. Don't be late." He walks away without another word, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with hope fluttering in my chest like a wounded bird.
At seven exactly, I knock on the door of suite 1247. Henri lets me in without a word, and I can see he's upgraded whatever I might have planned—the suite is magnificent, with views of Central Park.
"I need to shower first," I say, my nerves making me scattered. "I rushed here, and I just... I need a moment to gather myself before I tell you everything. Is that okay?"
"Take your time," Henri says, settling into an armchair with his drink. "I've waited this long for the truth."
In the bathroom, I let hot water run over me while I practice what I'll say.
How do I explain the twins? The lies? Adrian? How do I make him understand that none of it was meant to hurt him, that I was just trying to protect this fragile thing we were building?
When I emerge in the hotel robe, ready to bare my soul, Henri is sitting on the bed, but something's wrong. He's holding my phone, his face carved from stone, and my blood turns to ice.
He turns the screen toward me, and Adrian's latest message glows accusingly: "Our twins will love it there," accompanied by a photo of a Cyprus resort beach.
But it's the contact name that damns me completely: "Asshole Ex-Husband."
"How long," Henri says, his voice deadly quiet, more terrifying than any shout, "how long ago did your sister's ex-husband and her twins become YOURS, Elena?"
The towel in my hands drops to the floor. My mouth opens, but no words come. Every lie, every deception, every moment of our relationship plays across his face as he pieces together the truth.