Henri stands in my doorway, composed but with shadows under his eyes that suggest a sleepless night. His silver hair is slightly disheveled, his usual perfect presentation cracked just enough to show he's been suffering too.
"I've had time to think," he begins, his accent thicker than usual, a sign of his emotional state.
But I cut him off. I'm done with lies, done with deception, done with pretending to be someone I'm not. If we're going to have any kind of conversation, it needs to start with truth.
"I spent last night with Adrian." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. "We slept together. He wants me back."
The words fall like stones between us, each one creating ripples in the silence. Henri goes completely still, not even breathing for a moment. His face doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts.
I brace for him to leave, to call me names, to finally give up on this impossible situation. I wait for the disgust I saw last night to return, for him to walk away for good this time.
Instead, he asks quietly, "Is that what you want? To go back to him?"
The question catches me off guard. His voice is gentle, genuinely curious rather than accusatory.
"I don't know," I whisper, hating how lost I sound, how completely unmoored I am. "I don't know anything anymore, Henri."
He steps closer, crossing the threshold into my apartment, his gray-green eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
"Do you love him?"
The question breaks something in me. Tears spill over before I can stop them, hot and unwanted, because the answer should be simple but isn't.
Do I love Adrian? I love who he was. I hate who he became. I love the father he could be. I hate the husband he was. I love and hate him in equal measure, and how do I explain that?
"I don't know," is all I manage, my voice breaking on the words.
Before Henri can respond, the twins' cries pierce the moment—both of them waking at once, demanding attention with the urgency only babies can manage.
I turn automatically, grateful for the interruption, needing something to do with my hands, my body, anything to avoid Henri's searching gaze.
I lift Catrice, bouncing her gently while Gatsby continues his protests from his bouncer. "Shh, sweetheart. Mama's here. It's okay."
Henri doesn't leave. I expect him to take this as his cue to go, to walk away from this messy situation, but instead he moves closer, watching me settle the baby with an expression I can't read.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing toward Gatsby.
I nod, surprised, and watch as Henri carefully lifts my son, handling him with more confidence than I expected. Gatsby settles almost immediately, fascinated by this new person with the gentle voice and different smell.
"After much reflection," Henri says softly, swaying slightly with Gatsby in his arms, "I've realized I love you too much to give up so easily."
My hands shake as I adjust Catrice against my shoulder. "Henri…"
"Let me finish, please."
He lifts his gaze from Gatsby back at me.
"You lied to me, yes, and it hurt. But I've had time to think, to understand why. You were protecting yourself, protecting them. You were a woman alone, pregnant, abandoned, and you did what you had to do to survive."
"That doesn't excuse…"
"No, it doesn't," he agrees. "But it explains. And I think, perhaps, I was too quick to judge, too quick to walk away when things became complicated."
He gestures to the twins with his free hand.
"They're beautiful, Elena. They're part of you, which means they could never be a burden to me. If you choose me over Adrian, I'll spend every day proving you made the right choice."
My hands shake harder now, Catrice picking up on my distress and starting to fuss. "Henri, what are you suggesting?"
He steps beside me, his arm sliding around my shoulder with infinite tenderness, careful not to jostle either baby. He looks down at Catrice in my arms like she's precious, not a burden, not an unwanted complication.
"Come to France with me," he says simply. "All three of you. I'll raise them as my own, provide everything they need. The best schools, the best opportunities. You'll never want for anything."
His offer hangs in the air—security, escape, a fresh start in a country where no one knows our complicated history. My mind races, weighing everything at once.
Adrian's lies, years of them, letting me believe I was broken. His cruelty when I told him about the pregnancy. But also his passionate plea last night, his hands on my skin, the chemistry that threatens to consume us both.
Henri's devotion, his romantic soul, his offer of a clean slate. But also the unknown of blending families, of raising another man's children, of whether his love could withstand the daily reality of twins who look like Adrian.
"The twins deserve stability," Henri continues, as if reading my thoughts. "They deserve opportunities, love without the poison of their parents' history haunting them."
"And Adrian?" I ask, though I'm not sure why.
"Adrian will always be their father," Henri says carefully. "I'm not trying to replace him. But I could be the father figure in their daily lives, the one who's there for scraped knees and bedtime stories and school plays."
The distinction stings because it's true. Adrian wants us now, but for how long? Until the novelty wears off? Until he remembers why he pulled away in the first place?
"I have a flight tomorrow," Henri adds gently. "I'm not pressuring you. Just... consider it. Think about what's best for you, for them. Not what Adrian wants, not what I want, but what you need."
I look at my children—Catrice settling against my chest, Gatsby calm in Henri's arms. I look around this apartment with its water stains and peeling paint, where I've struggled for months to make ends meet.
I think of Adrian's penthouse offers, his promises to wait, probably assuming I'll come back because our chemistry will override everything else. Assuming I'm weak.
I think of France. Vineyards and morning markets and a fresh start where the twins could grow up without the shadow of their parents' dysfunction. Where I could be someone new, someone who isn't defined by betrayal and lies.
My lips are dry when I speak, the words coming out before I fully decide: "Okay. We'll go to France with you."
As Henri hands Gatsby back to me and prepares to leave, kissing my forehead gently, I wonder if happiness is even possible anymore. And I try to understand why I don’t experience it fully, mentally returning to Adrian.