Her heart clenches painfully at the sight of them, their lips still entwined. She fades slowly, like a candle snuffed out by a wind too cold. She walks down the grand staircase, each step echoing like a mournful drumbeat in her chest.
When she finally reaches the bottom, she straightens up and, cloaked in an illusion of calm, heads toward them.
— Hey, Nick. How are you?
Nickolas looks at her, his smile radiant, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He walks toward her, relaxed, as if nothing had happened. But behind that smile, there's a flicker of confusion maybe even concern.
— I'm good. And you? How are you feeling?
His voice, soft and sincere, slips between Annaëlle's tangled thoughts. But all she can feel is the cold silence within her, a thick fog refusing to lift.
Annaëlle, forcing a smile that never quite reaches her eyes, lowers her gaze, unsettled by the weight of the moment.
— I'm...
She trails off, the words left suspended, as the atmosphere grows heavier.
Then Estelle, with a gentle, almost tender gesture, steps closer to him and without hesitation takes the bouquet of roses from his hands with a delicacy that sharply contrasts with Annaëlle's growing discomfort.
Estelle, in a sweet, honeyed voice:
— Let me take the bouquet from your hands, my love...
She suddenly turns, shattering the fragile moment.
Estelle, now with a calm yet commanding tone:
— Amandine!
Immediately, Amandine steps forward from the shadows, her demeanor one of near-perfect obedience.
— Yes, mademoiselle.
Though standing with the two of them, Annaëlle feels terribly alone like a spectator trapped in a scene slipping out of her control.
Estelle hands the bouquet to Amandine, her gaze turning colder, more assertive, and unwavering.
— Put the flowers in the vase.
Amandine bows slightly, ready to obey, but before she can move, Estelle casts an annoyed glance at the nearby staff.
Her tone sharp, with little concern:
— You could, for once, ask the servants to handle it.
A soft murmur of discontent doesn't escape Estelle, who approaches the young woman with a frosty sneer. A heavy silence falls between them before Estelle breaks it with a remark laced with superiority.
In a sharp, commanding voice:
— Who's the one in charge here?!
A faint smile curls on the girl's lips as she responds with quiet arrogance, her words carefully measured but her tone biting:
— Your parents... mademoiselle.
Caught off guard by the audacity, Estelle's eyes flash with anger. She steps closer, fingers tightening around the bouquet, ready to explode, her gaze ablaze:
— Are you mocking me?!
Annaëlle, witnessing the exchange, can't hold back a faint laugh barely audible, almost invisible but just enough to thicken the air with discomfort. Her silent laugh seems to drift like a breeze, weakening the already fragile balance.
Estelle's eyes dart toward her, irritation flashing in her expression, but Annaëlle, head lowered, pretends not to notice.
— I'm part of this too, so...
— Oh, drop it.
Her features harden in irritation as she shoots Nick a sharp look:
— I'm not done talking, Nick.
She turns back to Amandine with a smooth yet icy movement, lifts her hand and points at the grand painting dominating the wall. With a crushing sense of superiority, she gestures broadly to show the extent of her dominion:
— I'm part of this. Look at that glorious painting. Do you see what it represents?
She then hands the bouquet to the housekeeper, devoid of emotion just another cold duty to her.
— So obey me.
Her fists clenched, lips tight, she remains mercilessly cold. Her breathing is steady, yet the flash of anger in her eyes betrays the tension running through her. She straightens up, every muscle in her body taut.
— Very well… mademoiselle, she replies calmly, though bitterness slips beneath her words.
A shiver of unease catches in Annaëlle's throat. She turns to her, frustration sparking in her eyes. She can no longer remain silent an overwhelming urge to defend Amandine surges through her.
— You could at least show her some respect… she says, locking eyes with her cousin. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to be more human than this?"
Estelle, pretending not to hear, flashes a tight smile, unfazed by the rising tension. She turns away with an air of indifference and faces Nickolas, as if the previous scene had never taken place.
— Well then… let's go, my love, she says sweetly, adjusting her oversized travel bag slung over her shoulder, too large to look natural.
Annaëlle's eyes fix on the bag, a wave of anxiety mixing with the confusion that overwhelms her.
With a polite smile, he turns toward her, his gaze tinged with sadness. He senses the fog of her unease, but hides it behind a veil of nonchalance.
— See you Monday, Annaëlle, he says, his voice meant to be reassuring but it only deepens the growing chasm between them.
Before stepping out the door, Estelle turns back to Annaëlle, a faintly mocking smile in her eyes.
— Tell Mom and Dad I went to a party. They don't need to worry I'll be back tomorrow. Her voice is soft, almost too soft, but beneath the mask of sweetness lies a flicker of domination. She waits for a reaction, a word from Annaëlle, but the girl is too lost in her thoughts to respond.
Annaëlle nods mechanically, eyes lowered, forcing herself to maintain the mask of composure while a storm brews inside her. The shy smile she wears is a fragile façade one that shatters the moment they turn their backs. Every step they take toward the door tears at her heart a little more. The pain of being overlooked eats away at her, but there's nothing she can do. She knows she'll never be the one he looks at as more than a friend.
Absentmindedly, she slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out the letter that haunting piece of paper. Her eyes trace the words she wrote, the things she never dared to say. She wants to scream the truth at him, to bare her soul. But deep down, she knows it wouldn't change a thing.
And yet… she loves him. Despite everything.