Chapter 2 - The House He Thought Was His
Alexandre stared at his mother.
“What do you mean, it was never my house?”
Hélène glanced at the guests.
“This conversation should probably be private.”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
“You started this in front of everyone. Finish it.”
Valérie looked uncomfortable now.
I didn’t blame her.
Thirty minutes earlier, she had probably imagined herself leaving with a newly promoted executive and beginning some glamorous new chapter.
Instead, she was standing in a room full of his relatives with champagne in her hair while his mother discussed property ownership.
Hélène sighed.
“Very well.”
She looked at me.
“Marianne, did Alexandre ever explain how you two were able to buy this place?”
I frowned.
“We bought it after Étienne died.”
“Yes.”
“Alexandre said his inheritance covered most of the down payment.”
Hélène closed her eyes briefly.
Of all the emotions I expected to see on her face, guilt wasn’t one of them.
“That wasn’t true.”
Alexandre stepped forward.
“Mom.”
“What wasn’t true?” I asked.
“The money wasn’t Alexandre’s inheritance.”
I looked at my husband.
He suddenly seemed fascinated by the frosting on his sleeve.
Hélène continued.
“Étienne left several assets when he died. But this house was handled separately.”
“How?”
“He created a property company years before his death.”
Alexandre interrupted.
“This is irrelevant.”
“No,” Hélène said. “It has become extremely relevant.”
She turned toward me.
“The company purchased this house.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
“Because Étienne wanted to protect you.”
I laughed softly.
“Protect me from what?”
Hélène looked at her son.
“From exactly this.”
Alexandre’s face hardened.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“My father barely knew Marianne when we got married.”
“He knew you.”
That landed hard.
Several relatives looked away.
Alexandre lowered his voice.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Hélène’s face changed.
“I am watching my only son destroy his marriage in front of thirty people. What part of that do you imagine I’m enjoying?”
Alexandre said nothing.
Hélène turned to me again.
“Étienne worried about Alexandre’s impulsiveness. He worried about his spending. His ambition. His tendency to make enormous decisions when he felt humiliated or excited.”
I remembered Étienne.
Formal.
Reserved.
Sometimes difficult.
But during the last year of his life, we had become closer.
Cancer had softened something in him.
Once, while Alexandre was traveling, Étienne had asked me to drive him to a medical appointment.
Afterward, we sat in a café.
He had said something I never forgot.
My son always runs toward whatever makes him feel important. Make sure you don’t disappear while helping him get there.
At the time, I thought it was simply an old man worrying about his child.
Now I understood.
“What exactly did he do?” I asked.
Hélène answered carefully.
“The company owns the house. I controlled the company after Étienne died.”
Alexandre scoffed.
“So it’s yours.”
“No.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Three years ago, I transferred controlling interest.”
He stared at her.
“To who?”
Hélène looked at me.
Nobody moved.
My heart started pounding.
“No,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
Alexandre actually laughed.
“To Marianne?”
“Correct.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s documented.”
“You transferred my father’s property to my wife?”
“Your father instructed me to.”
Alexandre went pale beneath the frosting.
I felt dizzy.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know,” Hélène said.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because Étienne asked that you not be burdened with it unless it became necessary. He hoped it never would.”
Alexandre stared at me as though I had somehow participated in a conspiracy.
“You knew about this.”
“I just told you I didn’t.”
“You must have signed something.”
Hélène answered for me.
“She did.”
I turned toward her.
“When?”
“Three years ago. The documents you signed concerning the family holding company.”
I remembered.
There had been paperwork after a tax restructuring.
Alexandre had pushed a folder toward me at breakfast.
“Mom’s accountant needs these.”
I had signed.
I trusted them.
Apparently Alexandre had never bothered to read them either.
Valérie finally spoke.
“So what does this actually mean?”
Every head turned toward her.
She immediately looked as though she regretted asking.
Hélène answered anyway.
“It means Marianne controls the company that owns this residence.”
Alexandre’s voice dropped.
“But I live here.”
“You both live here.”
“My name is on bills.”
“Utility bills are not deeds.”
“This is insane.”
“No,” Hélène replied. “It is paperwork.”
That almost made me laugh.
Alexandre walked toward the kitchen, then back.
His confidence was evaporating by the second.
“Fine. We sell it.”
Hélène looked at him almost sadly.
“You cannot sell something you do not own.”
“I’m Étienne’s son.”
“Yes.”
“It was his money.”
“Yes.”
“So legally—”
“Legally,” Hélène interrupted, “you have no controlling interest in this property.”
He stopped.
Valérie stepped away from him.
It was subtle.
Maybe nobody else noticed.
I did.
For the first time that evening, she looked at Alexandre not as the powerful Regional Director who had chosen her, but as a man covered in cake who might not own the luxurious home she had imagined leaving with him.
I hated myself for finding that satisfying.
Alexandre pointed at me.
“So she can throw me out?”
Hélène looked at me rather than answering.
That was when I understood what she was doing.
She wasn’t rescuing me.
She was giving me information.
What happened next was my choice.
I looked at Alexandre.
Hours earlier, I had been arranging his favorite flowers.
Now he was staring at me as if the twelve years we had spent together were a negotiation.
I thought about every sacrifice.
When Alexandre was offered his first management position, it required relocation.
I left a job I loved.
When he wanted an executive MBA, we agreed I would carry more household expenses while he studied.
When his father became sick, I coordinated appointments because Alexandre was traveling constantly.
When Alexandre wanted to network late into the night, I told myself this was what partnership looked like.
I had never kept score.
That was the point of love.
But apparently he had mistaken generosity for weakness.
“Are you throwing me out?” he asked.
The room waited.
I looked at the gym bag.
“You packed.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You planned to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Then leave.”
“Marianne—”
“No. You wanted authenticity.”
I pointed toward the door.
“Go live it.”
Valérie whispered something to him.
He ignored her.
“This is still my home.”
“You said it suffocated you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You brought another woman through our front door because you thought I was gone.”
“That was stupid.”
“No. Stupid is forgetting an anniversary. Stupid is putting diesel in a gasoline car. This required planning.”
He looked around.
Suddenly, the audience mattered to him.
“Can everyone please leave?”
Nobody moved.
Then my father stepped forward.
He had been silent until then.
“You heard Marianne.”
Alexandre stared at him.
My father pointed at the door.
“Go.”
Alexandre’s face reddened.
“You don’t get to order me out.”
Hélène stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Her voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
She looked at Alexandre.
“Take your bag.”
He stared at his mother.
“You’re choosing her?”
Hélène’s face crumpled for half a second.
“I am choosing not to pretend that what you did tonight is acceptable.”
Alexandre swallowed.
Then he grabbed the gym bag.
Valérie followed him.
At the door, he turned toward me.
“This isn’t over.”
I looked at him.
“No. It isn’t.”
He left.
The door closed.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then I started shaking.
My mother reached me first.
I collapsed into her arms.
The party dissolved around me.
Guests quietly gathered coats.
Someone cleaned the cake.
Someone removed the banner.
My cousin Claire hugged me and cried harder than I did.
Within forty minutes, the house was almost empty.
Hélène remained.
She found me sitting on the staircase.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not telling you sooner.”
I looked at her.
“Did you know about Valérie?”
“No.”
I believed her.
Then she sat beside me.
“There is something else.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please tell me there isn’t another house.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
“No.”
Then her expression became serious.
“Alexandre may have lied to you about more than the affair.”
I turned.
“What do you mean?”
Hélène reached into her handbag.
She removed an envelope.
“I received this yesterday.”
The return address belonged to a bank.
My bank.
Our bank.
And when Hélène handed me the letter, I saw a number that made my stomach drop.
May you like
€186,000.
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