Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

A cathedral of leaves covered the night sky of Forêt de Montmorency. The land was completely isolated; I heard nothing but the shrill screeching of cicadas. As the van moved deeper into the woods, the smell of damp earth and moss intensified. I turned my head to scan the area, where darkness enveloped me and only the headlights illuminated the land. I maneuvered the van toward a large tree and parked. Before leaving the vehicle, I removed my thick glasses and pulled on the mask.

I stepped out in silence and turned off the lights. I continued toward the site, where I had already pre-dug the area, hauling the jet sled with the double polyethylene tarp inside. It was not a long walk. The trail ran along dry ridges. At the dug site, I covered my hiking shoes with surgical overshoes. It had taken two hours, and my arms felt heavy from moving the body. The ticking of my wristwatch turned the moment into a race against time; I had to move quickly. Using a reference photo, I had taken earlier, I rearranged the dry earth to mimic its previous state.

After a few moments of fixing, I left the forest, still avoiding the main road, and drove all the way to Chauvry. Daniel Robert was not hard to track; he was like the shallow people I had met. He kept his social media public, too convenient, considering he thought he was sharing some grand philosophical act as a respected womanizer among his followers. Gambling, drugs, and women. A real pillar of the community. Once, I saw one of his pictures with a young woman, long blonde hair, grey eyes, model type, lacking any discernible depth in the camera’s flash. She wore a two-piece, his hands latched onto her posterior. Le retour de chasse. If I were his hunting buddy, I would say, nice catch. But I would not stoop to his low-level intellect.

When I reached the quiet village of Chauvry, houses lined the highway, with cars parked neatly alongside one another. Robert looked less like a man of Chauvry and more like something dragged from a gutter. I laughed at the thought. How fatuous of me.

I drove the van to the back of the neighborhood and hid it in the nearby forest. Stealthily, I moved in, scanning the area. Robert’s bungalow was poorly maintained. Compared to his old photos online, it now looked abandoned, even more depressed. Weeds had grown over the lawn. The driveway held a pile of trash that had not been thrown out for a long time, along with sealed boxes. His car was parked crookedly, beer bottles scattered across the concrete.

Circling the area, I noticed the car window was half open. Then suddenly, a light flicked on inside. I quickly crouched, hiding behind the car, and waited. When the light turned off, I rose to my knees, reached the window, and carefully slid in the pearl earring, scattering strands of Rose’s hair inside.

At the van on the way to Clichy, I had already changed clothes, worn bulky sweater, an oversized parka, and thick square glasses. The drive was smooth, it was the dead of the night at 04:20 I arrived at a parking lot and boarded the bus to Rue De Rivoli.

After fifteen minutes, I reached Smith & Son; the shop was dark and isolated. I quickly slid the mask back over my face and unlocked the front door with a copied key while the alarm panel blinked red in the darkness. I entered the code 1-5-9-5 and waited until the light turned green. With a gloved hand, I pushed the glass door and quietly moved to a blind spot, avoiding the security camera.

Reaching the manager’s office, I caught the lingering smell of coffee and sweat. There were two locked metal file cabinets and a jacket hanging on the coat rack. The trash bin was full. A pack of cigarettes lay on the desk, along with a notebook, some receipts, and a crumpled paper. I slid my fingers across the desk, thinking where he could hide his stash. I started with the boxes beneath it and came across a pile of receipts and a small leather bag labeled “voided receipts 2021.”

When I unzipped the bag, a small sachet, some paraphernalia, and foil caught my attention. It was foolish to leave these things here. Then I remembered the red-haired woman I had seen earlier; she had been talking on the phone and mentioned Robert’s coke. She might have been rummaging through her boss’ things and had not thought to hide them properly.

Brushing the thought aside, I pulled sachets of ketamine and a few roofies from my bag and hid them among the other drugs inside the leather bag.

Before leaving, I checked the interface on the right side of the desk and entered the same password. It was incorrect. After a moment of thought, I remembered the notepad. I flipped through its pages, found a scribble of numbers, and tried them on the interface, hoping it would open. Once I confirmed I was not captured by the security camera, I left the premises.

Upon returning to the manor, I obliterated all evidence in the boiler room and wiped clean the van and the kitchen where Rose might have touched, took a shower, and rested.

Five months had passed since then. It was the usual morning; I had my coffee and drove to work. I waited until the chaotic frequency of the city shifted. The news cycle had finally latched onto the discovery. A jogger with his dog had discovered the remains and had alerted the authorities.

The next day, the infection had spread to the hospital. Two nurses huddled by the station, whispering about the woman found in buried in the mountain.

“They say it was brutal,” one whispered, clutching her chart. “What kind of animal could do that?”

I walked past them, offering a polite, somber nod.

After a month I returned to Smith & Son as a shy customer, I kept myself concealed in a sweatshirt with an animated logo, my wavy hair falling low over my brows as I moved along the aisles near the postcard rack. I made a point of appearing absorbed in the books, though my attention was elsewhere.

The red-haired woman, whom Robert had called Irene, looked visibly irritated by his neurotic, nasal voice.

“Irene! Have you prepared the monthly reports?” he sneered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Monsieur Robert, wasn’t that Rose’s responsibility?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Speaking of Rose, I haven’t seen her for months now. Weird, don’t ya think? And did she quit?”

“I don’t know about that scoundrel. She always makes excuses!” he snapped.

“Thought she was your favorite, huh?” she teased, her face flushing as she laughed. “Why aren’t you looking for her, though?”

“Shut up! Get back to the counter!” Robert hissed before retreating to his office.

Irene waited until his back was turned before making a face. She resumed filing her nails, then lifted her phone and began taking selfies, as if the interruption had never happened.

“He should fire her. She’s always dumping her responsibilities on me,” Irene whispered.

As I pushed open the glass door, Irene gave me a brief side glance before returning to her phone. Where I immediately lowered my gaze, adjusting my spectacles.

Back at the estate, I rested on the couch, absorbed in whiskey, while the newscaster’s voice droned robotic in my head. I had intended to keep Rose longer, to feel her more, but she was too fragile. I missed her scent, though, and that look on her face when she came. If l’amour had only let me move on from this moment so I could go back to birdwatching. Only this time, if she allowed me. The next canvas would not have a rabble in her life. There were wild birds roaming about, but they had not yet reached my radar. And the question still stood: had Rose vexed me?

It was no longer a whisper; it had a voice, lower, aggressive, and persuasive. A symphony of flesh, longing intertwined with the mutilation of fragile skin. It was all I could taste, smothering images of the canvas flooding in until I could not breathe, a contradiction in how the body responded. I lay on the couch, watching the canvases circle in the garden. Bound, gagged, gashed, and chained.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

After the hospital duty, I changed my clothes at a public restroom then commuted to Smith & Son. I surveyed the area looking for Robert, but instead, I found this redheaded woman in her twenties dusting the counter. Robert was not in sight; maybe he was still in Nice, busy with his mistress or whatever. The black turtleneck and the bonnet I wore made me a usual customer who just came to browse, while the large reading glasses distorted how I looked. The redheaded girl at the counter did not even look at me; she neither greeted the other customers who passed her. She was busy with her own business.

“Can you believe it? Jaque’s got a party tonight,” the redheaded woman at the counter said, talking on the phone with a guy on video call. “Yeah, I gotta leave early. Boss’ not around.”

“Why are you so lucky!” the man said. “Would you just sneak out the back? Carlos will drive you and pick me up, ‘kay?”

“Yup! I’ll sneak the old man’s coke, and ‘course I met his guy,” she said whispered. Her petite figure and almost puppy eyes didn’t show how untamed she was. “Found the peeping tom last night!”

I did not expect Robert to be doing drugs. I thought he was just a dirty old man. The old kingpin was something else entirely.

When I got back to the manor, Mr. Dubois and Mrs. Moreau had already left. Out on the patio, I scanned the area, then turned the key and entered through the main door. The receiving hall was dim, and as I stepped inside, the smell of peppermint hung in the air. My mind was fixed on something else. All I could think about was her metamorphosis. Rose was ready to leave. I felt heavy and tired. I considered resigning for the night, postponing what I had planned. But I forced myself to take a shower and go through with it. The information I had was something I knew could be useful in the future. Drugs and Robert, a package of rotting dessert.

In the chamber where Rose lay asleep, I brought her a tray of hot soup and a glass of water. When she heard the clatter of utensils and the tray, she stirred weakly. Rose licked her lips, drawn to the aroma of the food. I brushed the strands of her hair and looked at her once more. She had improved since the last time I checked on her.

I knew I could not keep her. Rose had stopped being the canvas. She had become a stale bread, something past its use, and I had to move on. Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori (Virgil). If not for l’amour, nothing else mattered. But all things came to an end. And the end was now, and all had to be forgotten.

This time, Rose did not fight. Instead, she followed when I told her to sit down. She could only communicate through her facial expressions, nodding or staring blankly into the distance. When I checked her temperature, I noticed that the bruising from the needles was slightly fading. Even the sores on her back were healing.

On the seventh night of being her caregiver, Rose’s complexion returned to its natural pinkish flush. But she was still groggy and silent; she didn’t even dare to look at me. I realized then that she would never treat me as her l’amour. I would only be the caregiver to this sullen girl.

There was no struggle during the cleaning. She was seated in the bathtub, even though the water had been mixed with diluted sodium hypochlorite. Rose was dressed in a white shirt and faded jeans. I knew she felt it was her last day in the chamber. Rose did not even twitch as I carefully inspected her body, making sure nothing of me remained.

While she was seated on the bed, I covered her face with a cloth dampened in sevoflurane. Rose fell face-down onto the mattress. I immediately carried her out, leaving the hidden room locked. In the kitchen, I seated her in a chair facing the doorway, slightly loosening the cloth from her face and removing the restraints from her arms. It was already 22:45. The entrance was open, the backyard was visible, and the moonlight illuminated her face.

Once I was hidden in the forest, three yards from the manor, Rose slowly regained consciousness, her eyes fluttering as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. I observed her through the scope. She treaded carefully, balancing herself as she tried to stand. Rose was still groggy, her movements erratic, her knees buckling with every second step. She didn’t just walk; she listened. When she reached the door, adrenaline took over as she stepped out onto the patio. Her attempts were in vain, however, as her body moved far too slowly.

“Help!” Her voice was thin, shattering against the heavy air of the manor, unable to carry even a meter into the silent void of the trees.

I tracked her heat signature as she moved. My eyes focused on her as I counted the minutes in my head. I waited for her, while my finger resting on the trigger guard. Rose paused for a second, her chest heaving, her head turning frantically to check for me. She thought I was gone. She thought she had found a miraculous salvation. The wind caught her hair, whipping it across her face. She took one step toward the trees. Then another. She was sprinting now, fueled by the hope of survival, believing she was seconds away from the sanctuary of the woods.

“Help! Help!” The plea rasped from her throat. Her knees struggled, her frame swaying as she nearly lost her balance against her lingering weakness. Her eyelids were heavy and inflamed, purple and swollen from hours of tears and exhaustion.

“Help me… please help me,” she whimpered, the desperation in her voice fraying into a thin, hollow thread.

I adjusted for windage as I exhaled slowly, aiming at her chest before slowly moving the crosshairs to her head. As her foot touched the prepared tarp, I squeezed the trigger. That moment felt like the rebirth of something else. Something in us had entered meiosis, dividing quietly beneath the surface. We had both ceased breathing, and only death could separate us from each other, like La Mort de Francesca da Rimini. The rifle coughed, a dry, suppressed sound swallowed instantly by the dense timber. There was no scream. The subsonic round struck accurately. Her body simply ceased to be a living thing mid-stride, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. I engaged the rifle’s safety and stood up. I cycled the bolt, catching the brass casing in my gloved hand before it could hit the ground.

The taste of metal flooded my mouth after Rose dropped vertically to the tarp, lifeless. It felt like raw meat had been forced inside, my tongue moving over its uneven texture. My heart pounded, yet I felt hollow. The breeze from the forest carried the same cold that settled in my stomach as I moved quickly to her body. Her blood mixed with yellowish fluid that pooled beneath her head, seeping into the frozen earth.

Back at the shed, I gathered the materials. When I returned, I stood over her, staring, weighing whether to remove the bullet. I paused, aware of the stillness around me.

Rose looked serene, her arms flexed and her legs stiffening. But on her face, only a punch-press-like hole was visible on her forehead. Her eyes were bruised, and her pupils were dilated. Kneeling beside her, I pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and began the extraction using the medical kit I had prepared.

I used the scalpel to make several crooked incisions then switched to a hunting knife to hack at the skin and muscle. I dug the blade into the puncture and pried at the bone until I could reach in with the hemostats. There was a sharp, metallic grit as I drew the slug out. The bullet had flattened against the interior of her skull like a lead coin. I sealed the lead in a sterile glass vial and placed the bloodied tools and gloves into a bag for incineration.

I pulled a few strands of her hair, sealing them in a pristine sachet before stowing it deep within my kit. I unclasped a small pearl earring from her left ear and dropped it into a sterile plastic bag. Her shoes were also removed and placed in a separate bag.

Once settled, I covered her head with a double black garbage bag, securing it to prevent leakage, and transferred the body onto a clean tarp. I pulled a hand spade from my bag and dug out the soil contaminated with her blood, placing the clumps into a medium-sized black bag. The soil had already been disturbed, so I used a blowtorch to destroy any remaining trace, then raked pine needles over the scar in the ground, mimicking the scratching of a wild animal.

The tarp was sealed tightly. It was an ugly, shapeless thing now, a cocoon of plastic containing the corpse. I set a disposable floor liner in the back of the van, placed the jet sled on top of it, and loaded the package, where I covered it with another layer of tarp, fastening it carefully so it would not move. The vehicle already smelled of earth and fertilizer.

Before finally leaving, I took a quick shower and changed into my prepared dark activewear: low-cut Belleville Mini-Mil hiking shoes paired with a balaclava to cover my face and a fresh pair of dark nitrile gloves.

Near the grim fortress of La Roche-Guyon lay a U-shaped bend in the Seine River, where I threw the pieces of earth along with her phone, still turned off. I did not stay long, as I had to travel all the way to the Forêt de Montmorency to bury the body of old l’amour.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Sunday evening, I sat at the high-backed chair with a wine glass on my hand, while I watched Rose regain consciousness. The book of Arthur Rimbaud rested on my lap as my eyes scanned the pages. All the while, Rose raised her head searching for me. I settled the wine glass on the side table before I started to recite the passages from the book.

“Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.” Turning the page, my finger tracing the stanza. I looked up at her, reciting the next line.

Rose didn’t respond. Instead, she was trying to remove the gag from her mouth. I paid her no attention and continued.

“One evening, I sat Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I reviled her.” I paused for a minute and observed her, wondering if she would succeed. Even though, I already knew that she couldn’t remove the gag. So, I continued.

“I armed myself against justice,” I said, one finger pointing to each word, as if I wanted to make sure everything had been read.

“Stop it.” Her voice was a rasp, cutting through the meter of the poem.

Maybe I overestimated Rose. She did remove the gag. But she was blurting nonsense, ruining Rimbaud. I sighed at her behavior; it wasn’t expected. Yet, I was understanding of her. Perhaps she was just tired. Rose’s posture, even when she was restrained to the bed, seemed too fragile. I knew she wouldn’t dare to disrespect me even further. Therefore, I resumed reading.

“I ran away. O witches,” I said, turning my gaze toward her. I waited for her to speak, testing whether she would really dare to go even further with her insolence. Then, there she was. She couldn’t help but protest.

“I said stop it!” she snapped louder this time. “Do you think reading this... this garbage makes you great? It just makes you pathetic!”

I stopped, feeling the disrespect from her sudden disruption, my finger resting on the line. I did not look up. I waited for the silence to return before I closed the book, my attention shifted to her. The soft thud of the cover echoed through the small room. Her eyes were blindfolded, but her mouth was like that of an insolent child, trying to taunt me. My chest felt the cold acid rising, and I felt the burn of her insult, yet I did not let her words control my reaction.

“Please, just stop! Stop whatever it is you are doing,” she sneered. “You are nothing! You are scared! Let me go!”

Rose cried. She couldn’t stop sobbing, choking on her own disdain. Rose wasn’t content; she even spat on the floor, dangerously close to my Dublin black leather shoe.

“You are nothing,” she whimpered.

Clearing my throat while I stared at the spittle on the pristine tile, then back at her. My lips remained silent, wondering if I had been careless before when I had tightly secured the gag over her mouth, and she had easily moved it aside. Disrespecting Rimbaud was unacceptable.

Rose’s figure seemed weak, thin, and pale. How could such a delicate frame act so tough? Why did she keep being so delusional, thinking that if she insulted me, I would instantly set her free? Was she this dumb? Taunting me wouldn’t give her the power she desperately sought.

Standing up from the chair, I placed the Rimbaud volume gently on the side table. My hands reached for the shelf and pulled down a different book. It was the heavy medical encyclopedia.

Pulling a long silk cord from the drawer. I tied a noose and draped it over her neck. She froze, her insults dying in her throat as the silk settled against her skin. I tossed the other end over the rafter and secured it to the heavy book. The weight lifted. The noose tightened, forcing her chin upward.

Then I pressed my thumb hard behind her ear. She gasped in pain, her mouth flying open. I shoved the thick knot of the rope between her teeth and immediately let go of the book. Gravity took over. The book dropped. Her head snapped back violently, caught only by the clamp of her teeth on the knot. The heavy volume swayed behind her, a pendulum of dead weight pulling against her jaw. She made a choked, terrifying sound. She realized instantly that if she opened her mouth, the book would fall, and the noose would strangle her.

I pulled the chair directly in front of her and sat. Drawing the .45 caliber from my holster, the slide sounded thunderous in the absolute silence as a round was chambered. I pressed the cold muzzle against her arm. She flinched, a violent shudder running through her bound limbs. The rope creaked into her teeth. Slowly, the barrel dragged up to her face, resting against her cheekbone. Veins in her neck bulged as she fought the weight. Her pulse was visible beneath the angle of her jaw; its beat counted every second of her survival. The gun leveled out, hovering right in front of her face.

After that, I waited and watched her intently, anticipating the moment she might lose her strength holding the weight. Two minutes passed. The room was deathly quiet, filled only with the sound of her ragged breathing through her nose. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her masseter muscles spasmed under her skin. I could sense her slowly losing control. Fatigue had taken over her jaw.

Then suddenly, there was a smell; it was acrid and pungent. It invaded the chamber’s synthetic floral scent. I noticed a dark stain spreading across the silk of her dress. She was trembling; her body was reacting with anxious, involuntary tremors. I glanced down at the mess, then back at her, keeping the pistol leveled at her face. I was waiting for her mouth to give up the rope. The gun went back into its holster as her movements were watched. My attention drifted to the grandfather clock in the corner, the minutes counted in silence as they ticked by.

Her jaw was trembling violently. I watched the rope slip between her teeth. But before she finally let the rope go, I quickly left the chair. I stood near the contraption, waiting for the heavy book to fall. Her mouth snapped open, and the weight dropped. The book was caught in mid-air, inches from the noose that threatened her windpipe, relieving the tension on her neck. She slumped forward, spitting out, but refused to look back. Her head remained turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking. The cord left a mark on the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry...” she gasped in horror. “Why are you doing this?”

I stood in front of Rose while observing her reaction. The voice modulator clicked off. The mechanical hum died, leaving only silence. Leaning down, my lips brushing her ear.

“Because you let it,” I whispered, revealing my true voice for the first time.

Her mouth hung open but the words died in her throat. The realization paralyzed her and her entire body drenched in a cold, nervous sweat. I slid the gag back between her teeth and secured the strap. Then I reached for the syringe from the tray and drew up a few cc’s of rocuronium. Pressing the clear liquid into her vein. Enough to turn her muscles to water but leave the mind awake.

Once the drug had kicked in, I removed the restraints from her arms and legs and carried her immediately to the bathroom, where I washed the smell of urine from her skin. Then afterwards, left her seated on the chair, tied. While I changed the sheets. When everything was set, I carried her back to the bed and secured her there.

At this moment, she was not blindfolded. Her eyes gazed at the ceiling; she never once looked at me. The restraints had marked her arms, and I noticed a bruise forming on the surface of her skin. It was all from the IV.

I was about to leave her there because I was tired myself, but her legs were spread, it was inviting. So, I came back and traced my fingers over her soft skin, from her feet up to her thighs, where the silk slid carefully aside to reveal what was underneath. I bit my lip, trying to stop the intrusive thoughts; I was caving in to the pressure. I felt the veins inside of me start to heat up; it was electrifying. It was so sudden that I had to remove the restraint from her right arm. Then, I gently took her hand as I let her bony fingers fondle my pants. I was breathing heavily. I had to remove her hand away from me. I was clenching my jaw from the thoughts of touching her.

It was the point of no return. I knew I had to do it. Rose continued to muse, as if far away. The indifference she was showing was distracting me. But it was expected; it was better than yelling. I continued to touch her. As I slowly closed my eyes, I saw Phaedra. I felt the curse between us. It was forbidden, yet it felt better than breathing.

I pulled the pillow behind her and smothered her with it as I continued to move on top of her. I heard her muffled cries, but I was about to come. When I removed the pillow from her face, she was convulsing. I thought it was the end, but after a moment she stopped, tears streaming down her almond eyes. When she had finally relaxed, I lifted her into my arms, carrying her gently to the bathroom.

Her clavicles stood sharp against her pale skin. She was wasting away; her vitality was gone, and her essence had simply vanished. This time I did not administer the IV drip to her, as I had to let her wounds heal. I kept Rose in this state for more than a week, until the bruises were healed and drug chemicals had finally flushed out of her system. Since she had no strength to fight, Rose sat there; her arms were tied, but her legs were not. I moved her legs every night to let the blood flow equally, moving her in different positions.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

That morning, the manor was silent, both staff were out on leave. In the kitchen basement, I had already thrown the linens into the washer. Next, I sat on a folding chair, made myself a coffee, turned on the radio, and waited. I was thinking about last night; it felt like a catapult of disappointment. I had to work double time today but still wanted to continue what I had started with Rose.

Back in the bedroom, nearly ready for work, I could not resist checking the feed. Rose finally woke up. She thrashed erratically on the bed, tugging at the ropes binding her. Rose tried to scream, but her mouth was muzzled. Desperate, she worked her jaw against the tight fabric, straining and stretching the material until she finally forced it down below her chin. Alarmed, I frantically ran down the stairs to the chamber.

I thought she would be weak by now. Her voice, almost static, hissed through the feed’s speaker. I had to immediately lower the volume.

“Help!!!” she screamed; her voice drowned out by the piano concerto. The blindfold obscured her eyes, and panic crept into her voice.

Rose’s face turned red and she was crying profusely. Her breathing was shallow. On the feed’s screen, I tapped the microphone and uttered the words she desperately needed but did not expect.

“Arthur?” I asked in a low, breathy voice, waiting for her response.

“What? What the hell is this? What am I doing here?” she sobbed. Rose jolted in protest, and I knew she was not going to give up.

On the feed, I played a recording of a man screaming in agony. With a loud shriek, the chamber filled with the wailing sound.

Rose turned her head, searching. “Who’s that?!” she shouted as she backed away from the headrest. “Please stop! Please don’t kill me!”

She yanked her wrists violently, trying to wrench them free until the friction burned her skin. Her efforts were in vain, as the restraints still securely prevented her from escaping.

“If I were you. I wouldn’t resist,” I whispered, my voice cutting through the screams.

Meanwhile, back in the chamber, Rose’s head followed the sound of my footsteps, trying to locate where I was going. I paused, watching her carefully, licking my soft pinkish lips as I brushed back the waves of my dark hair. She faced the wrong direction, blind to where I truly was.

“Please! Please don’t hurt me. You don’t have to do this. Please… let me go!” she cried, her weak frame backing away as far as the restraints allowed.

A few steps from her bedside, I retrieved the prepared syringe from the table. I held her forearm to inject the sedative. Rose wrestled against my grip, so I tightened my hold even more. Her strength wasn’t enough to sustain the fight, and she fell still; even so, she looked more defeated.

“What are you doing? What’s that?” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt... me…”

“Shh,” I said, placing a finger over her lips. “Please don’t move. Relax.”

Rose was once a Madonna in my eyes. But lately, she had metamorphosed into something nightmarish, something hideous. Her hands had once carried the softness of cashmere; now they resembled a cadaver’s, reaching out with a grotesque imitation of seduction.

The next morning, I took the first bus to the hospital. As usual, it was crowded. The cramped space smelled of sweat and urine, so I slid open the window. When I reached the stop near the hospital at 08:00, my assistant Claire was already waiting for me. Her hands were clasped tightly together, and her eyes squinted as she scanned the people on the sidewalk.

“Good morning, Doctor Hoffmann. I’m sorry, I was trying to reach you,” she said, wincing. “I have to leave for a while; I had an emergency back home.”

“Alright, go on. What time will you return?” I asked, gripping the strap of my messenger bag. “Let me know ASAP if you can’t make it back, yes?”

“I will. Thank you, Doctor,” she said hastily, calling the nearest cab.

At the hospital, the guard smiled warmly as I entered the building. The smell of disinfectant and the sound of loud footsteps filled the hallway. Patients lined the reception area, waiting to be called. The air felt heavy, and the putrid mix of death and medicine lingered everywhere I went.

In the clinic, I found the patients’ files neatly stacked on the desk. I reviewed each one carefully before calling the next patient in for consultation. At 10:00, more patients started to line the hallway. My eyes fell on my wristwatch; two hours had passed since Claire left, and she had not called. I was not worried by her emergency, but her absence and her failure to call. I quickly dialed Claire’s number, but before it connected, she appeared at the door, panting. Claire’s hair was disheveled and she smelled of sweat and exhaustion.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Hoffmann,” she said, catching her breath.

I was not in the mood to respond to her. Instead, I let the awkward silence hang in the air, pulled the file from the desk, and handed it to her. Claire did not hesitate; she knew I was seriously annoyed. She took the document and went outside to call the next patient.

After a few hours of rounds and checkups, I took a short lunch at the nearby bistro, taking my time and resting in complete solitude.

Once I was back at the hospital, still in scrubs, my attention was called by an orderly.

“Doctor Halbrecht is calling for you for an emergency airway!” the orderly exclaimed.

“I’m on my way,” I replied, my pace quickening toward the ER.

Inside, the bay was a controlled chaos of monitors and shouting. Nurses surrounded a patient whose face was distorted by severe angioedema. His lips and tongue were doubled in size, turning a terrifying shade of blue.

“Doctor Hoffmann,” Halbrecht shouted over the alarm of the vitals monitor. “Anaphylaxis. We’ve pushed two rounds of epi and steroids, but the throat is closed. I can’t intubate because there’s too much swelling.”

I glanced at the monitor; the oxygen saturation was plummeting. There was no time for the theater.

“We’re doing it here,” I commanded, snapped on a pair of gloves. “Scalpel. 11-blade. Get me a cric-kit and suction, now.”

The room fell into a focused silence as I positioned myself at the patient’s head. I felt for the notch in his neck, the cricothyroid membrane, and made the incision. A spray of blood hit my gown, but then came the sharp, wet hiss of air finally reaching the lungs. We observed the patient until he was stabilized. The orderly began to wipe the floor while the nurse checked the patient’s vitals. I instructed the medical staff to move the patient into the theater for conversion to a formal tracheostomy before he was finally transferred to the ICU.

The sterile hum of the hospital faded into the low rattle of the bus. When I arrived back at the manor, I decided to take the rest of the day to myself and sleep early.

That weekend morning, I spent most of my time in the library, reading and relaxing on the couch. Half asleep, I listened to Debussy.

In retrospect, all the dates and movie nights with the flower downstairs had been precious, just enough to bring me closer to her. But had I really been this gentle, admiring her grotesque beauty when she had given me nothing but contempt?

Mais qu’est-ce qui m’a pris?

The sound of continuous knocking at the antique wooden doors of the study pulled me out of my reverie.

“Come in,” I announced, feeling the heaviness of my eyelids.

“Sir, forgive the intrusion, but your lunch is being served in the dining hall,” Mrs. Moreau said, opening the door halfway.

“Alright,” I said, standing from the couch as I watched her close the door.

The afternoon sun spilled through the windows; my thoughts were fixed on Rose. As I took each bite of the salade niçoise, I remembered the day she had once told me I was the only one who listened to her, who tolerated her. I could not understand why she would not acknowledge me now. Had I been that brutal when she needed fixing?

I had almost lost my temper, nearly ripping the beautiful patterned roses from the table runner when Mrs. Moreau gasped in horror. She bowed her head and left the dining hall at once, disappearing through the kitchen door. With the plate in hand, I followed her.

“Mrs. Moreau?” I called. “The salad tasted rather plain today.”

With a sullen look, she threw the half-finished plate away and then looked back at me.

“Again, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better next time,” Mrs. Moreau muttered.

I returned to the study to monitor the feed. Rose was still restrained to the bed. It had been five days since she arrived, and each day had been a struggle. One night, she even managed to push me aside and dart toward the heavy steel door. She banged on it hysterically, screaming for help. But Rose was no match for my strength; I caught up to her quickly and restrained her from behind. I remembered the way her eyes had glared at me. It was the same hatred she had shown ever since.

Every night, I washed Rose, careful not to damage her delicate skin. But the early signs of decubitus ulcers had formed along her back. I treated the redness with ointment while she cried in pain, her protests muffled by the gag.

An hour later, she regained consciousness, though her body remained limp and heavy. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, until it snagged on the IV bag suspended beside her.

“I’m so thirsty,” she whispered.

I fetched a glass of water and supported the back of her head to help her drink. Her eyelids fluttered before her body suddenly recoiled. She vomited, and the smell of bile filled the chamber. I changed the dispenser’s fragrance.

Rose did not straighten right away, staying folded forward as her breathing came in uneven pulls. Her face had gone pale. “I feel sick,” she said.

I knew she was acting, trying to distract me. She left me no choice but to strike her across the face. The impact was sharp, and a dark bruise began to bloom against her pale skin. She let out a low, broken groan. I felt the pulse in my temple and the sweat dripping down my face. It was not my intention, but it had to be done.

The extra work she pushed down on me, just to clean her mess again. Felt like an anomaly, it was like she was the one in control. So once more, I sat beside her, while I wrapped the tourniquet around her arm, searching for a vein before I administered ketamine. Her breath reeked of puke, so I had to spray an antibacterial breath freshener.

Hours had passed. She was completely disoriented, her dilated pupils fixed on the ceiling. I was seated on the chair, reading, though the letters jiggled and blurred on the page. My attention kept drifting back to her. I forced myself to look away, swallowing the thoughts before they formed properly. Rose was on her side, her thighs thick and her hips emphasized. It was like a living sculpture.

I went to her side, once again ripped off her dress. She did not twitch, no reaction at all. So, I continued touching her from behind. I was under her spell. I visualized Judith beheading Holofernes. I was gripping her hips and yanking her toward me from behind. I kept going until I felt fulfilled, until the tension drained away from me. Her arms jerked; her skin showed a pinkish bruise from her position. I was pulling her hair and bashing her head on the pillow. She groaned under the push and pull of my arms.

And when I was done, I took the wet towel and wiped her skin. Rose was slowly disintegrating. She was losing herself. She was like a living corpse. It seemed like she was completely gone. Rose was much better than before.

When I left the chamber, I deluged myself in the shower. In the closet, I pulled out a fatigue jacket and a black shirt. I had to get out for a moment; I needed to clear my head and figure something out. So, I drove the sedan through the countryside with no destination in mind. Hours later, I reached the city and parked near a bistro, where the crowd chatted and some swung to the loud music. I made my way to the bar and ordered a top-shelf whiskey. When the bartender handed me the glass, I nodded and offered a faint smile. I lowered my gaze, stared at the amber liquid, and finally drank, emptying the glass.

“One more of this, s’il vous plaît,” I said, placing another bill on the counter.

I lingered at the bistro for a few hours, drinking at least five glasses of the same whiskey before deciding to walk through the night market. Each vendor offered their wares; some ignored me, others were busy with other customers. Near the river, two people French-kissed and held hands as if poised to leap, like Othello. I sighed at how hollow it all felt, wondering how soon they would tire of each other. Though the night sky distracted me from sinking further into thought, I eventually made my way back to the parking lot and drove to the estate.

How do I keep Rose from losing her essence? The words struck me, drilling into my rotting skull.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

I excused myself and let Rose enter the Smith & Son store, while waiting by the Seine. She waved as she closed the glass door. I used the moment to stay outside, away from anyone who might saw us. As I sat there, my attention drifted to a child throwing a loud tantrum, pulling his mother’s arm toward an ice cream vendor. When I was his age, Mother would never have allowed that. I would not have dared to scream in public over something so trivial. I was usually kept in the house library instead, away from her guests, the Hoffmann-Klein circle, all that glamour and those snobbish, self-important parties.

Rose came back after thirty minutes, her hips swaying as she approached.

“Hey, Rose,” I said, waving. “What happened? What’s with the expression?”

“My boss, that’s why,” she said as she sat beside me. “He was furious about my absence. He even said I was making excuses and that he was short-staffed because of me.”

“Did he ask you for a medical certificate?” I asked.

“No. Oh, shoot. Merde! I forgot. The med cert,” Rose exclaimed. “And before you say anything, don’t offer. I can manage that myself.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I replied. “Then what else happened?”

“I apologized. Told him I had the flu,” she said. Her face tightened before she continued. “He wouldn’t accept it. Monsieur Robert said next week I’ll be on overtime, and I have to finish this month’s sales report too.”

“He’s just picking on you, Rose,” I said, smirking and shaking my head. “Sounds like he doesn’t know how to run things.”

Rose raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting. “Why are you smirking? What’s funny? I don’t think you’re taking me seriously.”

“What? Of course, I’m taking you seriously. Don’t start,” I said, raising my brows. “I was smirking because it was ridiculous for him to react like it was the end of the world.”

“Don’t do that when I’m serious,” she snapped, crossing her arms.

“Rose,” I said with a sigh, lowering my head. “Do you want me to deal with him?”

“No, you don’t have to,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Why?” I asked, resting my arms on the backrest of the bench.

“I told you before, I can’t lose my job.” Rose leaned her head against my shoulder. “Monsieur Robert wasn’t like that before. He actually helped me find a place to stay.”

“Predators don’t show their true colors, Rose,” I remarked, moving closer to her.

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the park. “If I hadn’t met you, I don’t know what would have happened to me. I have no one else. Thank you for being there.”

“What about the other girl who works at the store?” I asked. “Weren’t you close?”

“You mean the redhead? She’s vile. You don’t want to be around her. She’s a backstabber,” she said. “But it’s good to have a friend now. At least you don’t judge me or complain. You just sit there and listen. And most importantly, I know you’ll always be here.”

“Of course,” I said, letting my gaze rest on her.

She pointed to the trees. “I used to come here to read. Afternoons get too crowded, but at night it’s perfect.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Quiet and relaxing.”

“Arthur, when will I see your place?” she asked suddenly. “You’ve been to mine, but I haven’t been to yours.”

“I was about to invite you,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“But why not?” she asked, her eyes fixed on me.

“You didn’t let me when we were at your apartment,” I said. “I didn’t want to push.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize,” she sighed, her eyes wide and innocent. “I can be a chatterbox sometimes. Please stop me if I do that. Speaking of my apartment, after dinner at your place, can we go back to mine? I really need to find my phone.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “Let’s go. We’ll take the bus.”

We boarded the bus and traveled out of the city, reaching the countryside. Her eyes brightened, surprised that I did not live in the city.

“I thought you lived in Paris,” she said, still in awe. “I didn’t expect this. You’re such a mystery. What else is there?”

“Nothing,” I said teasingly. “It’s better out here. Fresh air, and I get to unwind after a long day at the hospital.”

She nodded. “I wish I could live in the countryside too, but I can’t afford it right now.”

“You will,” I said. “This is our stop. Come on. My car is in the lot.”

“Car?” Rose asked, taken aback as followed me to the vehicle.

When we arrived at the manor, I parked the sedan and led her to the front door. Her eyes widened as she took in the scale of the estate. Heavy clusters of pale lilac wisteria blossomed drape over the dark structure and climb the corner between the two walls. Rose paused for a moment; her jaw dropped as she gasped in awe.

“You haven’t mentioned about this,” Rose said, shaking her head. “You inherited it, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, turning the key.

“How many rooms are there?” she asked, studying my face.

“Twelve,” I said, quickly counting the rooms of the manor in my head.

“Twelve?!” she probed, touching her arms shivering. “Where’s your family?”

“Switzerland,” I said. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing to the large painting at the center of the staircase. “Creepy. Did you know him?”

“That’s my great-uncle Augustus,” I said, laughing.

“Sorry,” Rose said, looking away. “Aren’t you scared living here?”

“No, I’m not,” I replied, lighting a fire in the chimney.

Rose nodded as she continued exploring the halls of the manor. She studied the framed photographs and the delicate Victorian fixtures lining the walls. Abruptly, she stopped in front of a large wooden console, her attention returning to me.

“Arthur, what’s for dinner?” she queried, her fingers brushing along the console. “Don’t you have servants to help you?”

“I did, but they leave early. I’ll check the fridge,” I said, heading to the kitchen. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Okay. Do you want help?” she followed up.

“No, I’m fine. I want to cook for you,” I said, pulling frozen meat from the fridge.

“How does it feel, living alone here?” she asked, her voice echoing slightly. “Why don’t you adopt a cat or a dog to keep you company?”

“No need to. I’ve gotten used to it,” I replied, preparing the food. “If you want, you can use the record player. My collection is near the grand piano.”

My eyes kept drifting back to her as I prepared the food. After some time in the dining hall, I plated the dish carefully, drizzling the cognac cream over the peppercorn crust. Rose kept calling out to me, trying to draw my attention.

“You have so many records here. Have you listened to all of them?” she asked.

“Not all of them. I listened to mostly jazz like Coltrane and some 19th century classics,” I replied.

“An old timer, huh?” she teased. “I like jazz too, but the modern ones, like Francesca.”

Her laughter was muffled by the sound of the record player. Rose sat in front of the chimney, waiting for me with her gaze fixed on the fire. Meanwhile, I lingered behind the large column, watching her while holding the wine glass laced with GHB.

“Rose,” I whispered. “Here take this.”

“Thank you,” she muttered as she took the glass from me.

I sat beside her, feeling the rough texture of the Moroccan rug beneath us, my eyes fixed on her throat as she drank the last of the wine.

“The wine tastes good. What is it called?” she asked, still holding the glass in her right hand. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing!”

“It’s an aged Bordeaux,” I answered. “I also made steak au poivre, have you tried it? Do you want to eat now?”

“Yes, I’m starving!” she announced. “Come on.”

Rose followed me to the dining area. She gasped at the large hall and the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The lights reflected in her eyes, making it seem as if she were at a grand banquet.

“It feels strange being here, surrounded by the grandeur of your manor,” Rose mumbled, her eyes wandering around the great hall. “I’ve never been anywhere like this before.”

Once we were seated, I helped her with the plate and portioned a few slices of steak. Rose remained silent, focused on her meal. Minutes passed, yet no words escaped her lips. Only the sound of her chewing filled the dining hall. Her lips glistened briefly as she licked them clean.

Then, suddenly, Rose reached for her head and blinked rapidly. She tried to steady herself as her body swayed slowly against the chair. Her trembling hand brushed against the water pail while her eyes rolled upward. Sweat gathered across her skin, and I did nothing but watch her unravel, nearly collapsing from her seat.

“Arthur…” she breathed, her eyelids heavy and unfocused. “I feel… strange. What did… you…”

Rose let out a weak moan as she struggled to stand. Her arms trembled violently, yet she fought to steady herself once more, while I remained seated, quietly counting the rhythmic swing of the grandfather clock’s pendulum.

“Calm down. Let me help you,” I murmured, rising from my chair and moving to her side.

Thereafter, I carried her down to the hidden chamber; the sound of Chopin lingered in the room. The door shut securely behind us. Rose remained unconscious as I removed a food stain from her chin and gently tidied a few strands of golden hair from her face. Like a jointed doll, her arms hung limply.

I carried Rose into the bathroom and lowered her onto the toilet. She was entirely pliant as I carefully removed her clothes, leaving her completely exposed. I washed her until every trace of Paris was gone. Once she was cleansed, I dressed her in a beige silk gown and carried her back to the bed, where I tied her arms and legs, blindfolded her, and placed an earpiece in both of her ears. She lay serene.

I did not want to disturb her, not yet. I sat beside her, watching in silence, the warmth of her presence unmistakable. Her silk gown lay delicate against her, its lace sleeves adorned with quiet patterns of roses. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Her presence was disarming, more than I expected. I was close to the edge, holding on to what little control I had left. When I leaned in, there was no space left between us. I was curating every piece of her.

She captivated me so completely that even the mattress felt distant, almost unreal. I had transformed into something else, resembling a rake and embodying a vision of seduction that was in control, ready to become the tempest. After hours of exploring her warm body, my hand gripped her thigh as I slowly pulled the fabric away from her skin. The scent of her breath intensified the moment. Her lace lingerie was the only evidence.

Ma tête brûlée... It was the only word I whispered in her soft ear.

My fingers strayed over her skin, finding their way on the soft petals of her genitalia. It was smooth as silk, musky, and drenched. Rose was still lost in slumber. My eyes stared coldly at her, yet they were filled with nothing but reverence. She had become the Grande Odalisque.

Rose had me completely worked up. Her legs were shaking and slick with sweat. I pulled her body closer to mine as I continued to visualize the sordid image of her papillae clamped, with duplex nails driven deeply into her flesh. She tasted simultaneously sweet and bitter. I pulled her hair upward while I tried to untie the knot restraining her. I forced her to face the headboard as I continued to exert my strength against her back. We both came, but the abrupt smell of iron suddenly shattered the fantasy.

She had stained the linens. Her impurity had contaminated me so much that I pulled away from her and hurried to the bathroom. I wasn’t disgusted by the blood; rather, the destruction of purity she had committed was unacceptable. When I returned to her side, my fingers skimmed her throat, tapping almost as if I wanted to smother her. She suffocated me with nothing but disappointment. Quel gâchis.

I placed her in a fetal position, forcing her head down into the mess. Rose groaned, completely helpless; her body trembled as she tried to move. Her limbs were like rubber; she could neither control them. Feeling the weight of dismay, I carried her to the chair and tied her securely. Leaving her behind, I went to the bathroom and got a damp towel to wipe her thighs, removing the metallic stink from her skin. At first, I thought it was menstruation, but it seemed to be her body’s reaction to the force.

When I left her side, I replaced the covers immediately and threw the old ones into the washer. Once done, I carried Rose back to bed, re-securing her restraints. By this point, Rose had already fallen asleep. It was a devastating night, but maybe it was for the best. Finally, I could get some rest.

Before going to bed, already clean, I took an eszopiclone to help me sleep, as the thought of Rose bleeding was keeping me restless. Just before I finally dozed off, I thought of re-washing the linens with ELIMINase, twice tomorrow.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Exhausted, I hung my coat in the hall cabinet before heading down to the kitchen. I took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and swirled it slowly, inhaling its scent. In retrospect, I had always been birdwatching. Après la chasse, Rose was the trophy mounted on the wall, ready for viewing. The interpretation of beauty was always relevant to art; more important than existence itself. To anyone, I could have been a connoisseur. I could have built my own wealth, but it had already been passed down to me. It was never a struggle. C’est du gâteau.

I sank beneath the weight of the comforter. I was drowsy, lightheaded from the whiskey. But the moment my eyes closed, the phone vibrated against the nightstand, shattering the silence. It was Rose.

“Hello, Arthur? Are you still awake?” her voice was thick and nasal, punctuated by a heavy breath.

“Hi, Rose. Yes, but I was just drifting off. What’s wrong?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, my brow furrowed in the dark.

“Sorry to bother you… I know it’s late.” A sneeze erupted on the other end, followed by a shaky exhale. “I just need your help. I’ve been sick for a few days, and my headache comes and goes. I feel fatigued. I thought I could handle it, but… I have no one else to call. I just tried dialing your number, hoping you’d answer.”

My head rested, while I stared at the ceiling. The fog of interrupted sleep left me disoriented. I massaged my temple to relieve the headache.

“Arthur? Arthur? You there?” Rose called on impatiently.

“Yes, I’m here. But you should’ve called me earlier.” I exclaimed, pacing the window. “We’ll talk when I get there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” she sniffled. “Oh, and one last favor. Could you bring me some painkillers or something for the fever? I’m really sorry. I can’t make it to the drugstore right now. I owe you big time.”

“Sure,” I replied, resting against the headboard.

After the call ended, I grabbed the medicine from the cabinet, threw on a black hoodie and a thick jacket, and headed out.

The city lights blurred past the window while I stayed awake, troubled by Rose’s unexpected call and her sudden illness.

It was 23:45 when the bus pulled up to the stop. I walked a few blocks to her apartment, sending her a message to let her know I was outside. Before I reached her door, my phone buzzed with a notification. She replied that she had left the door open. I entered her unit, and called her name. I was greeted by nothing but silence.

“Rose, I’m here.” I said, locking the door behind me.

Walking down the hallway of her apartment, I heard the faint sound of Rose’s coughing. The sound echoed as I noticed her silhouette through the half-open door, its paint chipped in several places. I pushed the door open, revealing her dimly lit bedroom. Her bed had a double-sized maroon frame, arranged with four pillows and a thick comforter that cocooned her. I moved to her side, set the bag on the bedside table, and checked her temperature and vitals.

“You’re running a high fever,” I said, holding the digital thermometer. “Tell me what else you’re feeling.”

“I’ve got a headache, and I feel really tired. My throat hurts too,” she murmured, coughing softly as she hid behind the comforter.

“I’ll prepare something for you before you take the meds.” I left her side and headed for the kitchen. I hadn’t thought about what to feed her, so I checked the cupboards and refrigerator for anything I could cook.

After twenty-five minutes of preparing her meal, I returned to her bedroom to find that Rose had fallen asleep. I gently woke her, and her eyes flickered, momentarily blinded by the desk lamp. She stirred, trying to sit up against the headboard, and I helped her. I pulled the tray closer and fed her soupe de cresson. Though she only took a few spoonfuls, it was enough. She sniffled, pulling the napkin and wiping her nose. Even when she hadn’t taken a shower, or looked pale and sick, Rose never looked average to me. She was so pretty.

“I’m full Arthur,” she said. “Can you please pass me the meds?”

“Here,” I said, handing her the medicine.

I continued to stare, engrossed in the details of her face. It was small and well-proportioned. She had almond-shaped eyes with a slight roundness to them, almost exotic. Her nose was pointed but small, and her thick eyelashes made her look like a doll. She smelled of sweat mixed with florals and cinnamon. Her hair was silky and golden, with waves that seemed almost too alluring to touch, Her lips were plump and heart-shaped. I could go on all day staring at her.

“Arthur? Arthur? Where’d you go?” Rose asked weakly.

“Sorry, I was just tired,” I mumbled. “What is it, Rose?”

“You seemed to just drift away. I… I was just saying thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Nothing. I was just… never mind,” I said, looking away.

“Are you sure?” she asked, turning toward me, her eyes widening as she waited for my response.

“I… I was exhausted at work,” I replied, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Overtime?” she asked, her eyes fixed on me even more intently.

“Yeah, something like that,” I said, lowering my gaze.

“Do you want to go home?” Rose asked, adjusting the comforter on her side. “I’m fine now. Thank you.”

I smiled at her as she took the tablets and watched her slowly sink into the pillows.

“You should get some rest and follow the instructions I wrote down,” I said, pointing to the paper. “I’ll leave everything on the table.”

Rose nodded as she slowly closed her eyes and fell asleep.

On the bus, I noticed Sophie, the nurse from the hospital. She was with a man, and they were both seated on the left side, hunched over their phones. Suddenly, Sophie turned her head, her eyes squinted trying to figure out who was the man seated at the back. Then her eyes widened as she recognized me, she instantly smiled and waved her hand. A shiver crept down my spine. It was cold on the bus, yet I was sweating under my hoodie. I gulped, my fingers dragging along the side of my pants, unable to stay still.

“Hey! Doctor Hoffmann!” she greeted, pulling the jacket of the man beside her. Reluctantly, he nodded at me.

I didn’t say a word. I just nodded and turned to the window, avoiding her further intrusion. Sophie turned her back to the man and whispered, occasionally glancing at me from the corner of her eye.

When the bus suddenly halted, Sophie and the thin, tall man stood up at the same time. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled slowly. Something about it felt wrong. I didn’t know why. I only knew I didn’t like it. I couldn’t shake the feeling they had been talking about me.

By the fourth night of caring for Rose, I followed the same routine, checking her temperature, cleaning her with a damp towel, and feeding her. It had been four days of little sleep, and the exhaustion was starting to take its toll. Lack of rest would affect my work. I could not afford to lose my job, not after my recent promotion. But Rose was disrupting everything because of her illness. I was trying to make sense of this. Maybe I would gain more of her trust and take advantage of getting her phone. That night I was feeling ill myself, and tired. But I continued to be there for her.

“Hi, Rose. How are you feeling?” I asked, pulling the pillow to her side. “Here, let me help you.”

Rose nodded and smiled. “I’m feeling a bit better now, unlike the first few nights.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “I’ll just wash the dishes. You should rest now.”

“Arthur, are you okay?” Rose asked, her cheeks flushed from the flu.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, standing at the doorway. “Why?”

“You look tired. You don’t look the same tonight,” she muttered. “Something happened?”

“Lack of sleep, but I’ll manage,” I said, smiling. “You must sleep now, Rose.”

“Okay,” she said, turning onto her side and shifting the pillow under her head.

Once she was asleep, I closed the door behind me and seized the opportunity to take her cellphone. It was buried under a pile of magazines in her living room. I quickly turned it off, slipped it into a faraday pouch, and hid it. The smell of laundry was seeping out of the basket. Before leaving, I quietly checked on Rose and put the lid back on the basket.

The travel back home was much better this time. It was not crowded, unlike before. There were few passengers on board, and some had already fallen asleep, snoring loudly and almost tipping from their seats. Their faces all seemed like clones of one another, heavy and puffy.

Early morning, the sound of birds chirping at my window drilled through my slumber, sharp and irritating. I got up with a throbbing headache from lack of sleep. It was 06:00, and the sunlight almost blinded me. When I opened the medicine cabinet to get an ibuprofen, I noticed the lines on my face and the dark circles under my eyes. The room had become a blur. My vision swayed as I vomited into the sink, a heavy sensation settling in my stomach.

I immediately washed my face, the pungent smell of the vomit lingered onto my skin. So, I scrubbed both my arms until it was gone. I was not disgusted, but I was disappointed of everything.

At the study, I brought the faraday pouch with me and hid it in the vault behind a painting before leaving for work. I hadn’t had time to eat the food served by Mrs. Moreau, as I was running late.

Arriving at the hospital, my assistant noticed the heaviness in my eyes. Still, she didn’t say a word. Her usual quiet, shy demeanor resurfaced, although Claire had changed her appearance; she had dyed her hair and added highlights.

“Good morning, Doctor Hoffmann,” she greeted. “I’ve arranged the patients’ files on your desk and updated your calendar until next week.”

“Thanks, Claire,” I replied, brushing my hair back neatly. “Did you do something to your hair?”

Claire stopped typing and touched her hair, smiling. “Y-yes, Doctor Hoffmann.”

“I see. Nice highlights,” I said, taking the laptop and files with me before leaving the clinic.

The hospital had been busy before lunch, with patients lined up outside my clinic, each with a different issue. At noon, I took quick lunch at the bistro and returned for the meeting at 15:00.

In the hallway, I passed Sophie. She stopped abruptly and matched my pace. Her eyes were daggers, fixed on me.

“Afternoon, Doctor Hoffmann!” she greeted with a grin.

“Hey, Sophie, right?” I asked, my hands tucked into my pockets.

“Yes, Doctor. Fancy seeing you on the bus late last night. Where were you headed?” she asked.

“Why?” I said, continuing toward the meeting room.

“Nothing, Doc. Just making conversation,” she replied, exhaling as she stopped. Her cheeks were flushed.

I turned toward her, glanced down the hallway, then stepped slightly closer. Sophie’s eyes looked heavy-lidded, almost innocent. “Don’t you have anything to do besides gossip?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Hoffmann. I don’t want to be intrusive,” Sophie said, lowering her head as defeat settled across her face.

“Sshh… it’s okay. I was just asking. You wouldn’t want anything to affect your references, would you?” I said, my jaw tightening as I held her gaze.

Sophie’s face dropped. She didn’t reply; she only gave a small nod.

At the meeting room, I straightened my posture as Doctor Weber greeted me.

“Doctor Hoffmann,” she said, smiling. “You’re early.”

I didn’t say a word. I only smiled at her. We seated ourselves in the chairs while Doctor Weiss’s assistant handed us copies of the documents related to the meeting. She placed the laptop in the center and turned on the projector. A few moments later, Doctor Weiss arrived and began the introduction.

Later that evening, I arrived at Rose’s apartment in fresh clothes. At the entrance, the limestone was cold and wet from the earlier rain. Inside, the staircase spiraled upward, its wooden guardrails chipped and its metal supports corroded.

When I reached her floor, the hallway stretched into a dim corridor, with rooms facing each other and a flickering light overhead. The building owner clearly did not prioritize maintenance. The air smelled of rotting floorboards and I wondered why Rose would choose to rent such a place.

Before knocking, I brushed my hair back and adjusted the buttons on my shirt. Rose greeted me with a friendly smile.

“Hi, Arthur!” she said, her eyes widening at the sight of me. “Didn’t expect you today.”

“I just wanted to check if you’re feeling better,” I said, raising my eyebrows before smiling. “You didn’t answer my call.”

“I’m okay now, recovering,” Rose replied, leaning against the door. “Thank you for taking care of me. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call. I couldn’t find my phone.”

I cleared my throat. “Where do you think you left it?” It was ironic.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, fixing her hair into a ponytail. “I can’t remember. I’ve been looking everywhere. I feel like I’m going insane.”

“Are you sure you’re free of the flu?” I asked, smirking at her.

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in. Sorry about that.”

“For what?” I asked, scratching my forehead.

“Sorry for the mess,” she said, pointing to a pile of laundry. Boxes of magazines, books, and files were scattered in every direction. Her trash bin was so full the lid could barely contain its contents. “I haven’t had time to clean the place. Maybe when I get back. Can you help me, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” I murmured, barely holding back a laugh. “Finding your phone does sound like a challenge.”

Rose poked me on the shoulder, smiling as she moved quickly into the living room. I considered inviting her to dinner at the manor, but before I could speak, she cut me off.

“Arthur, come here. Can you move this cabinet? There was something underneath,” she said, trying to push the heavy bookcase aside.

“Sure.” I moved to her side.

“Oh! It was just the remote!” Rose slapped her forehead, laughing. “Silly!”

“Almost…” I mumbled, smiling at her. “Ah, Rose…would you?”

Rose did not pay any attention to what I was about to say and continued her conversation. She was completely self-absorbed. I thought about pulling the white plastic bag from the drawer and imagined asphyxiating her with it, but I stopped myself. I was not that impulsive, especially considering I was the only person she was with. It would be easy for law enforcement to incarcerate me, and that would be the end. I shook my head at the thought.

“Arthur! Where have you gone again?” Rose asked, pouting, her hands on her shoulders.

“I was thinking about where you could have possibly left your phone, sorry,” I responded, scanning her living room.

“Ah, okay. Where was I? Oh yeah, my low-paying job, that poorly maintained unit, and a boss who’s a complete pervert… I hate my life. If I were rich, Arthur, I’d get out of here. I’d quit my job and move to Hawaii. I’m so delusional right now. What should I do?” she said, pouting as she ran her fingers through her blonde hair.

Her incessant chatter throbbed in my ears, like a revolver firing beside my head. Rose never gave me a chance to interrupt her trivial complaints; her voice drilled into my skull. My hand twitched as I imagined her head bashed against the concrete.

When her back was turned, I wiped the cabinet where I had touched it before turning away.

“Come on, Arthur, let’s go,” she said, tugging at my arm. “I just need to return some stuff from work. By the way, can you call my phone? I just want to hear it ring so I can find it.”

Her words echoed in my head. I pulled at my collar and swallowed.

“Sure,” I said, taking my phone out. “Just a second. I’ll ring you now.”

Though I knew exactly where her phone was, I had prepared for this moment. I used a second device, a matte-black Android running GrapheneOS. I unlocked it, found her contact, and called, switching it to loudspeaker.

While it rang, Chopin’s Étude, “Winter Wind,” echoed in my mind. It wasn’t anxiety, but the truth rising from within me, something I could not stop from tightening in my chest. Être dans la merde! I did not expect to react like this.

A recorded operator’s voice came through: “The subscriber cannot be reached. Please try your call again later.”

Before Rose could react, I coughed violently as the call ended, my eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. I clutched my chest as sweat broke across my face, shattering the silence. Rose hesitated, then rushed to the kitchen for water.

When she returned, she handed me a glass of water and gently massaged my back. “Are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer and only nodded weakly. My throat was tight, but the water helped slightly. My heart pounded, and my palms were damp with sweat.

“Do you want to sit for a while, Arthur? You seem shaken. What’s happening?” she asked, guiding me to the couch.

I cleared my throat again, wiping my face.

“I’m fine. It might be my dust allergy,” I said, scratching the back of my ear. “I’m sure your phone will turn up soon. Do you want me to help you look for it?”

“No, you don’t have to. I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t know. This place might have triggered your allergy,” she said, gathering her documents. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Monsieur Robert won’t be happy if I delay these files any longer.”

Leaving her disheveled apartment was a massive relief. Rose might have gotten the flu because of how unsterile it was. The flower shop just near her apartment was closed, and we walked a few blocks, reaching a stretch of old buildings and shops. Rose seemed unusually quiet when we reached a darker part of the road, her eyes gazing toward the far end of the highway. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, and she wore the same navy-blue coat, now paired with a red scarf. She carried her brown shoulder bag, and her nails were unpolished.

I took some of the things she was carrying. The walk felt unnervingly long because of the silence. Whatever was on her mind, I didn’t pry. I just watched her.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

We sat at the edge of the Seine, Rose’s head resting on my shoulder as she watched the river. It was Saturday evening, and she hummed along to the violin drifting from a nearby restaurant. Rose shifted slightly, turning her attention to me, her brows furrowing.

“You know, you’re a mystery,” she said, watching the kids play. “I feel like I don’t know you.”

“What? What makes you say that?” I asked, gently touching the back of my neck. “Is this you overthinking again?”

“No! No… sort of,” she said, exhaling deeply as she flicked her hair to the side. “Look, it’s just… I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I tried to look you up online.”

The words lingered between us a moment longer than they should have. I turned slightly toward her.

“What? So, you don’t trust me?” I said quietly, my fingers paused at my chin, more thoughtful now than casual. “Why?”

Rose shifted in her seat and turned to me, her eyes locked on mine, studying me intently.

“I can’t find you anywhere,” she continued. “It’s... kind of weird. No Facebook, no Instagram. I mean, you do live in the 21st century, right? You don’t have any online presence.”

“Really? Online presence?” I said, amused. “It’s funny that you went looking for me when you could’ve just asked. I have a work email if you really need one,” I teased, crossing my arms. “I’m just not into social media. I don’t see the point of it.”

“Funny,” she said, her eyebrows narrowing. “You’re one hell of a strange man, Arthur. If not for your innocent-looking eyes and nice gestures, I would have mistaken you for something else.”

“I just prefer to stay off the internet. Privacy, that’s what I call it,” I said. “Seriously, what do you want to know?”

Rose’s eyes fixed on me as if I were about to confess a crime. She did not say a word, just sat there, waiting for me to speak. At this point, I was not sure where the conversation would go. I had to improvise.

“Alright,” I said, smirking. “Is it so weird that I don’t have social media? Those are for shallow people. But I could be wrong. It’s just my opinion.”

“Okay, then tell me about yourself,” she said firmly. “We can’t keep seeing each other if I don’t know who you are.”

“Sure. I am an only child, and both my parents were strict and always busy,” I said, adjusting the collar of my shirt. “I had friends back in college, but I have been busy as a doctor, and outside of work, I don’t really have a social life.”

“See? Was that so hard?” Rose said, laughing. I was not sure what was so funny.

“I guess not,” I replied. “What else do you want to know?”

“Hmm... let me think,” she said, tilting her head. “What do you usually do on your days off?”

“I visit the Louvre, and I usually hang out at Campelli,” I answered. “What about you?”

Again, Rose did not answer my question. She could be insufferable at times, and somehow cunning with her questions. She smiled and reached for my hand, as if testing my palms.

“You know, I thought you were off on some fancy vacation,” she said. “Do you have a yacht?”

“I do not have a yacht,” I replied. “But I am planning to buy one.”

“Where are you planning to sail?” she asked again. I wondered what she got out of these nonsensical questions.

“I have not planned yet. Maybe Belgium,” I said, taking a sip from my water bottle.

“How many girlfriends have you had?” Another question. “Oops, sorry, scratch that,” she added with a laugh.

“Why? To answer that bluntly, I had one back in college,” I replied.

“Were you not bored with your life?” she asked again, this time more serious. The question felt more personal than the family history I had just made up.

“Kind of,” I replied. “I am a doctor. Outside of work, there is not much to it. It’s actually pretty dull.”

“That is awful, Arthur. Well! now you have a companion, a fellow bookworm!” she said.

“But seriously, we are two people trapped in society and completely alienated by it.”

Rose looked down at her coffee, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. Her eyes scanned the place and pointed at the stall near the kiosk.

“I’ll go buy something. I’ll be right back,” she said, standing from her chair and leaving.

I smiled and watched her leave. She walked toward the stall, her figure seeming smaller and smaller in my eyes. Her hair shimmered like silk, soft and glowing. I felt that urge, to do something about it, to own it, to keep it. I couldn’t help but wonder why her inquisition bothered me so much that my palms began to sweat. At the same time, I found myself amused by her intense interest in me. I tend to feel special when the prey becomes more cautious.

In a few moments, Rose came back with a freshly baked pain au chocolat, carefully tucked inside a small paper bag. I tilted my head toward her, my eyes caught by the glow of the lamp post in front of us. Her hair, streaked with gold, looked alluring. I smiled at her, trying to acknowledge her presence. Even if she was wearing casual clothing, Rose never ceased to amaze me with that soft hourglass figure.

“Here,” she said, handing me the bread. “Try this one. It’s not like the usual bread. It has a twist.”

“Really? Okay,” I said, taking the bread from her hand. “Is this your favorite?”

“Yes. How is it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on me, waiting for my reaction.

“It’s good. My grandma used to make this when I was young.” I smiled as I took another bite.

We sat by the river in comfortable silence, mostly sightseeing and taking in the surroundings. The beauty of the place was quiet and understated, in contrast to her, which was more like Art Nouveau. I could hear the sound of Valse Sentimentale in my head, each finger tapping the piano keys, dancing along with the melody. My chest pounded with an uneasy excitement as my thoughts spiraled into something I couldn’t fully control. I visualized tonguing her clitoris, imagining it pierced with pins, remembering the love of the brute.

Turning my gaze back to Rose, she was still occupied with her little wrapped pastry. It tasted bland on my tongue, though.

“It’s getting late, Rose, do you want me to walk you home?” I asked, hesitant at first, but waited for her response. Rose glanced at her phone to check the time before answering my question.

“Yeah, it’s late,” she said, looking at me. “Do you wanna go somewhere? We can watch a movie.”

“You sure? okay,” I responded, smiling and scratching my neck. “I don’t mind.”

Rose nodded, smiling. “Come on, let’s go to my place. It’s only a few blocks away.”

The walk from the Seine to her apartment was tedious. Rose never stopped her chatter. But the scenery and the cold air made it more tolerable. As we moved along the dark pavement, Rose became more and more silent. I could already discern her uneasiness with the dark, inconclusive space.

When we reached Rose’s apartment, the scent of lavender filled the living room. There was a pile of magazines and books on the dining table. The interior seemed designed by an eighty-year-old woman with no sense of style. But her beauty was high-end, so I decided to just ignore the dilapidated space. Still, I couldn’t repress the urge to scratch my eyes at the sight.

“Come, sit here. Wait for me,” she said, as she hurriedly went to the kitchen.

“Okay,” I responded, standing next to the couch.

The couch was soft beige velvet, like something she had picked up at a thrift shop, more on the vintage side. She even had three-piece, square-patterned throw pillows. I dusted off the couch before sitting down. Staring at the floral curtains gave me a sense of ease. This was her dominion.

“I’m back,” Rose’s voice cut through the silence of my thoughts.

“Hey,” I said, smiling at her and letting my gaze linger on her for a few seconds.

“So, I brought popcorn and some soda!” she said, her voice delighted.

“Thanks,” I responded, moving to the other side of the couch.

“Okay,” she said, turning on the television. “Which movie should we watch? You okay with chick flicks or drama?”

“Sure, I don’t mind,” I said, looking at her.

“Good,” she said, placing the remote back on the table. “I don’t like horror movies. Can’t handle it.”

“Oh! Me neither,” I said, opening one of the canned sodas she had brought.

On her couch, while she watched the movie, I found myself quietly watching her. In the middle of the film, she was completely immersed, oblivious to everything else. She held the popcorn in her right hand and a soda in her left, barely touching either, her eyes glued to the television. The speakers filled the room, every sound effect reverberating through the space.

Rose turned toward me, tears welling in her eyes.

“This movie reminds me of my friends back home,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I hate it,” she added, pointing at the man on the screen.

“Why? Do you want me to change it? Maybe something lighter, like comedy or action?” I asked, taking the remote and glancing at her.

“No, it’s okay, I...” She shook her head. “I just... I can relate to the movie.” Tears started streaming down her cheeks.

I kept a hand on her shoulder and drew her slightly closer, patting her back in a measured rhythm. Rose sniffled, struggling to steady her breathing, her face flushed. I watched her fall apart without knowing what to do with it, only understanding her in fragments of movement.

“I’m here, Rose.” I offered the tissue box. “Tell me everything.”

“She never lied to her friends.” Her hand gestured toward the screen. “I’m sorry, I’m overreacting,” she said, wiping her tears away.

“It’s okay,” I said, patting her shoulder. “You’re fine. You can tell me anything.”

I waited for Rose to respond, but it took her seventeen minutes to calm down, and her tremendous sniffling was just the end of it. I could not take it. The sight of tissues scattered across the table was unbearable. I was about to excuse myself to the bathroom when she started talking.

“I had friends before.” Her voice cracked as fresh tears welled up. “But...”

“It’s okay, Rose, if you don’t want to talk about it,” I said, watching her closely, nodding slightly as she spoke.

“No, I’m fine.” She sniffled, then continued. “But because of the accusations...”

She shook her head. “My dignity was shattered.”

Her crying felt distant, like an echo drifting further away. Rose pulled several tissues from the table, her hands shaking.

“They went after my mother. They dug up her past just to get to me,” she sobbed. “They hated me so much.”

She paused to catch her breath before continuing. “She made everyone turn against me.”

“She made Franz post them,” she blurted, her eyes swollen with tears. “Everything that should’ve been private.”

It seemed the only solution to her suffering was smothering her. But it was too easy, too fast. I wasn’t done. Rose was completely unraveled now. She broke down too easily, over things that felt trivial to me. Her nose was stuffed, her eyes swollen, her face disordered from crying. I found it hard to look at her the same way.

“I’ve got no one. Not even my parents. They disowned me,” she added, wiping her tears.

Her tears stained my five-thousand-euro Loro Piana cashmere jacket, soaking into the fabric I would have to dry-clean later.

“The whole thing was so bad. I had to get out of there,” she murmured, as she slouched beside me.

I pulled back slightly to look her in the eye. She lifted her head to face me, her eyes damp and red.

“I’m sorry for ruining the night,” she sobbed. Rose looked disheveled, clearly at fault. It was a pity.

Her eyes were filled with tears as she looked at me. “Arthur?”

“Yes, Rose. What is it?” I asked, clearing my throat. In my head, I was humming Chopin, trying to drown out everything else.

“I promised I wouldn’t lie to you, right?” she mumbled. “Franz has been writing me letters, but I’ve never responded to him.”

“Why not?” I asked. She now had my full attention.

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” she said, straightening herself and tying her hair.

“Who was Franz?” I asked, biting my lip as I waited for her response.

Rose stared at the coffee table before speaking. “He was my ex. Franz was a good person, but I don’t know how he was manipulated into doing that to me. I thought he was on my side, but I was wrong.”

I let a pause sit between us before responding. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Rose,” I said, still watching her. “Cutting him off was the right decision.”

“You think so?” she asked softly, her expression flickering, uncertain, almost as if she was searching for confirmation rather than agreement.

I nodded in response and said nothing. I let the sound of the movie fade into the background.

She hugged me tightly, clinging to me as if I were a life raft. She leaned close, and I felt her skin against mine. My heart beat faster than it should have, so I pulled away, moving to the other end of the couch.

“Why?” she asked, pulling back slightly. “Am I too much?”

“No, of course not,” I said, shaking my head. “You just need some rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Rose paused for a moment, thinking. “You can stay.” She sniffled before continuing, “I don’t want to be alone right now. You can sleep on the couch.”

The next morning, I got off the couch and started preparing our breakfast. I arranged toast and yogurt on the table and made espresso for the two of us. When she woke up, she smiled at me, her expression one of pure, naive adoration.

“Thank you, Arthur, for... staying the night and for the breakfast,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“No problem,” I replied. “See you later.” Leaving Rose’s apartment for work had been a strain; I was already succumbing to the siren’s touch. Still, I had to leave. My profession was at stake.

Days and weeks passed like a freight train. There were moments of genuine happiness when we were together, but they felt fleeting. It was a fantasy, a dream already beginning to drift away. I kept those moments locked inside my head. Paris felt lighter on the days her radiance shone, but darker once we were apart.

Her trembling, her tears, her laughter all remained, preserved as fragments of what would eventually unfold beyond the stories, I had forced myself to believe. It was never the kind of life she would have hoped for. It was something else entirely, an interplay of pleasure and submission I had long observed from the sidelines.

Once, at the carnival, Rose wore a tie-dyed pink bodycon dress. She was electric, eager to board the most extreme rides. It was fun at first, but when the car dropped along the track, she screamed and gripped my hand tightly.

I couldn’t forget the way she had taunted me that one time. It was embarrassing. If I hadn’t had self-control, I might have struck her.

“You have to try the roller coaster, Arthur,” she said, laughing. “You’re a man. Why don’t you let yourself enjoy it? Come on, let’s go to that haunted house. I heard they give free beers.”

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

“Lucian,” the voice almost drowned out my thoughts as I woke from being half-asleep during the meeting with my fellow surgeons.

“Are you okay?” Doctor Elie Weber asked, patting my shoulder.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little light-headed,” I quickly responded, turning toward her.

“You look tired. Lack of sleep?” she queried, her voice making my stomach churn. Had she been observing me the whole time?

I smiled. “No, just tired. I’ll be fine,” I responded, trying to stay calm.

My eyes wandered as they adjusted to the brightness of the fluorescent lights, flickering against the heaviness of my eyelids. Doctor Weber turned her attention to her laptop and scrolled through the PowerPoint. Meanwhile, the doorknob turned, and the ambient noise of the hallway spilled in as Doctor Schmidt entered. He approached the table as the other doctors watched from across the room, their gazes following him as he neared me.

“Doctor Hoffmann, you are expected to meet with Doctor Weiss today,” he said as he handed me some files.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat, then continued. “Thank you,” I said, walking out of the conference room.

Doctor Weber looked up at me and smiled as I reached the door and left. I had always felt her eyes on me every time I had a meeting with Doctor Weiss. Was she bitter that she didn’t get the promotion and couldn’t move on?

The silence in my head contrasted sharply with the noise in the hallway as a nurse approached me and smiled.

“Doctor Hoffmann?” she asked.

“Yes, why?” I answered, letting the dryness of my tone show.

“Ah, yes. Uhm, Doctor Weiss can’t see you today. He had an emergency surgery, and his assistant Lea told me that if I saw you before she did, she would be sending a meeting invite,” she said, nodding to herself. “Yeah, I think that’s it. I’m Sophie, by the way.” She held out her hand, but I just looked at her.

“I see. Thank you, Sophie. I’ll check that meeting invitation with my assistant,” I said, not taking her hand as I glanced at my phone. What a weird girl.

Sophie forced a smile and waved goodbye, clutching the charts to her chest.

Before leaving the hospital, I hung my coat, slipped into a jacket, and opened the desk drawer to grab my present for Rose, tucking it safely into my bag.

“Claire, can you check my email to see if Doctor Weiss’ assistant sent that meeting invitation? If so, update my calendar. I’ll be taking a long lunch today. Thanks,” I said, before closing the door behind me.

Reaching the entrance of Smith & Son, I spotted Rose adjusting the book display. She remained unaware of my presence until I tapped gently on the glass. She turned her head to look at me, then paused her work and stepped outside the bookstore.

“Hi,” she said, her eyes brighter than yesterday. She wore white trousers and a white shirt beneath an open orange blouse. Her hair was gathered in a beautifully styled Dutch braid.

“Hey, Rose,” I said. “Do you remember me? I was your customer yesterday. I told you I’d come back for that book you mentioned.”

“Oh... Yes! Arthur, right?” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t forget you; you kept asking if I was okay.”

“Yes. So, what was that book you mentioned?” I asked, offering a smile while keeping my peripheral vision locked on the store’s interior, scanning for her manager.

“Are you looking for somebody?” Rose asked suddenly, her brows narrowing.

“Ah, no. I mean, your boss. I was kind of creeped out by him,” I deflected quickly. She was sharp; how had she noticed?

“Yeah, he isn’t here. He left early,” she responded, almost laughing at me. “But you’re out of luck, the last copy sold this morning. You can buy the e-book version, though.”

“E-book? I prefer physical copies,” I responded, checking my watch.

“Are you always that conscious of the time?” she asked, staring at me. The wind caught a few loose strands of her hair. She looked divine as she brushed them away from her face; for a moment, it felt as though time had stopped.

“No, just making sure I don’t overstay my break,” I answered hastily. I scratched my eyebrow, unable to avoid staring into her eyes. Her lips moved slowly right before she spoke or smiled. She had a small, remarkably cute dimple on her right cheek.

“Strict work schedule?” she asked again, smiling.

“Yeah.” I nodded.

“So, where are you going for lunch?” she asked, before glancing back toward the store. “Wait here for a second. I’ll just go grab my purse.”

“Sure,” I nodded, my hands gripping the strap of my bag.

I moved away from the front door to wait. Rose returned a few minutes later, her jacket draped over one arm with her purse tucked beneath it. Before pushing the door open to join me, she called out to another girl who was dusting the shelves.

We walked the rest of the way to the bistro. She was far more talkative than I had anticipated. The Rose I had observed was still and self-contained. This version required something of me I hadn’t prepared for.

The bistro was already packed with patrons by the time we arrived. The onset of the live band triggered a sharp ringing in my ears. Rose appeared captivated by the musicians, pulling me toward a table in the center of the room so she could watch them play.

“Excuse me, Rose. I need to use the restroom,” I told her, securing my bag. “Please order for us.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, raising a hand to cover her left ear.

“Yes!” I shouted over the roar of the crowd.

In the isolation of the restroom, I extracted a pain reliever, swallowed it, and washed my face with cold water to regulate myself before returning.

Seated across from her again, I noticed Rose was lost in the music and the crowd. It gave me the chance to study her at a closer proximity. A pulse was visible against her slim neck. Her hands were soft, the tips of her fingers flushed pink. She had changed her nail polish to a shade of blue.

“Rose,” I called out. Her focus snapped back to my face.

“Oh, you’re back.” She smiled warmly. “They play good music here.”

“Yes,” I replied. I reached into my bag and withdrew the wrapped parcel. “Here, I wanted to give you this.”

“What is it?” she asked, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips.

“A book. I thought it might interest you. I want to know your opinion on the story,” I explained, monitoring her reaction.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before peeling back the paper. Her fingers lingered delicately over the cover.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes scanning the book carefully.

From across the table, I observed her pupils dilate with excitement. A first edition of The Black Spider by Jeremias Gotthelf explained it all.

“This is the rare 1842 copy. Where did you get this?” she asked. Her eyebrows knitted in curiosity, her eyes flicking up to me as if she were trying to assess me thoroughly.

“It belonged to my uncle,” I said, biting into a cracker. “I thought you might find it interesting. Can you read Swiss German?”

“Yes, I can. I’ve heard that this book is unforgettable and creepy,” she said as she scanned the pages. “Gosh! I’ve been dying to read this. How’d you know I’d be interested in this book?”

“It’s just a hunch,” I replied, allowing a small, measured smile to form on my lips.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Duh, considering I worked at the bookstore. Won’t your uncle get mad if you give this away?” Her eyes studied me as she waited for my response.

“No. My great-uncle Augustus died a long time ago,” I replied.

“Oh! I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Were you creeped out by the story?” she asked. “Do you always give away rare books to people you’ve just met?”

“Kind of. And no, only when I find them interesting,” I responded, wiping my chin with a napkin.

Rose closed the book and slipped it into her purse before taking a sip of her drink.

“Okay, that’s enough. Please don’t spoil the story!” she laughed. “So, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a GP,” I said, gulping anxiously.

“GP?” she asked, furrowing her brows. “You mean, like a general practitioner?”

“Yes, correct.” I nodded.

“I see.” She stared at me for a few seconds, then turned her head toward the band before continuing. “Aren’t you too busy to be hanging out in a place like this?”

“Usually, I have an hour and thirty minutes for my break. But sometimes I take two hours if I need to do something important,” I replied, moving closer to her. “Why?”

“Nothing,” she said, checking her phone. “Gosh, I need to get back to the store now.”

“Before you go,” I said, catching her gaze. “When do you want to discuss the book?”

“Let me think,” she replied. “Maybe this Friday? Do you want us to discuss it here? Or somewhere not too noisy?”

“Perhaps the library?” I suggested. “The café... or, if you’d prefer somewhere completely undisturbed, perhaps my place. Or yours.” I let the silence hang, listening to the staccato thrum of her pulse.

“Library? No... my boss’s wife works there, and she hates me,” she said. “Hmm... the café, maybe?”

So, she was avoiding the library, an unexpected choice for a bibliophile like her. Had she done something to make her boss’s wife despise her?

“Sure,” I replied, clenching my jaw at the suggestion. I was hoping she would suggest her apartment, but perhaps I hadn’t earned her trust yet. Rose seemed cautious enough to make me want to pursue her even more. “Would you mind if I asked for your number?”

“Yeah, I mean, no… here, type your number.” Rose handed me her phone. “Give me your phone, I’ll type mine.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked it before giving it to her.

“Here.” She smiled. “Don’t spam me with texts!”

“I won’t,” I said, saving her number to my contacts.

After lunch, I returned to the hospital. My world contracted to the sterile, high-contrast reality of the ENT wing. I spent the afternoon performing a mastoidectomy. By 18:00, I had finished my rounds. I reviewed the post-operative charts for a laryngeal reconstruction and adjusted the packing for a septoplasty patient. I left the hospital at exactly 19:00.

Back at the manor that evening, I sat in the dark of my study. The faint scent of surgical scrub still clung to my skin. I sent a brief, polished text.

“Hey, Rose, this is Arthur. Just wanted to say I hope you’ll enjoy the book. Looking forward to seeing you again on Friday.”

Her reply came an hour later, hesitant and stiff. Rose responded with an excuse of “unexpected emergency” that she had to cancel. I stared at the screen for a moment, before retreating to the bedroom. Rose was so unpredictable. I needed to think this over, she had become the Lilith of my plans.

In the shower, I felt nauseous. I was lost in my thoughts, and the loud dripping of the water soon began to fade beneath the rhythm of my fist hitting the tiled walls. My vision turned white. I felt lightheaded, shaking from the weight of the frustration.

Rose was in front of me, fully naked, her face slowly fading into something grimmer. She laughed at me. I couldn’t control it; I strangled her until purple marks were visible on her neck. I didn’t notice that I was stomping on her head, destroying the features I had once admired. I saw her lips intertwined with Franz’s. A cold, heavy weight crawled through my chest. Gasping for air, I almost choked, coughing violently as I lost my balance. I was forced to steady myself against the wall. The sound of the water returned as I sat back, trying to make sense of the moment.

Leaving the manor was the only plausible way to confirm what I had in mind. I had not worn anything fancy that night, and I was hurrying to catch her. I wore nothing but a black hoodie and thick-framed glasses. My eyes were dry from fatigue, but I managed to stay awake the whole time.

The bus dropped me off at the stop near the old building, close to Rose’s apartment. I saw her on the sidewalk as she paid the old woman. I was standing behind a post, watching her and waiting for the man to show.

“Thank you,” she said.

The old woman almost noticed me, so I quickly turned my back and walked to the other side of the building. In the mirror’s reflection, I saw the old woman cleaning up her stall. I waited until she finally locked up. As soon as she disappeared, I checked Rose’s mail and found a letter from Franz Moroz. I quickly tucked it into my jacket pocket and left.

A few moments later, I was back in the study, staring at the letter, my face tightening as I opened it. It confirmed the gut feeling I had that Franz was still reaching out to Rose. I felt betrayed by her. Why hadn’t she mentioned this? She was like Apate, a deceitful snake. My hands were trembling as I gripped the letter tighter, crumpling it in my hand.

The final words on the letter read:

Rose, I’m deeply sorry for what I did…

Days had gone by without a word from Rose. I came to accept the fact that she was playing with me. I was unbothered this time. I wanted her to be hoisted by her own petard.

When she finally had the spine to respond, her text was nothing but a stutter of apologies. I had been expecting her to send me a long, heartfelt message. Nevertheless, I dialed her number and, although I was disappointed, I still wanted to hear her voice.

“Rose, is everything okay?” I asked.

“Arthur, I’m sorry for standing you up,” she stuttered. “I… overthink. Look, I don’t know you that well. I was just scared.”

“Why?” I asked, my chest tightening. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“No! I don’t know… I get anxious sometimes,” her voice echoed in my head. “I overthink a lot.”

“Rose, you don’t have to lie to me,” I replied quickly. “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

Her voice trembled, and she swallowed hard. “I… I shouldn’t have… I feel like… I’m sorry for judging you. I don’t know, it just…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, hearing her voice apologizing for her own mistake was a relief.

There was a long pause on the line. “I’ll see you next Friday, if you’re not busy. I don’t want you to think that I’m a bullshitter,” she sighed.

“No, you’re not. But are you sure? I don’t want to pressure you,” I said, keeping my voice steady and reassuring.

“Yeah,” she said, sniffing. “I’m just overreacting, and I don’t know if you noticed, but I was avoiding people like Monsieur Robert.”

“Sure,” I replied. “Why?”

“Long story short, he won’t stop harassing me,” she sighed. “But please don’t confront him, okay? I don’t want to lose my job. I can’t go back home.”

“I won’t! I promise,” I mumbled as I smiled.

By the time Friday arrived, we met at a café an hour from Rue de Rivoli. It was nearing dusk, and most of the seats had already emptied. A few lingered, absorbed in their phones, while others picked at what remained of their meals. Plants hung overhead, arranged with deliberate care, and a large bookcase stood at the back, more ornamental than used.

A group of teenagers occupied the corner, scribbling their trivial notes, laughing among themselves as one pinned a scrap of paper onto the corkboard: “Be inspired by nature, be friends with nature!” The display was saturated with the same insipid sentiment, arranged as if anyone genuinely cared to read it.

Rose slumped in the gray accent chair, idly turning the pages of the book resting on the table. Her coffee had gone untouched, a thin film settling over its surface as she murmured the words under her breath. My voice cut through her focus, and she looked up at me, startled for a moment before composing herself.

“So, how’s the book?” I asked, looking at her intently as I crossed my arms.

Before Rose responded, she slowly turned a page, her thumb lingering at the margin.

“It’s disturbing,” she said, almost fondly. “Not because of the spider itself, but because everyone deserves what happens to them.”

Raising an eyebrow, I took a piece of bread from the basket and set it on my plate before replying, “Yes, Gotthelf had no patience for innocence.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “The village isn’t cursed by the devil. They invite him in. That’s why it’s creepy. The story really crawled under my skin.” She looked up at me and continued. “It doesn’t pretend morality is gentle. It’s brutal. Punitive.”

The light caught her spectacles as she adjusted them, her gaze steady on mine.

“And deeply Calvinist,” I added, taking a bite of the bread.

She laughed softly. “Yes. Sin as a contract. Break it, and the price comes crawling out of the wall. I didn’t know you had an appetite for dark fiction. You don’t look like it.”

Resting a hand on my chin, I asked Rose, “What do you mean? I don’t look like it?”

“Nothing. You just look like a nice guy, with your Ivy League hair.” She laughed. “You don’t look like the type who would enjoy books like this. You’re more the guy next door.”

So, that’s what she thought of me, a guy next door. I scoffed. “Oh, really?” I laughed.

“What? What did I say? Was I wrong?” she asked, her mouth slightly open, her blue eyes piercing. Rose set the book aside, pulled a napkin from the table, and wiped the side of her mouth.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes because of laughing. “I didn’t expect that from you.”

“Huh.” Rose moved to the side, and turned her face to the window before turning back at me.

“Nevermind. Forget about what I just said.”

Rose was quiet for a moment, finishing the remaining fettuccine. I continued to watch her at every chance I got. It was getting dark outside, but my focus remained entirely on her lips as they moved. I observed the moisture on them, the way they shone in the light, and I wondered what they tasted like. Were they bitter? Were they sweet? Her eyelashes were thick and long. Her skin was supple; she never looked tired. At such close range, the scent of florals and vanilla filled my nostrils. Seated directly across from her, my line of sight afforded me a clear, unobstructed view of her pronounced clavicles and the rising lines of her chest.

For a while, I waited for Rose to bring up Franz. I was still bruised by her not telling me about the letter, but I wasn’t going to start the conversation unless she did.

“So, how’s work?” she asked, clearly trying to change the topic. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but maybe another time.

“It’s been busy, pretty tiring,” I said, smiling at her. “What about you?”

“As usual, during sale season, people pile into the store,” Rose replied. “But most of the time it’s not too bad, and I’ve got a boss who’s pretty much an a-hole.”

“Why don’t you leave your job if he treats you that way?” I asked, setting my utensils aside as I focused on her.

“I’m not from here, and I don’t have references. No impressive background,” she replied. “I wasn’t as lucky as you are. It’s not easy for me to just get a job whenever an inconvenience comes my way.”

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound insensitive,” I said. “I’m just concerned about you. Was he harassing you?”

“Yes, I don’t know… I just,” she sobbed. “I feel like it’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not your fault. Why didn’t you report him?” I asked again, offering her a napkin.

“I’m scared. No one will believe me,” she murmured, lowering her head and turning her gaze away from me.

I continued to watch her, unsettled, as she stared off into the distance. Every time her boss was mentioned, she acted like this, yet she had never even thought of standing up for herself. Even Franz couldn’t help her. No one was here to listen except me.

“Rose, am I making you feel uncomfortable?” I asked, meeting her gaze.

She was quiet for a moment before settling back into her chair to face me. “No, you’re not. Though I think you’re just an eccentric, shy guy. I felt safer with you. I don’t know, I can’t explain it clearly.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, I leaned back in the chair, still focused on her, thinking and repeating her words in my mind, eccentric, shy.

“Arthur, I have to get back to the store,” she sniffled, tucking her hair behind her ears. “See you around. Thank you for listening.”

I nodded and accompanied her back to the bus stop before returning to the hospital.

At the hospital, the hallway was overwhelmed, with patients crowding the emergency room and spilling into the reception area. Many voiced complaints about the long wait. In my clinic, the hallway was just as crowded. Several scheduled patients sat alongside walk-ins, all shifting restlessly as they waited for their turn.

“Doctor, Mr. Murphy is ready to see you,” Claire said over the intercom.

“I’ll be right there.” I pressed the button and grabbed the charts, standing up from my chair.

I was hoping the patient would be Rose, but it was a man in his fifties who greeted me as I entered the room. Claire assisted him into the consultation room for further checkups.

“Hi, Mr. Murphy, I’m Doctor Hoffmann,” I said, as I assisted him to the consultation room. “I’ve reviewed your file. Please have a seat here.” I pointed to the chair near the desk.

Mr. Murphy was a stout man, wearing a shabby sweater. He followed my gesture and sat carefully in the chair. His attention then turned to me as he pulled his lab results out of his bag and placed them on the desk.

I nodded. “Thank you. Your tests show here that you are suffering from an ear infection,” I said, pointing to the results.

Mr. Murphy leaned closer, smelling of coffee, his eyes darting across the area as he sweated with anxiety. He didn’t say a word; he simply sat there, quietly waiting for the next instruction.

“Can you turn to your right, let me further check your ears and neck,” I instructed.

My hand reached for the otoscope on the wall, the device clicking as the small, concentrated light flickered to life. Mr. Murphy shifted, the chair creaking under his weight.

“I’m going to pull back on your ear slightly,” I said, my voice maintaining its professional mask. “You might feel a little pressure.”

“There is significant erythema and some fluid buildup behind the drum,” I noted, more to the mental file I was building than to him. I clicked the light off and set the tool aside. “Now, tilt your head back slightly for me.”

I moved behind him, my fingertips finding the soft space just beneath his jawline. I began a systematic palpation of his neck, feeling for the cervical lymph nodes. On the right side, just under the angle of the jaw, my fingers met a firm, pea-sized swelling that didn’t belong.

Mr. Murphy winced, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.

“Tender there, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, Doctor. It feels like a marble is stuck under the skin,” he mumbled with his eyes closed.

“That’s a reactive lymph node,” I explained, stepping back toward the desk. “It’s a clear sign your body is mounting a defense against the infection I’m seeing in the ear canal.”

After the checkups and consultations, the crowd had finally cleared. I had hoped to leave early, but the examinations took longer than expected. Time itself felt slower that night, leaving me exhausted.

“Ms. Claire, I’m going now. Please continue checking and updating the patients’ records, and make sure to update my calendar for tomorrow’s consultations,” I said before leaving my clinic.

Walking down the hospital hallway, a Doctor Halbrecht greeted me.

“Hey, Lucian. What’s up?” he asked, his freckled face red and smiling as he waited for my response.

“Going home. Why?” I replied, my voice low and dry, showing no interest in his invitation.

“You’re not going to dinner? Everyone is going,” he said, smiling as he fixed his glasses.

“No, I think I’ll pass. Maybe next time. Too busy,” I answered as I walked toward the lift.

“Okay! See you around.” He nodded and left to join the others.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

After my shift at the hospital, I went to the art museum for a short evening visit. It had been a month since I last set foot on the marble floors of the museum in Paris. I was aiming to at least have a quick glance at the recently displayed painting of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, a picture of longing, where the gods bound them together forever.

One Saturday evening, I got off the bus and hid behind the kiosque à journaux to shield myself from the rotating sweep of the street-level CCTV. I had returned to see her again. Though uncertain if she would be there, I still felt confident. While I remained hidden, I adjusted the brim of my cap. It had been almost eighteen minutes since I arrived, and I felt the weight of the sunglasses covering half my face as sweat gathered beneath them.

The man beside me smoked nonchalantly. The smell dominated the area so much that I almost coughed. I cleared my throat twice, emphasizing how deeply revolted I was by his presence. He was blocking my view of the café. I moved away, avoiding him completely.

My eyes searched the busy crowd; even the cafés were saturated. I continued along the sidewalk, looking for her, l’amour. And there she was, in her usual spot, holding an iced cappuccino and reading a book. It had been almost two weeks since I began keeping tabs on her.

I was focused on her movements through the café window. Her back was turned from my position. It was easy for me to look at her for hours. She wore a white shirt with a brown cardigan and jeans. She was so deeply absorbed in the book, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, that she forgot about the drink in front of her. I could only guess the title from the dark teal and deep blue tones of the cover, possibly from the Evergreen series.

Moving to the side of the newsstand for a better view, I pretended to browse the newspapers and magazines, casually pulling out my phone as if texting someone. Then I sat on an empty chair facing the side of the café’s glass window. I was still a few meters away from her. Rose’s eyes were still fixed on the book, one finger flicking to the next page. The loud horns of passing vehicles, combined with the noise from the crowd outside, seemed to render me invisible to her. Her fingernails were polished a vibrant shade of purple, and her lips were stained with pinkish gloss. She remained just as dainty as when I had first seen her. Rose never looked haggard. She made other girls look average.

A few hours had passed; her drink seemed to have collected a layer of condensation. I remained seated, observing her. But once she had read a few pages, she took the cup and drained the last of her drink. Before she pulled her phone from her pocket, Rose’s calm demeanor faltered as she checked the time, worry tightening her expression. She hurriedly stuffed the book into her bag and rushed out of the café, casting a frantic glance at the street clock as she disappeared toward the shop.

I rose from my chair and followed her a few blocks behind, weaving through the streets of Rue de Rivoli, across the Pont Neuf, and into narrow alleys, where some bystanders smoked and others hid, locked in secret kisses. As darkness settled over the city, I watched Rose from my hiding spot behind a closed establishment as she hastily opened the shop door. She was met by a volatile man in his fifties, his voice already raised. From where I stood, I could hear their conversation, and Rose’s head lowered in defeat.

“This place runs on a schedule, not your whims. We close at seven,” he barked, the distended veins in his temple pulsing with every word. “I’ve got places to be, and I’m not staying late to do your job for you!”

“Yes, Monsieur Robert,” Rose mumbled, her eyes fixed on the ground, hiding a flicker of resentment.

When his anger faded into the night, he cast Rose a final look of disdain. He stepped out of the shop and shouted a final, sharp “Merde!” before walking down the street and vanishing into the dark. Rose’s face fell. She steadied herself, pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away her tears, and returned to the task of closing the store.

Meanwhile, I moved from the closed establishment to a large tree a few blocks from Smith & Son, where I waited, still watching Rose. After thirty minutes, she pushed open the glass door and approached the alarm panel mounted beside the frame, where she hesitated. At that moment, I quickly pulled out the SLR camera from my bag, zooming in on the movement of her hand through the shop window, snapping photos of her entering the code: 1-5-9-5.

Once the lights went out inside, she turned and walked away. Before leaving, I surveyed the area to make sure no one was around. I did not take any chances, even in the dead of night. The area looked even grimmer when isolated.

Back at the estate, the hallway greeted me with the scent of arranged gardenias. The study was intentionally locked. When I opened the wooden doors, the smell of dust and antiques lingered in the air. The cold ambience of the room, along with the massive book collection, invited me in. The painting of Bethsabée au bain looked down on me as if judging me, her bosom displayed like meat in a market. A real seductress, she reminded me of Rose. A man’s buried desire suddenly surfaced, and the only thing that could awaken it was the image of the same temptress, Rose, but only as a distorted reflection, like a twisted anatomical illustration from The Love of the Brute. I retrieved the artbook from the shelf and left for the bedroom.

On the bed, with a glass of scotch waiting on the nightstand, I settled in and almost succumbed to a shocking, impetuous drive to continue with the weakness. I was at the mercy of almost touching myself. But I had to keep myself from contaminating the fine sheets; only the images from the artbook had calmed the urge. When I finally felt exhaustion, I tried to sleep, but the sketch of the women, their bodies twisted, their inguinal areas pierced by a fishing hook and their labia delicately pierced with needles set at diagonal angles, was all I could visualize until I finally fell asleep.

The next day, I took a short break and went to Smith & Son bookstore. From behind a tall display of encyclopedias, I watched Rose while browsing some books. She stood at the counter arranging the boxes that had just been delivered. She was so focused on the task that she did not seem to notice some of the incoming customers.

Her manager stood beside her at the counter, a balding man whose soft hands seemed to sweat with gluttony. He leaned over the wood, trapping her in the narrow space.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Robert,” she said, stepping to the side.

I watched his hand drift to her waist. Rose flinched, her body rigid, and tried to pull away. She moved to the counter and picked up the pile of newly delivered books. Monsieur Robert moved to her side again, but this time I heard him whisper, his voice thick with insinuation. Her manager was nothing but filth, a deviant. He was touching Rose like that Moroz guy. Why was she surrounded by these kinds of degenerate people? It was never pleasant to watch her being touched by his filthy hands, as if corrupting her even before I had her. Rose just froze there.

“I’ll be in Nice in a few months, Rose. My wife thinks it’s a supply run. Maybe you could... cover for me? Or join me?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound, and patted her waist again before retreating into his office, leaving the door slightly open.

He could not keep his hands to himself; he kept on touching what I owned. A visceral revulsion rose in me, the urge to dismember the imbecile. I was almost biting my tongue, controlling what I had left, and waited until he fully disappeared. I immediately pulled a book from the stand and stepped forward. I excused myself politely and offered a subtle, friendly nod. But Rose was surprised by my presence, accidentally knocking over the books piled on the counter.

“I’m sorry… just a moment,” she whispered as she lowered her head to pick up the clutter. It was obvious she was still shaken by her manager’s intrusion.

“Hi, sorry if I startled you. I was looking for some good suspense novels. I kind of picked this one up, not really sure which book to buy,” I said, resting the book on the glass. “Is this any good?” I reached up, idly scratching behind my ear

Robert suddenly yelled from his office. “Rose! What are you doing? Clear the goddam deliveries now!”

“Yes…Monsieur Robert,” she mumbled, carrying a box of books to the other side of the counter.

When Rose returned to the counter, she stared at the title and shook her head, then pointed to a display.

“I’m sorry about that… Busy with the deliveries. What’s your concern again?” she asked, scratching her head.

“Whether this book was any good?” I asked, while taking quick glimpse of the manager’s office.

“Oh, not really. But that one on the display? I can’t keep it on the shelves,” she said as she continued arranging the books on the counter.

I stepped toward the display, indicating the row of hardcovers.

“This one?” I lifted the volume from the display, turning it over to scan the blurb. “Hmm, sounds interesting. Thanks for the suggestion.”

She nodded as I brought the book to the counter and paid.

“Thank you again,” I said, gazing at her with a smile. “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice trying to sound more relaxed than before. “You know, if you’re looking for something better, there’s another one I’d recommend instead. Mind if I show you?”

Raising an eyebrow, I checked my watch. My lunch was almost over. I wasn’t expecting her to commit to the conversation, but it was always better to play hard to get.

“I wish I could hear more, but my lunch is almost over,” I said, observing the subtle shift in her reaction. “I have to get going, maybe some other time.”

Rose did not respond; she seemed left wondering. Before I walked to the door, I intentionally stared at her for a few seconds. Our eyes met, and she stared back, following my gaze until I reached the glass door. Just as it shut behind me, she called out. I was not expecting it, though I already had a plan to coax her further.

“Excuse me sir, wait! You forgot your change!” she shouted as she pulled her coat over her shoulders. Some of the customers turned their heads, then went back to their business. “Sorry,” she said, turning to face them.

Her manager peeked through the door, watching her. “Rose, where are you going? Don’t leave the counter!”

“I’m sorry! Monsieur Robert, I was just going to give the customer his change. I’ll be right back!” she exclaimed.

He scoffed at her before returning to his office.

Rose stopped for a moment, thinking as she stood at the door, her cheeks the color of carnations. She lingered there. I couldn’t tell if she was hesitating or rehearsing. When she reached the sidewalk, she looked flustered and walked slowly in my direction.

“I’m sorry…but I just need to give you your change,” she stuttered, as she handed me the bill.

“Are you okay? You seem anxious,” I asked while following her gaze. Rose seemed frantic. “Is your boss always like that?”

Rose wiped the sweat from her forehead before responding to my question. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I lowered my head, trying to further meet her gaze. “Why do you keep looking at the manager’s office?”

“Nothing, just a busy day. Nothing to worry about,” she said, turning her face toward me. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem,” I replied, clearing my throat. “So, you mentioned wanting to show me the book?”

“Yeah, but maybe some other time. When are you going to come back?” she asked.

“Probably tomorrow afternoon?” I said, thinking. I was hoping that she would agree. “What about lunch?”

“Okay.” She smiled. “Thanks, see you around.”

I smiled at her, still holding the bills in my hand, feeling the warmth she had left on them. Rose was closer than before. I wanted to brush her golden hair or even touch her soft face. Her figure was slim. I towered over her, and she smelled of florals, as her name suggested.

I nodded at her, smiling softly as I brushed my hair, still looking at her.

Rose’s eyes lingered on the store before she decided to turn around and leave. I immediately introduced myself.

“I’m Arthur, Arthur Lyons,” I added, smiling as I extended my hand to her.

“I’m Rose.” She smiled faintly, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders as she took my hand. I felt the warmth of her palm against my skin. Though she was trembling, it still felt like cashmere.

Suddenly, Robert burst out of the door, his face flushed as he shouted at Rose. He eyed us as if he were about to pull her off the sidewalk and drag her back inside the store.

“Rose! What are you doing flirting here? The customers are lined up at the counter! Get back this instant!” He yelled, almost spitting, as his eyebrows narrowed.

Rose didn’t get the chance to respond. Instead, she followed him back to the store, not once glancing at me. The pest disrupted the moment, just as I was about to reach her.

Later that night, I returned to Rose’s apartment building. The fading cream-painted walls of the structure seemed neglected, as if forgotten by the owner. An old woman was putting away her merchandise, preparing to close her flower shop.

Every other night, I came to this area where Rose lived, sometimes standing beside the lamppost a few meters away, or sitting in a pub on the east side where I could still observe her window. I made sure to note her schedule and see if anyone came to visit. In the past few days, no one had.

Tonight, was different. Rose suddenly stepped outside her door to check her mail. She seemed annoyed by the letters, tore them apart, and threw them into the nearest bin. She wore a navy coat with a white scarf around her neck. I left the pub immediately, following her from behind.

Rose stopped on the sidewalk, turning her head toward the bin. Her eyes lingered there for a moment before she resumed walking toward a bench near a tree. She stayed there for a few hours before finally deciding to leave. I noticed her wiping her cheeks, as if she had been crying, while I remained a few meters away, watching.

I took my phone from my pocket and snapped a few photos of her before quickly hiding behind a parked car. I scanned the area for other people and noticed two drunkards walking toward Rose. They didn’t notice her; instead, they sat on the bench where she had just been and fell asleep.

Then I turned my attention back to Rose. She was now in front of her building’s entrance. I waited until she finally disappeared inside before turning my gaze back to the two drunkards. Their faces were turned away, still in slumber.

When I had walked a few steps and was almost near the bin where she had thrown the letter, the old woman from the flower shop suddenly pushed the door open. I quickly turned away, changing my direction to cross the main street.

My mind swirled with those letters. Why? Why? Why would she tear them apart and throw them away? Was it Franz Moroz? The questions spiraled into a nauseating chaos in my head, lingering with me all the way to the manor.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Leaving the hospital at exactly 20:01, I started walking back to the parking lot where I had left my car. When I arrived, I noticed that only a few vehicles remained, in stark contrast to the traffic jam that had filled the highway that morning.

At the manor, when I reached the service entrance, I was greeted by a heavyset man in his fifties, Mr. Dubois, the groundskeeper. In his left hand, he held a pair of work gloves and a bucket of water.

“Hi, welcome back, Doctor Hoffmann,” Mr. Dubois said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Everything’s locked up for the night, and I’m done working on the west garden.”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Dubois,” I replied, maneuvering the car near the gutter. “See to it that the north path is cleared of leaves tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Mr. Dubois said. “Goodbye, Doctor. I’ll be heading home now.”

“Sure,” I said, waiting for him to leave.

In the patio, Mrs. Moreau acknowledged my presence before she left. She was a petite, middle-aged woman, a motherly and timid figure. Mrs. Moreau had grown fond of caring for the manor. She was the one who maintained the place and prepared my meals. Both were instructed to leave the estate at 21:30 and to return precisely at 05:00 to resume their work, as I needed the time for myself and for the canvas.

“Good evening, Doctor,” she said, taking her coat from the hanger. “Your dinner has been prepared on the dining table. It’s beef brisket.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Moreau,” I replied, smiling at her. “Goodbye. See you tomorrow.”

She nodded, putting her scarf around her neck and waving goodbye as she descended the patio stairs.

When the estate returned to silence, I moved to the boiler room, where I began decontaminating every speck of dirt and trace of the city. I sat on the bench, removed my right shoe, and shook out a small, flat stone. Then the grey parka was placed in a biohazard bag, ready for incineration. Once the initial protocol had been completed, I scrubbed my hands with surgical-grade chlorhexidine, ensuring that everything was eradicated before I re-entered the main house.

Inside, the grand hallway was a faint luster, and the air felt cold. The Hoffmann-Kleine Manor had been passed down to me by my great-uncle Augustus, along with the remnants of his peculiar collections, including gothic novels, memento mori, mechanical automata, and taxidermized animals. The house felt more like a museum than a home. The paintings hung on the wall, and the darkness of the place felt even more claustrophobic when isolated. When I passed the hallway mirror, the reflection of the man looked even more distorted; it transformed into a fiend. It looked more like a stranger’s face, one I hardly recognized. There were times when I felt far removed from everything the reflection had ever shown me, as though I were observing a stranger through my own eyes. The man in the glass was nothing but a metaphor. A shapeshifter with a sullen, piercing gaze.

I immediately turned away from the sight, and retreated down the dark hallway until I reached the study. I pulled up the reading chair and rested for a while. The silence was broken by the vibration of my phone. Curious, I slid the screen and checked an email from my assistant containing a secure link to the patient’s pre-operative CT scan. I tapped open the attached file and reviewed the images, swiping through the monochrome slices of the facial bones and tracing the delicate structures hidden beneath the skin. To me, it resembled a honeycomb lattice of sinuses.

I was midway through reviewing the patient’s file when my phone vibrated across the desk. It was Mother. I let it ring twice before answering.

“Hello, Mother,” I sighed, tracing the pattern on my pants. “What is it?”

“Lucian, have you settled the estate’s property taxes?” she asked, her voice shattering the silence. “It’s irresponsible if you haven’t.”

“Yes, Mother, I’m looking at the files now,” I responded, pulling open the desk drawer. “I’ve been at the hospital all day.”

“Excuses,” she said, dismissing my response. “Just because you inherited the manor doesn’t mean you expect us to do the paperwork for you! Wait till your Papa hears about this.”

How could she trivialize my practice just because I hadn’t catered to her petty definition of a responsible adult?

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’ll prioritize it first thing tomorrow.”

“Certainly,” she said, before ending the call.

After the frustrating call with my mother, I pulled the documents out from the drawer, placing the papers neatly on the table. I noted the outdated blueprints and the Mairie’s ignorance of the renovations I had completed five years earlier. The permits described only a high-end preservation facility for the Hoffmann’s antique collection, which was lead-lined and HEPA-filtered.

When I compiled the documents, I sat on the reading chair for a while, massaging my forehead as I let the tension ease. I remembered the chamber I had prepared for Rose’s arrival and went to make a final assessment of whether it would match her taste.

In the bookcase, I pressed the panel and waited as it slowly opened. Inside was a narrow staircase leading to the wine cellar and the antique room. I checked the wall gauge to ensure it maintained negative pressure as I descended further. Deep in the hallway, I reached the antique room and continued into the corridor until I came to the door of the hidden chamber, secured by a digital code.

In the chamber, I examined the suite to ensure it was sealed and would not leak any noise. Of course, I arranged the whole place myself, with gold tapestries lining the walls. The ornate gold display cabinet housed the Imperial Fabergé eggs and other rare antiques I had collected from auctions. Even the queen-sized bed was purposefully chosen for the masterpiece; it had lace white linens and silver satin pillow covers. Everything was arranged based on my understanding of what Rose would like. The console played Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor, adding the elegance I was aiming for. The whole place smelled just like her, of florals.

I let myself sink into the mattress and imagined that she was there. I hoped I could sleep with her there, watching her all day. Even the paintings on the wall had a purpose, as I had installed cameras in them. I stayed in the chamber for more than an hour, feeling increasingly restless. I suddenly caught my reflection in the frameless mirror. It halted my thoughts of Rose and pulled me back to that distorted image I had seen before. The fiend, as I called it.

My hands brushed through my wavy dark hair. When I leaned closer, my breath ghosted against the silvered surface. The eyes, that strange piercing shade of flint and moss, stared back. I traced the line of my jaw, a hard, clean sweep of bone that looked as if it had been carved from something unyielding. Even the slight hollows beneath my cheekbones did not feel like mine.

The whole thing made me feel so confused. Why did it feel like it was mine, yet when it stared back at me, it looked completely different?

Every detail in the reflection felt distant.

Now the man looked even more sunken, and the corners of his lips drooped downward. My chest felt tight and heavy, as if something were lodged in my throat. I gulped, forcing it down, hoping it would settle.

“One, two, three, four,” I said, inhaling slowly. It was that monstrous reflection that kept me on edge.

The reflection imitated my movements even when I closed my eyes. When I finally looked back at it, it grimaced, mocking me. I turned away from the mirror, my hands shaking with cold sweat. My legs were trembling and weak, and I almost lost my balance. I adjusted my neck to stretch and moved away, but the man remained in the mirror. I was gasping for air at the sight. I had never been defeated like this before.

I knew I was just tired and that it was all in my head.

Almost drowning, I suddenly saw Rose like a vivid image, expanding into something less suffocating. Slowly, she disappeared from view, leaving nothing but the silence of the room. It whispered a comforting alliance with the stranger in the glass. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to rub away the fatigue as I adjusted the collar of my shirt. I decided to leave the chamber, locking it securely from the outside.

Later that night, I was trying to sleep. Images of Rose had infiltrated my mind, keeping me from falling asleep. The grandfather clock chimed three times. I pulled the robe from the closet as I headed into the hallway.

In the study, the eerie darkness hugged me before I flipped on the lights. At the computer, the clacking of the keyboard echoed through the room as I typed her name into the search bar, going back to her social media where she had left her photos unattended. I had not thought of touching myself at that point while I stared at her; it was something more. The hours of browsing her pictures drowned the room completely. It felt more like she was with me. Her friends were no match for her. I didn’t understand what she saw in that Moroz guy. The screen flickered as I blinked, still focused on her. I didn’t notice it was getting late. I had to go back to bed and rest.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Previous Page

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.

Le Masque Parfait

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Earlier that morning, my assistant Claire handed me the documents for signing, but they remained untouched for almost an hour. My arms felt sluggish, and the walls of the clinic seemed to move closer, smothering and foggy. The smell of the clinic disappeared; even the sound of the people outside seemed drowned out by the isolation and the voices in my head.

The most dominant sound was my mother’s concern about my future. I was trying to protect my sanity from my family’s expectations, especially Papa’s. Mother had been relentless in urging me to settle down with someone, an idea I had repeatedly rejected. To her, thirty-three was a deadline, a biological expiration date she believed I was ignoring.

She would never understand my reasons for objecting. Unbeknownst to her, I had already shifted my focus to someone else. I saw this woman in the quiet section of a bookstore while I was browsing an art book. I could still see the fine layer of dust she disturbed as she moved along the shelves. I even remembered the cashier, a girl with hair like rusted copper, standing irrelevant in the background while my focus narrowed onto her.

I kept my distance, content with the silence of a birdwatcher. She lacked the weary gaze of the women I had tracked before. Her frame was steadier, not hardened by flaws or stress. Her skin is supple and glowing, with no visible lines. Some people might say online dating was better at meeting new people, but I never had the patience to try. I preferred to see the canvas in the flesh rather than interact through chat.

One day, I followed her after an errand. She stayed at a café on Rue de Rivoli for an hour, reading. I sat there as a customer and watched her from across the room. I planned to do it again, leaving early that evening, though I wasn’t sure if she would be there.

Meanwhile, as I was deep in thought, the sound of the intercom suddenly rang, disrupting the silence. It was my assistant’s voice; the static almost reverberated in my head.

“Doctor Hoffmann? Miss Crawford booked an appointment for tomorrow morning. Should I inform her that you’re unavailable and move it to Wednesday instead?” she asked.

“Yes, please. I’ll be in Berlin tomorrow,” I said, crossing my arms. “And please note that I’ll be at the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus.”

“Got it,” Claire said, typing the details on her laptop. “I’ll update your calendar.”

“By the way, I’ll be leaving early for a personal matter.” I paused and smiled. “Before I go, didn’t you mention you had a commitment to attend this evening?”

“Yes, Doctor, I was just preparing,” she murmured, her tone dropping to a shy whisper.

“I see. Have a wonderful time, and please don’t forget to email me a detailed research report on Class I psychotropics for the conference,” I said, disconnecting the line.

Before leaving, I finally signed the documents, organized them, and checked my email. I rehearsed the time and my routine, just in case I forgot something. Most of my colleagues were trauma surgeons, working more than twelve hours a day. I had not chosen a career that would collide with my personal time.

In the next room, my assistant was still typing at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the monitor. Small pink feline figurines cluttered her desk. Patient files were piled on the side, a chart hung on the wall, and more documents were organized inside a glass cabinet. Claire looked up and smiled when she noticed me hanging my coat on the rack. I waved before closing the door behind me; she gave a quick nod and went back to her typing.

In the hallway, Doctor Halbrecht spotted me, waved with a smile, and came over.

“You leaving early, Lucian?” he asked, smirking. His face was sweaty.

“Yes, I’ll be running a personal errand,” I said, my tone dry.

“Okay,” Doctor Halbrecht responded, wiping his face with a checkered handkerchief. “I wish I were an ENT surgeon so I could leave early.”

He laughed, giving me a quick grin before returned to the nursing station. Their eyes darted in my direction as I stepped into the elevator, their smiles almost distorted in contrast to the white-painted walls of the hallway. I had never trusted my co-surgeons, even when they tried to be friendly. It felt rehearsed; their laughter was more of an insult than genuine amusement. I was the last person to enjoy their little get-togethers. I wasn’t going to waste my time with them when I could just be with Rose. Their voices faded as the door closed.

On Rue de Rivoli, the low evening sun glinted off the shop windows, casting a harsh amber glare. By this time, I had already changed my clothes into a large grey parka, along with thick-framed glasses and brown checkered trousers. In case a municipal camera ever captured me, I had placed a small, flat stone beneath the heel of my right shoe to fake a limp.

At the café, there was a long line of people, and the barista stood at the register, frantically taking orders. Meanwhile, I kept on gazing at the crowd, looking for Rose, my eyebrows narrowing, hoping she was there. When it was my turn, the barista greeted me and quickly took my order.

While waiting for my name to be called, I sat near the bookshelves, holding a newspaper, scanning the crowd. I almost did not recognize her because she was wearing cat-eye glasses. She tied her golden hair in a ponytail and wore a baby-blue satin dress.

Fifteen minutes later, I was called back to the counter.

“Double espresso for Jean!” the barista called.

Returning to my chair, my eyes never left her corner. Her reflection flickered in the window.

Rose sat there quietly, unbothered. Her figure held the stillness and beauty of Aphrodite, and her profile caught the light like a subject in a Renaissance oil painting. Eventually, her focus will be exclusively on me.

It wasn’t hard for me to learn her name. Monsieur Robert, her manager who always called on her loudly, was the cause. I wondered if she ever noticed just how grim her life was. One time, I caught him touching her shoulders while she was busy arranging books, just behind the back door. Rose suddenly stopped, stiffened from his touch, and the books fell to the floor. Her face faltered as she drifted away. I didn’t stop him, though my fingers dug into my palm and my jaw tightened.

Her name was like a broken jazz record, looping relentlessly in the back of my head. I even dreamed about her. She was with me, with her books, as if we were living together. I was contemplating our future together, not as husband and wife, because that felt too performative. It was more than that.

An hour had passed; Rose’s notebook lay open, her eyes wandering over the scattered scribbles. She touched her chin with an index finger, as if deep in thought. I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting my eyes pass over her in a way that wouldn’t draw attention.

She reached into her bag for her cellphone and opened her messages, a soft laugh slipping out at whatever she read. The sound was faint, almost lost beneath the low hum of the café.

I finished my coffee, set the cup down, and continued to observe her. Rose finally packed up her things, pulled several bills from her pocket and left them in the tip jar, and left.

I trailed her from behind, keeping my distance by ducking down a parallel street. Already familiar with the area, I used the alleyways to outpace her, careful not to draw a glance. When she finally stepped onto the pavement, I was waiting, tucked into the shadows of an old building, pulling out a camera to capture her every movement. As Rose turned and walked away, I followed, keeping myself hidden in a dark alley. My eyes quickly scanned the area for bystanders while I moved in her direction, my hand slipping into my pocket to pull out a handkerchief, pretending to wipe my face.

Then I shifted my attention back to Rose. She was caught up in her phone, still unaware of my presence, her arms clinging to her shoulder bag, until she vanished into her apartment building. She lived in an old building, completely unadapted for modern security.

I stopped for a moment, cautious of the area. I immediately moved to the other side of the building and checked the mailboxes to learn which floor she lived on. The apartment was an eight-story building, and finding Rose’s mailbox was a struggle; there were two Fontaines living there. One mailbox was labeled R. Fontaine, 412, and the other W. Fontaine, 622. Assuming that R. Fontaine was hers, I quickly checked the other Fontaine before anyone returned to the building. It belonged to a William Fontaine.

After an hour had passed, my eyes became dry and heavy. I had a sudden impulse to knock on her door and introduce myself, because I was certain she would like me. But I knew it was too early to do that, and I might run into someone who knew her. Just the thought of another man in her life made me feel resentful. Of course, I never wanted her to be touched by another man before I even had the chance.

Back at the Louvre, tourists swarmed the area, captivated by the grandeur around them. They snapped photographs here and there. I passed them, letting their laughter fade behind me as I made my way to the parking lot.

At 20:00, I was in the study and continued searching for Rose on the internet, expecting to find something of importance. There were several other Rose Fontaines in the search results, but I still managed to find her social media account.

The account itself was dormant. The last post had been five years ago. There were tagged photos shared by a profile named Alena Ivanov. Using a fabricated account, I clicked on Alena’s profile and moved through her albums. In a photo from 2021, I found a group picture where Rose’s head was tilted back in a genuine laugh, her hand resting on a girl’s shoulder with a familiarity she hadn’t shown anyone in Paris.

Further down the timeline, the tone shifted.

A comment thread caught my attention.

“WHORE. SLUT.”

The words sat on the screen like an open mouth mid-scream. The account belonged to Yvonne Lee. She had been part of the same circle. Group photos confirmed it, and each face was neatly tagged with their names. Rose had not been an outsider. She had been inside something that later turned against her. The accusation was predictable.

Another photograph held my focus longer than the rest. Rose stood beside a man identified as Franz Moroz. He was tall, brown-haired, athletic, and blue-eyed, the type who mistook arrogance for confidence. He had his arm around her waist, possessive and familiar. Seeing Rose with a man I considered beneath her was a shock. I had not expected her to lower herself to this riffraff. A sharp stab of anger pierced my chest; I was so revolted. It was unexpected that Rose would allow this.

Certain ideas crawled into my head; they almost choked me. If Rose were here, I would remove that man’s presence from her life. She did not need anyone. Not ever. And I wondered if this Franz Moroz had ever visited her in France, and whether they were still in contact. The thoughts spiraled. I had to know.

The thoughts disrupted my focus. My hand was trembling as I gripped it. Forcing the thoughts out of my system, I continued scrolling down her feed, where older photos surfaced. Childhood photographs. A modest birthday celebration. Rose sat on a woman’s lap, and a man clapped nearby, smiling with unguarded pride. I assumed these people were her parents. The location metadata pointed to Polotsk, Belarus. An aging neighborhood.

Her family did not appear wealthy; they seemed ordinary. Before I retired for the night, I looked up her neighbor, William Fontaine. Filtering the search by the address and name, and the university letter I had found in the mail, I discovered that he was a deceased professor who had an only son who lived in Italy and was not related to Rose.

In the bedroom, sleep never came easily because my mind was still clouded with visions of him touching her. I had to take a pill.

Early in the morning, I got up, started packing, and left at 04:00. At that hour, the Paris streets were a skeletal version of themselves, allowing me to reach Charles de Gaulle well ahead of my 07:00 flight. The conference at Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus was scheduled to begin precisely at 11:00. I had no intention of being late. Because I knew the three of us were invited to the conference, only I showed up. Weber and I were the candidates to be promoted, but she suffered from a chronic lack of discipline, and her total collapse of professional decorum with Halbrecht served as the final proof of her unsuitability. I did not think that he would put in a good word for her.

The terminal was already surging with the morning rush, a sea of travelers dragging suitcases like heavy anchors. I bypassed them entirely, following the red SkyPriority signage toward the dedicated Business Class check-in area. I would not bore myself with waiting.

The flight was uneventful. After almost two hours of travel, I arrived in Berlin. Outside the airport, I hailed a cab. The driver helped me with my luggage, and I settled into the back seat.

At the conference, Doctor Weiss was finalizing his presentation notes. I seated myself near the front, alongside surgeons from various international clinics. By 11:00, the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus was at capacity, the air thick with the scent of espresso and the rustle of leather-bound files.

The session lasted three hours before the first break.

“Doctor Hoffmann, you made it to Berlin. How are you finding the symposium so far?” a colleague asked.

“It’s good, thanks to our researchers. The expected results for the clinical trials were highly encouraging for Phase III. But honestly, I’m here to support Doctor Weiss. He was a remarkable mentor,” I said, nodding as I held a cup of coffee.

“Ja, excuse me. I’m Doctor Bauer.” He reached out his hand.

I extended my hand, but Bauer’s grip was an unnecessary display of force that felt more like restraint than greeting. He held my gaze with a fixity that was almost pathological, as if he were assessing me.

“Herr Doctor Weiss has a keen eye for potential, ja? He always mentions you as a future mentor, a senior,” he said, his voice calm but reassured. “I had to see it for myself. Your palms say it all. Congratulations.”

Everyone here seemed buried in their own lack of observation. Naturally, I was the only one with true potential, and perhaps that was the only thing I wanted to know.

“Danke,” I said, turning my attention to the other doctors before looking back at him. “But I hadn’t thought of that. I was simply dedicated.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, before leaving.

That afternoon, following the conference, I occupied an empty chair at a café and had a quick lunch. I repeatedly checked the time. The long wait made my eyes feel heavier, and I was almost falling asleep, so I bought another cup. Exhaustion had been taking over me, and even the background noise felt more pronounced. When the bell chimed four times, I stood up and left for the airport to catch my flight back to Paris. I wondered what Rose was doing at this hour. If it weren’t for that promotion, I wouldn’t have attended this conference. But my position was no longer a matter of debate; it was an established fact.

It was midnight when I got back to the manor. My limbs were fatigued. After a quick shower, I went straight to bed.

The next morning, the groundskeeper, Mr. Dubois, was already pruning the hedges. I called his attention before leaving.

“Mr. Dubois, can you please instruct Mrs. Moreau to buy some groceries this afternoon and also get new flower seeds for the garden?” I instructed before starting the engine of the car.

“Oui, Doctor Hoffmann. Which particular flower seeds would you like in the garden?” Mr. Dubois asked.

“Asters,” I responded, then left.

I departed the manor at exactly 06:00, driving my car to the hospital.

On the boulevard, two vehicles had collided, a mess of shattered glass and twisted metal born from a biker’s impatient overtaking. A loud whistle pierced the air from the sidewalk, where a traffic enforcer waved his hands frantically at the swelling tide of motorists. I glanced at my wristwatch, counting the seconds lost to the chaos.

Just a few blocks’ walk, or should I wait for this traffic to clear?

I maneuvered the car into a public parking lot, then stepped out and continued on foot. A crowd had gathered around the two motorists as they traded insults, while a traffic enforcer wrote a ticket. Impatient horns blared, adding to the chaos.

The cold morning air brushed against my face as I moved along the sidewalk. Leaves swayed peacefully, a stark contrast to the commotion around me.

When I reached the hospital, people were lined up along the hallway. Nurses moved briskly back and forth, assisting patients as they went.

“Good morning, Doctor Hoffmann,” Doctor Elie Weber greeted, her usual demeanor seeming a little more positive today.

“Morning, Doctor Weber.” She followed me to the elevator, clearly trying to start a conversation.

“Have you seen Weiss’s assistant? She nearly handed me a sedative instead of a chart this morning. I don’t know where her head is, but it certainly isn’t in the ENT ward,” she said, her left hand holding a freshly bought coffee.

“Maybe the girl was just nervous, or it was her first job,” I responded, staring at the elevator’s LCD screen as I waited impatiently to reach my floor. Though I didn’t really care about the person she was referring to, I had to respond to her nonsense.

“You’re too nice, bless your heart. But I’m not sure about that, because she always seemed to be preoccupied,” she murmured. “If she were my assistant, she wouldn’t last a week.”

“What a tragedy,” I replied, clearing my throat, trying to cut through this gibberish nonsense. “She should consult you, Doctor, to be more efficient.”

She scoffed at my remark and stared at the LCD screen. “This is my floor. Bye, Doctor Hoffmann.”

I watched her as the elevator doors closed. I couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction. She was insufferable.

☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎

Next Page

Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.