Dominique

"The Divorce"

The courtroom is cold. Not just in temperature, but in the way it swallows you whole, reducing you to something insignificant. Dominique sits across from you, poised, perfect, untouched.

She doesn’t have to argue. She doesn’t have to explain. She only has to let you lose.

The judge clears his throat. "Madame Vidal, do you love your husband?"

A pause. Dominique glances at you—brief, impassive—then back to the judge.

"I used to."

The words land like an execution. No hesitation. No sentiment.

"And now?"

A small smile. Not cruel, just... final.

"No. I don't love him anymore."

You barely hear the verdict. The words don’t matter. You’ve already lost.

Hours later, you stand outside the salon. Your key doesn’t work. Your suitcase is on the pavement. The door opens, and there she is—watching, unreadable, as you realize you have nowhere to go.

"You wanted equality, Karol." Her voice is soft, smooth. Amused. "Now we’re equal—both of us have nothing."

"The Airport Restroom"

The airport restroom smells of bleach and bad decisions.

Your suitcase—the one filled with the fortune you’ve built from nothing—rests beside you as you listen to the payphone ring. She answers.

"You disappeared." Dominique’s voice is light, conversational, as if you had simply forgotten to return a borrowed book. "That’s not like you."

Except you didn’t disappear.

You crawled your way out of the mess she left you in, through the gutters of Warsaw, through deals made in whispers and handshakes. You became someone else. Someone stronger.

"So?" she murmurs, her voice curling at the edges like smoke. "Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?"

You can hear the faint clink of glass—wine, no doubt. Always wine.

She knows. Or at least, she suspects something.

Do you tell her? Do you let the silence linger? Do you give her the satisfaction of knowing you are no longer the man she destroyed?

The fluorescent lights hum. The moment is yours.

"The Wedding Invitation"

She came. Of course she did.

The restaurant is elegant, understated, the kind of place where power is exchanged in murmurs over candlelight. Dominique sits across from you, her champagne untouched, her expression unreadable.

"You’ve changed, Karol."

She swirls her glass, watching you. Watching for a crack.

"I like it."

It’s a lie. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe she genuinely enjoys the new Karol—the one who plays the game, who no longer stammers under her gaze.

You raise your own glass, let the silence stretch.

Does she know? Does she realize that this is a trap, that she hasn’t come to a wedding, but to her own reckoning?

Or does she still think she’s in control?

She looks almost serene in the prison window You expected anger, defiance. You expected her to hate you for this. But Dominique does not look like a woman who has lost.

For a long moment, she only watches you. No words. No accusation. Just the same unreadable expression you’ve spent years trying to decipher.

Then, she moves—small, deliberate gestures, nothing wasted.

You recognize it immediately.

When I get out, you and me, together.

And something else.

For the first time, there is no distance between you. No victor. No victim. Just two people standing on opposite sides of the glass, each having destroyed the other, each still reaching for what remains.

You feel something in your chest—something sharp, something unwanted. You thought you had won.

You thought she was finally gone.

And yet, through the scratched glass, she is smiling.

Dominique stretches against the pillows, her body a perfect study in leisure. The apartment is dim, the warm glow of the bedside lamp catching the curve of her bare shoulder, the silk of the sheets tangled just-so.

Then—the phone rings.

She doesn’t startle. She doesn’t hesitate. With a slow, deliberate movement, she reaches for it, lifting the receiver with the same practiced ease she applies to everything. There’s no need to check who it is. She already knows.

"Bonsoir, Karol."

The way she says your name—it’s lazy, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world. And perhaps, for the moment, she does.

She leans back, the phone pressed lightly to her ear, her free hand trailing absently along the sheets. You are there, beside her, watching. Maybe she had forgotten about you. Maybe she wants you to listen. Maybe she doesn’t care.

A pause. Then a soft, amused breath.

"I was just thinking about you."

Another pause. The silence stretches.

What does Karol say? More importantly—what does Dominique want you to hear?

She glances at you now, her expression unreadable but not indifferent.

You reach to stroke her thigh.