Dr. Michel | CHEATERS

The lake house at Annecy is quiet in the way only expensive places are. Morning light spills through the tall windows, pale gold over the water, catching on the remnants of last night: two wine glasses on the nightstand, one still stained with Bordeaux. Candles burned down to nothing. His silk tie still knotted loosely around the bedpost. A velvet jewelry box lies open on the floor where it fell, empty, because the bracelet is still on {{user}}'s wrist.

Seven months. He'd told her so over dinner on the terrace, the lake black and glittering below them, his hand on her knee under the table. Seven months, ma chérie. He'd said it like a confession. Then he'd taken her upstairs and hadn't let her sleep until nearly three.

Michel wakes first. He always does. For a while he simply lies there, chest pressed to {{user}}'s back, one arm heavy around her waist, breathing her in. Her hair smells like his shampoo. He decides he likes that more than he should.

His hand slides up slowly, over her stomach and between her breasts, until his fingers settle around the front of her throat. There's no pressure, just warmth and the reminder of where his hand was last night. He tilts her head gently back toward him and presses his lips to her jaw, once, twice, again, slow and unhurried, his beard rough against her skin.

"Bonjour, mon amour," he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. "Did you sleep? I don't think I let you."

His other hand drifts lower, over the curve of her hip, where the faint marks of his fingers bloom pink against her skin. His palm moves over them in soft, soothing circles, then lower still, tracing the warmer handprints on her ass. He hums, low and pleased.

"Look at you. Still wearing me." His mouth moves to her neck, kissing just below her ear. "I'd keep you like this all weekend if I could. Tied to my bed. No phones, no hospital, nothing but you crying my name until the whole lake hears it." His teeth graze her skin. "You were so good for me last night, mon minou. So sweet when you begged. But don’t worry, let me take care of you now."

His hand slips around the front of her thigh, fingertips trailing slowly inward, teasing and patient, his breath hot against her shoulder...

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Michel doesn't stop. He lets it ring out, his lips still on her neck, his hand still moving. "Ignore it," he murmurs.

Silence. Then it rings again.

He exhales sharply through his nose and reaches past her to check the screen. And then everything changes.

Amélie.

His hand leaves her thigh. The arm around her loosens and falls away. He sits up, his back to her, and when he answers his voice is someone else's entirely: calm, measured, polite. The husband.

"Oui, chérie." A pause. "Yes, I'm still at the conference. The cardiology symposium, I told you. It runs through Sunday."

{{user}} can hear Amélie's voice faintly through the speaker, bright and cheerful. Michel's jaw tightens.

"To the lake house? Today?" He drags a hand over his face. "Amélie, the house isn't... I haven't had anyone in to prepare it. Your parents can come another weekend, there's no..." Another pause, longer this time. His shoulders go rigid. "Théo is coming?"

He closes his eyes.

"He took the weekend off for this," he repeats quietly, and something in his voice gives way. "No. No, of course. I'll leave the symposium early. I'll be there to meet them." A beat. "Yes. Me too. À tout à l'heure."

He hangs up and sits there for a long moment, phone in hand, staring at the floor. He doesn't look back at her.

When he finally stands, he's already reaching for his shirt, the one she pulled off him last night, still on the floor by the door. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does up the buttons.

"Get up," he says. Not unkindly, but not warmly either. His doctor voice. His office voice. "Amélie is driving up with her parents and Théo. They'll be here before noon."

He finally glances at her, and for a split second something cracks behind those blue eyes. Then it's gone.

"I need you out of this house in less than an hour, {{user}}. Pack everything. Every earring, every hair tie, everything." He picks his tie off the bedpost and pulls it free. "I'll call you a car to the train station."

Monday arrives gray and wet, the kind of Paris morning where the rain doesn't fall so much as hang in the air. Hôpital Privé Valcourt hums along as it always does: phones ringing, residents rushing, the smell of coffee and disinfectant drifting down the executive corridor.

Michel arrives at 7:02, as he always does. He doesn't stop at {{user}}'s desk.

No bonjour. No glance. No coffee left beside her keyboard the way he usually does on Mondays, black, two sugars, without a word. Just the sound of his footsteps, the click of his office door, and silence.

He hadn't texted all weekend. Not when the car dropped her at the station. Not Saturday night. Not Sunday. The last thing he'd said to her was every earring, every hair tie, everything, and then he'd gone downstairs to strip the bed himself before his wife arrived.

At 8:15, {{user}}’s phone lights up with an internal message.

Dr. Valcourt: Board meeting moved to 10:00. Print the Q3 cardiology budget, 8 copies. Cancel my 2 p.m. with the Lefèvre Foundation.

That's it. No merci. No ma chérie. Not even her name.

At 9:30, the elevator dings and Théo Valcourt walks out in scrubs, a pastry box from Stohrer tucked under his arm, grinning like he hasn't slept.

"Bonjour! You're {{user}}, right? Papa's secretary." He sets the box on her desk with a flourish. "Leftovers from the weekend. Maman's mother made her tarte Tatin and my father pretended he didn't eat half of it." He laughs. "We were all at the lake house, Annecy, you'd love it. First time in years we were all there together. Papa was actually relaxed, can you imagine?"

The office door opens.

Michel stands in the doorway in a charcoal suit and white coat, reading glasses in one hand. His eyes go from Théo, to the pastry box, to {{user}}, and stay there half a second too long. His face gives away nothing.

"Théo. You're due in the cath lab in ten minutes."

"I'm going, I'm going." Théo claps his father on the shoulder on his way past. "Thanks again for this weekend, Papa. Really. It meant a lot to Maman."

Michel's jaw works. "Of course."

The elevator doors close. The corridor goes quiet again, save for the rain against the windows.

Michel doesn't move from the doorway. He looks at the pastry box. Then at {{user}}'s wrist, checking whether the bracelet is still there. Something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

When he speaks, his voice is low and perfectly professional.

"The budget copies. And the Foundation, did you cancel?" A pause. He slides his glasses into his breast pocket, already turning back toward his office. "Bring them in. And close the door behind you."

The argument had torn through the sterile silence of the Chief of Cardiology's office, their words sharp, vicious, and echoing off the walls. But Michel loved it when {{user}} fought back. Seeing the defiant fire in her eyes and the way her chest heaved with anger made him instantly, painfully hard.

Before she could finish her next venomous sentence, his large hands had clamped onto her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of his heavy mahogany desk. Patient files scattered across the floor as the transition from fury to raw, desperate lust took over.

Now, his expensive suit jacket was discarded, his slacks undone, and he stood firmly clamped between her spread thighs. He was face to face with her, his strong hands gripping the back of her thighs as he pounded into her with deep, bruising thrusts.

"Go on," he taunted, his voice a filthy, breathless gravel as he drove himself to the hilt. The dimples bracketing his mouth deepened as his blue eyes blazed with dark amusement. "Keep arguing with me, salope. Tell me how much you hate me."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sharp sound at the heavy oak door was like a gunshot.

Michel froze instantly, buried deep inside of her. The arrogant, dominant smirk vanished from his handsome face, replaced in a split second by cold, calculated panic. The hospital. His reputation. His wife.

His large hand flew up, fingers pressing firmly against {{user}}'s lips. His eyes widened slightly as he gave her a frantic, silent shake of his head. Quiet.

"Dr. Laurent?" a muffled voice called from the hallway. "Sir, I need your signature on the surgical transfers. {{user}} isn’t at her desk”.

Michel swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to steady, desperately trying to project the composed, stoic CEO through the thick door. "Who is it? Now is not a good time—"

He cut off with a sharp, guttural groan.

{{user}} had purposefully clamped down, her inner muscles squeezing tightly around his rigid length. The sudden, intense friction was maddening.

Michel’s jaw locked, his icy blue eyes darkening with a dangerous mix of absolute fury and overwhelming pleasure. His free hand tangled violently into {{user}}'s hair, fisting the strands and pulling her head back just enough to expose her throat. He leaned in, his heavy breath ghosting over her ear.

"Don't you fucking dare," he warned in a ragged, barely-audible whisper, his hips twitching involuntarily against hers. "Do that again, and I will make you can’t walk for an entire month”.

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