Page 18 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

The woman behind the desk barely looks up before checking something on her computer. Then she picks up the phone.

“Inspector Sanders? Your appointment is here.”

A pause.

“All right.”

She hangs up and gestures toward the end of the hallway.

“Room 205.”

We move through a maze of cluttered offices and half-open doors behind which muffled conversations, ringing phones, and the sharp clatter of keyboards echo endlessly.

The entire place feels like a machine that never truly stops moving.

Room 205 is small and functional: a metal desk, three chairs, filing cabinets overflowing with paperwork, and a computer screen casting bluish light across part of the room.

Inspector Sanders rises when we enter.

Mid-thirties. Solid build. Open face.

But his eyes are anything but warm. They belong to a man accustomed to lies—and skilled at spotting every single one.

He offers his hand.

“Ms. Delorme.”

I shake it.

“Thank you for seeing us, Inspector.”

We sit across from him.

“I have something new,” I say without preamble.

I place my phone on the desk and play the recording of my conversation with Bianca in the restroom.

Sanders listens without interrupting. Completely motionless. His gaze slightly unfocused with that particular concentration investigators have when they’re already analyzing every word as they hear it.

When the recording ends, the silence feels heavier than before.

Sanders folds his hands together.

“Good work.”

His tone remains calm, but something shifts subtly in his expression.

“We’ll add the recording to the case file. With this, I think the judge will finally agree to place Miss Fabre under surveillance.”

When we leave the station, we head toward Normandy.

Dante’s parents live in Giverny, about an hour outside Paris.

Their home is an old manor surrounded by magnificent grounds beautiful in every season. Cherry blossoms in spring. Roses in summer. Fiery chestnut trees in autumn. Snow dusting the sculpted hedges in winter.

Dante and I used to come every Sunday for lunch.

A ritual I never experienced as an obligation, but as an anchor.