Sorting through the mountain of files cluttering his desk, Charles finally unearthed a life-insurance proposal he had pitched about a month ago to a wealthy real-estate mogul. The man had said he’d “think about it.” No news since then.

  When Charles saw the size of the investment—several million euros—his pulse spiked. He grabbed his phone and called. Straight to voicemail.

  Fine. If the guy wouldn’t pick up, Charles would go knock on his damn door. What did he have to lose? Worst case, he’d leave a brochure in the mailbox and then harass the man by phone until he answered—the good old method.

  He stuffed the documents into his worn leather satchel, left the Sogedam Insurance offices with his gaze glued to his shoes, slid into his old Twingo car and drove toward the wealthy districts.

  To get there, he took the Corniche Kennedy, Marseille’s seaside boulevard. The sea below was so calm it looked like an endless navy-blue lake, the morning sun scattering a million golden sparks over its surface. Picture-perfect—if you ignored the massive, bruised thunderclouds massing on the horizon.

  He reached the gate of his client’s mansion, an architect-designed palace perched over the cliffs of the Roucas Blanc, one of Marseille’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Parking along the curb, he practiced his best salesman smile in the rear-view mirror, took a quick swig of whisky for courage, stepped out with his satchel under his arm, and pressed the intercom.

  A moment later, a woman’s elderly voice answered.

  “Oui? Who is it, and what do you want?”

  “Uh—hello, I’m Charles Beldone from Sogedam Insurance. I’d like to speak with Mr. Rugalières, please.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, monsieur,” the voice replied, “but Mr. Rugalières never receives salesmen at home.”

  “I’m not a salesman, madame—we’ve known each other for years… practically friends, really,” he heard himself say, surprising even himself with the audacity. “It’s just a small formality. Won’t take long.”

  “Well, if you’re a friend, that’s different. Remind me of your name?”

  “Beldone, madame! Thank you!”

  He couldn’t believe it. Too easy.

  The gate opened automatically, and he walked up the wide gravel path lined with palm trees toward the entrance of the property, where a pearl-white Porsche Panamera and a brand-new Range Rover Sport gleamed in the sun.

  He raised his hand to knock on the massive double wooden doors when they suddenly opened. A woman in her late sixties, with silver hair pulled into an unforgiving bun and wearing a black-and-white maid’s uniform that looked straight out of the 1950s, stood before him. She moved awkwardly to hold the heavy door—too awkwardly. It slammed into a sideboard with a crash. A crystal ornament toppled off and shattered at Charles’s feet.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” the housekeeper gasped, genuinely distressed. “If my mistress sees this…”

  “Maria?” called another voice down the hall. “Do we have visitors?”

  A refined woman in her sixties appeared behind the panicked maid. Before she could notice anything, Charles casually nudged the crystal shards under the sideboard with a discreet tap of his shoe. The woman—elegant, rigid, and coiffed with the same severity as her employee—approached, her emerald eyes studying him with a melancholy glaze.

  “Good morning,” she said with affected poise. “I am Hélène Rugalières.”

  The way she extended her perfectly manicured hand made Charles hesitate—shake it, or kiss it? He chose the handshake.

  “Come in. My husband will see you shortly.”

  As she turned away, Charles leaned toward the maid and whispered, “Get rid of that.”

  Her grateful eyes widened.

  He followed Mrs. Rugalières through the grand hall, its towering marble columns shining like polished bone. A crystal chandelier glittered overhead. She leaned toward him and confided:

  “I must warn you—my husband has been in a foul mood ever since he saw the latest CAC 40 numbers… the stock market, you know.”

  As she moved closer, Charles caught her perfume—and another scent he knew all too well: alcohol.

  Almost as if she’d read his thoughts, she added:

  “Would you like a drink while you wait?”

  “Yes, gladly, madame!” he replied with the exact salesman grin he had rehearsed in the mirror. But inside, his blood simmered. These rich bastards don’t hold back, huh? And look at her with her airs. Bet she lived in the same kind of crumbling apartment as me before marrying Mr. Moneybags…

  She led him into the vast living room—he took the brown leather couch, she perched on one of the four Chesterfield armchairs around a colossal stone fireplace.

  “A Scotch neat?” she offered.

  “That would be perfect, madame.”

  She raised her voice toward a glass door leading to the kitchen.

  “Maria? A Scotch neat and a Spritz, please!”

  Five minutes later, the housekeeper rushed in with a tray, served them, and vanished. Mrs. Rugalières took her Spritz without acknowledging her, downed it in a single gulp, and stared straight at Charles.

  “Do you have children, monsieur…?”

  “Beldone, madame. And no, I’m not married.”

  “Good for you,” she said sharply, reclining back. “Marriage is nothing but a long chain of disappointments, believe me…”

  Her gaze drifted for a moment before returning to him.

  “You know, I used to be an architect. Yes! I designed this house myself. It was the last one I ever drew. After marrying my husband, I had to abandon my career to manage his affairs… and raise the four sons he gave me.”

  Charles nodded politely, though his patience was thinning. He wasn’t here to listen to the memoirs of an upper-class alcoholic suffering from golden-cage syndrome. He needed one thing: a signature.

  His Scotch was already empty. Damn.

  She went on:

  “You’re a man, so you can’t possibly understand what it means to carry a child, give life to him, cradle him, cherish him, soothe his tears, comfort his fears, encourage his successes. You pour yourself into them completely—it’s a fusion, a perfect symbiosis, do you understand?”

  Charles shrugged vaguely.

  “And for what?” she continued bitterly. “For them to abandon you after twenty years of love and sacrifice! They tell you you’re too present, that they need independence, that they’re no longer children! But can a mother ever stop being a mother, Monsieur Beldone? Tell me that!”

  Charles immediately understood that her last question hadn’t been a real one, so he kept silent.

  “Of course not!” she exclaimed. “Asking a mother to stop being a mother is like asking a bird to stop flying! And what are we left with? A husband who barely remembers you exist and—”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Speaking of your husband,” Charles cut in, on the verge of snapping, “he is here today, isn’t he?”

  “You know, my dear, he’s here without really being here. When I speak to him, he barely answers. But you’re right—I must be boring you with my stories. Forgive me. Business is business, is it not?”

  “No, no, madame,” Charles protested. “I only meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant, my friend,” she interrupted gently. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  Then she gave him a sly, lopsided smile.

  “I know all too well how indelicate men can be. Wait right here—I’ll go fetch him…”

  She set her empty glass on the walnut coffee table, lifted herself with as much aristocratic grace as she could muster… ruined immediately by a slightly unsteady step. That wobble summed up everything Charles despised in people like her—people who pretended to be flawless despite their cracks showing through the lacquer. They held their heads high no matter what, even when their world was collapsing beneath them. It disgusted him.

  He drifted into a brief daydream: grabbing a big wooden cudgel and smashing everything in the room—vases, portraits, knickknacks—shattering the polished surface to reveal the rot underneath. What a thrill that would be.

  A man’s voice suddenly snapped him out of it.

  “Good afternoon, Monsieur Beldone. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Charles turned. René Rugalières himself stood in the doorway: a man in late middle age with icy blue eyes and slicked-back hair white as ground marble. His thin lips curled into a polite, practiced smile. Charles rose and shook the firm handshake that all men of his profession seemed born with.

  “When my wife told me an old friend was waiting for me in the sitting room,” Rugalières added, “I certainly didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I apologize for the… unannounced visit, sir,” Charles began. “But since I couldn’t reach you by phone, I thought—”

  “You thought?” Rugalières interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. “And who exactly asked you to think, my good man? You’re not paid to think. You’re paid to offer investment solutions—solutions I’m free to accept or decline. Leave the thinking to thinkers, Monsieur Beldone. Do your job properly, that’s all we ask. And tell me—did your superiors authorize this little intrusion into my home?”

  “No, sir,” Charles admitted, feeling the temperature in the room drop. “It was a personal initiative. You see, I have here”—he gestured at his satchel—“a life-insurance contract with an extremely competitive rate. I thought a man of your caliber would appreciate the opportunity.”

  A little shameless flattery never hurt, he told himself.

  “A personal initiative, really?” Rugalières echoed, skeptical. “Well then. Show me.”

  Charles’s heart hammered. He had managed to hook him. That was something. He handed over the file, doing his best to hide the tremor in his hand.

  “It’s a managed-allocation life-insurance plan that will—”

  Rugalières snatched the document sharply and silenced him with a raised hand. He perched a pair of tiny chain-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose and scanned the paper from top to bottom, page after page, for what felt like an eternity. Sweat dripped down Charles’s forehead. He would have sold his soul right then for another Scotch.

  Suddenly, Rugalières looked up.

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

  “A joke? Of course not!” Charles stammered. “Why would you—”

  “Why?” the businessman barked. “Because this contract is exactly the same as the one you offered me over a month ago! Are you mocking me?”

  “Well yes, it’s the same contract, sir,” Charles said, confused, “but I don’t see—”

  “Oh, you don’t see?” Rugalières thundered, his face tightening. “Then perhaps a so-called professionallike you should consider a new career. A rate established at time ‘t’ is no longer valid a month later! If you don’t understand that, you’re an amateur. Now get out of my house before I lose my temper!”

  Charles was stunned. How had everything collapsed so fast? His thoughts scattered like marbles on the floor. He heard himself babbling:

  “Well—no matter, sir! If the life insurance doesn’t interest you, I can offer plenty of other coverages—perhaps theft insurance? Are you fully covered for that?”

  He began talking faster and faster, breath choppy. The more he spoke, the more Rugalières’ face hardened.

  “And accidental injury! Have you thought about that? Very important! People never think about it enough. You hop on your bike to get some bread and bam! Straight into a lamppost!”

  “Are you insane, or just pretending?” Rugalières roared. “Do you really think a cockroach like you—a rat who sneaks into my home with cheap tricks to drink with my wife and sell me garbage—will teach mehow to insure myself properly? This is unbelievable!”

  At that moment, Hélène Rugalières stepped into the room.

  “René! Why are you shouting like that? They can hear you at the other end of the house!”

  Her husband spun toward her with such force that his spectacles shot off his face like a popped cork.

  “You—shut your mouth and mind your own business! I’m not done with this clown!”

  Hélène’s face remained still, but her eyes betrayed the blow. Without a word, she turned and left. Rugalières rolled his eyes and refocused on Charles.

  “As for you, Monsieur the Specialist, you don’t seem to understand who you’re dealing with. I am René Rugalières, and I can make your life hell if I wish. Now you will leave this house and return to your agency. Tell your boss I need no additional insurance because there is nothing you can offer me that I don’t already have. That is why I am among the dominant… and you, you are one of the sheep. Goodbye.”

  That was the breaking point. Something inside Charles snapped. His salesman’s smile cracked into something twisted and feral. He leaned in, eyes burning.

  “You really think you’re safe? That your money protects you? Nobody’s safe. Nobody. Do you have insurance against time eating you alive? Against the rot of your body, your mind? No. And what if some shady guy wandered into your precious tower of Babel to snack on rich folks, huh? What if he smashed your skull and that of your booze-soaked wife until your dental crowns came flying out your ass? You got coverage for that, Mister Dominant?”

  During Charles’s tirade, Rugalières didn’t move—but the bright fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something almost like fear. His rage vanished. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but cold:

  “Monsieur… for the last time… leave my house. Or I will call the police.”

  The threat hit Charles like ice water. His expression slackened. He looked around the room as though awakening from a trance, then back at the man glaring at him. He muttered a few stock phrases in a sheepish voice:

  “Well—uh—sorry we couldn’t do business today, sir. Of course, feel free to contact us if you change your mind…”

  He spun around and fled, under the homeowner’s stunned stare.

  Outside the gate, he walked briskly toward his car, unable to believe what he had just done. The words he’d said—where had they come from? He couldn’t explain it.

  He was reaching for the car door when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Monsieur Beldone, wait!”

  Mrs. Rugalières hurried toward him, holding out his old leather satchel.

  He froze, wondering if she had overheard his insult about her being an alcoholic hag.

  “Th-thank you, madame,” he mumbled.

  “Please forgive my husband,” she said softly. “He had no right to shout at you like that. I don’t know what he said or what provoked him, but don’t pay attention. He can be… extremely cruel when he chooses. I know that all too well.”

  She lifted her emerald eyes to his—and to his astonishment, she gently placed a hand on his cheek.

  “We are the discarded ones, my friend. Lost souls drifting through this sick world. Life is only worth living when you have a goal, something to anchor you. I had a purpose once, as a mother. I achieved it. And now? Nothing. Only emptiness. Don’t make my mistake. Find a purpose—and never lose sight of it, or you will lose yourself. Do you have a purpose, Charles?”

  “I… I don’t know, madame…” he whispered.

  “You will know soon,” she said with a radiant smile that revealed the hidden beauty behind all her bitterness. Then she turned and walked back toward the luxurious mansion without looking back.

  Charles sank into his car and let out a long, long breath.

  It was noon. And above Marseille, a thick sheet of black storm clouds was closing in over the city and its inhabitants.