Camille Delacroix 's high-pitched voice cut through the air conditioning like a blade.
The tires squealed on the cracked asphalt. Dust rose in a cloud around the black car.
— Look closely — said Camille, leaning towards the windshield with a twisted smile. — Isn't that your ex-wife?
Alexandre turned his head in annoyance… then stopped breathing.
A few meters away, under the harsh midday sun, stood Claire Moreau .
Not the elegant woman who shone at high society receptions in Paris .
Not the wife who walked arm in arm under the crystal chandeliers of their townhouse in the 16th arrondissement .
The woman he saw now was different.
She wore a faded blouse. An old skirt. Worn-out sandals. Her skin was tanned by the sun. Her hair was hastily tied back.
But what made Alexander's hands tremble was not poverty.
They were the two small bodies pressed against her chest.
Twins.
Asleep in simple baby carriers.
Blondes.
With her forehead.
