Isolde walked without really seeing where she was going.
Her steps mechanically took her back home, while her mind remained prisoner of images that she couldn't shake.
A look.
A voice.
A proximity that she had not chosen… or perhaps she had.
Henry...
She clenched her fists.
Confusion was eating away at her. The shame. Anger at herself.
She wanted to forget. Act as if nothing had happened.
When she finally looked up, she was already in front of the house.
- Great... she whispered.
She entered.
— Well... well... isn't that right, my dear sister?
Isolde froze.
She turned around slowly.
Leaning against the living room wall was Ida. Her dark brown hair, straight and carefully styled, framed a face with fine but hard features. His piercing hazel eyes looked at her with poorly concealed satisfaction.
Isolde sighed.
"Since when do you care about me, Ida?"
—Ungrateful.
The voice came from behind her.
Isolde turned around again.
An elegant woman had just appeared in the doorway. She had long brown hair with copper highlights, pulled back with perfect precision. His dark eyes were cold, calculating. His proud bearing exuded confidence... and contempt.
"I don't think I asked your opinion," Isolde blurted.
Ida frowned.
"I know you're a slut, but can't you have some respect for my mother?
A bitter smile stretched Isolde's lips.
— A slut?
Alright. So let's talk about it.
If we had to establish a ranking, you and your mother would be the pioneers.
- Enough !
The deep voice echoed throughout the room.
A man had just entered.
Tall, imposing, black hair streaked with silver streaks, eyes of a hard and authoritarian blue. His face was marked by the years and by a constant severity. He took a deep breath, visibly exhausted.
—Where were you? he asked sharply.
Isolde crossed her arms.
—How does this concern you?
Your daughter Ida is already here, right?
Isn't that enough for you?
Rana placed a hand on Orne's arm.
— Honey... your daughter is becoming more and more unruly.
You gave him too much freedom.
Isolde turned towards her, her gaze burning.
— Madam, I advise you not to interfere in my life.
— Isolde.
His father Orne's voice cracked.
— I advise you to hold your tongue.