THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapitre 11

Donatella POV

mention of sexual alsuat and kinaping

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This month of absence was hell. After the restroom scene, the chaos wasn't just with Carla anymore; it had completely contaminated my mind.

During that long month, everything shifted. My mind, once a cold and precise engine of performance, now thinks only of Carla, Carla, and Carla, without any possibility of stopping. Every financial transaction, every algorithm, every market analysis brings me back to her, to her terrified eyes, to the feeling of her body against the wall, to the incredible fervor of her response.

My control system is shut down. The desire for her has become so great that it is physical, exhausting. I am frustrated by this running away, by this silence that deprives me of the only variable that matters in my existence now. I have definitively crossed the professional line; now, her absence is unbearable.

One Friday evening, after a week of work where every minute spent at my desk was torture, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see her. I had to end this silence that threatened to drive me mad.

I acted with the precision of an analyst, but the rage of a lover. I went to Carla's place. I found the address of her family penthouse in her university registration file. Using this information was another ethical violation, but necessity had swept away all morality.

I took the time to prepare myself. I didn't want to arrive in a fury. I wanted to arrive with the appearance of a friend coming to end a quarrel. I found a bottle of Italian rosé, a clumsy but concrete gesture of peace.

I arrived at her door. It was an impersonal, secured penthouse, another wall. I didn't hesitate.

I knocked.

The door opened after a few moments.

It was her. She wore a simple cashmere sweater and leggings. She seemed thinner, more fragile, but her blue eyes were as sharp as ever.

She saw me, the bottle of wine in my hand, my face showing a determination I couldn't hide.

She was shocked and surprised. Her face froze. Terror and a flash of relief—the same paradox that haunted me—crossed her gaze.

"Donatella?" she murmured, the first name being a reproach and a question.

I ignored her surprise. I held out the bottle.

"I can't stand your silence anymore, Carla. Let me in," I said, my voice deep. It was an order disguised as a request.

She didn't move. Her shock offered me a very short window of time. I didn't give her a choice. I took a step forward, breaking the distance.

"Listen to me. I won't leave until I've told you how I feel. You've deprived me of the only variable my mind hasn't managed to analyze for months. I'm ending this game."

She took a step back, offering me passage. I crossed the threshold of her apartment, entering her sanctuary.

As I entered, I observed her apartment. It was magnificent, of course, but it was just like Carla: clinically clean, perfect lines, high-level minimalism. A cold luxury that contrasted with the messy warmth of my own home. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress.

But as my gaze swept the room, it stopped at the one note of softness and accepted disorder.

On the immaculate sofa, I saw two balls of white fur. Her kittens. They were huddled together, islands of fragile life in this ocean of perfection. It was tangible proof that she allowed herself a form of attachment, a vulnerability that she denied me.