The Construct Of Love: Chapter 6
This is a polished draft from my debut novel, The Construct Of Love. Final version may differ.
Detached (Working Title)
Clarissa reaches for her clothes, slowly gets dressed.
She wants Delphine to see this.
She’s been reborn.
Pascal calmly rises to his feet, hands Clarissa her sweat bottoms.
His eyes connect with Delphine’s.
God, he’s beautiful—and it hurts like a knife.
She wonders if he was manipulated.
Delphine, without understanding why, begins to consider that he was longing for her the entire time.
Maybe, he didn’t have a choice. Does any man, really?
Pascal gives her a welcoming smile and walks with a composed, confident stride to the bathroom—nude, unhurried.
Delphine takes in every step, keeping her gaze on his glorious glute muscles.
If only she could squeeze them, everything would be right again.
Clarissa ties her waistband with slow precision. “I see they found a way to finish without you.”
Delphine’s attention snaps to her roommate. Her expression hardens. “No, but I did get it done ahead of schedule because I’m that awesome…”
She narrows her eyes. “Clarissa, what the fucking fuck?”
“What? What, Delphine?” Clarissa snaps, surprised at the edge in her own voice. She knows she didn’t do anything wrong.
Fate chose her. This is hers.
Pascal is hers.
“You couldn’t wait? You couldn’t do this the right way?”
“The right way? What does that even mean? Wait for what?”
“You know what it means!”
“No—and neither do you!” she fires back. She’s not wrong, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about logic or intelligent justification. Something primal is exploding, and it’s getting stronger every second.
“I knew it! I knew the moment I left you alone with him…” Delphine paces, fury building.
“No, no, no!” Clarissa stammers. “If it were you, you’d have been wrapped around him before the door even shut! I was chosen…”
“Whoa. Chosen? What—like some immaculate receptacle from on high? I couldn’t get out of work. You could.”
“Wrong. Like always, you gave in because you need to control everything! You don’t trust anyone. They’re all dipshits, right? The guys in marketing, the admin team, the analyst division, the pizza delivery operator!” It feels good. It’s been a long time coming. Most—hell, every decision they’ve made together has been overruled by Delphine.
Not anymore.
Suddenly, they both hear it.
A hum. Barely audible, but unmistakable.
“One has nothing to do with the other,” Delphine snaps, trying to control her breath, pretending not to hear the distant sound. “But yes, nearly everyone is a dipshit moron. That’s why I’ve done so well! And it’s how we—you—got this apartment. Or did you forget?”
She didn’t. But she doesn’t care.
“You stole him, Clarissa!”
“You idiot. How do I steal a person?”
The hum grows louder for Clarissa. Just slightly. Like it’s inside her.
“You manipulated him! Poisoned his mind against me!”
“You’re insane!”
Tension curdles the room.
Jealousy muddies Delphine’s mind.
Gloating sharpens Clarissa’s.
The prize.
A man neither truly knows, but both demand to have.
“We connected,” Clarissa insists. “The moment we saw each other.”
Delphine laughs harshly. “And I’m the crazy one? When did you connect? Was it when he was indented on the hood of your car, when you snuck him home, or when you tackled me to jump-fuck him last night? Tell me, Clarissa—when did it get spiritual for you?!”
Clarissa leans in, eyes locked, voice low and lethal. “He understands me. He told me I’m the only one, you dictating cunt.”
The hum swells. Not outside, but inside her skull.
Then—Delphine’s hand strikes.
She slaps Clarissa across the face.
The impact snaps Clarissa’s head to the right. A sober sting rips through her cheek, down her spine.
Heaven just crashed. The room hangs in stunned stillness, the sting echoing louder than the hum itself.
Clarissa straightens slowly, clenches her teeth, and turns her eyes back to Delphine.
How much pain can two almost-sisters take before they become strangers?
Locked. Staring at one another.
Clarissa, cold but focused.
Mind racing with rapid decisions.
Scratch the face for the slap?
Delphine, hard but softening.
Neck deep in sobriety.
A growing flicker of regret.
Shame - and something else.
Compulsion’s aftermath.
Clarissa’s expression - silent, but understood judgement.
A verdict on the verge of lips and knuckles.”
“I…,” Delphine stutters. Then, “I know.”
She stiffens, breathes deeply and lifts her chin.
That’s when a familiar voice slices through the tension:
“Pardon me, but is there really any need for this?”
Pascal.
He steps from the bathroom.
Still nude.
Still calm.
Still stunning.
And in one hand—he holds his penis.
Detached. Smooth. Clean. Glinting under the ceiling light.
His groin is flat. Seamless. Like molded plastic.
He’s drying the penis gently with a hand towel.
“Studies confirm that elevated cortisol reduces productivity in all demographics,” he says.
Delphine gasps.
Reprisal backfires.
Clarissa faints to the floor.
Pascal reattaches his penis and folds the towel with eerie precision, smiling softly.
“Better.”