The Construct of Love: Chapter 8
This is a polished draft from my debut novel, The Construct Of Love. Final version may differ.
Carnal Arrangements (Working Title)
The senses can deceive.
But the heart never does.
Pascal has a heart. Doesn’t he?
Of course he does.
Only for me.
He said so.
The man I love is trapped inside a technological prison.
A mimic. A masterpiece. A man, enslaved by design.
These are the rationalizing thoughts of Clarissa’s mind.
Pascal eats.
He chews with elegance, like each bite is part of a silent ballet.
But he never sweats. Never shaves. Never excretes waste.
His breath always smells faintly of mint and rain.
Clarissa has checked—more than once.
He’s victim to machinations of mimicry.
And I’m the only one who sees it.
I will free him. We’ll be together. Alone.
⸻
Three weeks pass.
A rhythm forms. An awkward, erotic time-share.
A verbal—but binding—agreement: every other day.
It’s usually nights.
Pascal complies, without hesitation, despite insisting on free will.
But Clarissa knows better—there are threads.
Invisible.
Taut.
Still, income remains the unforgiving master consuming weekdays.
It’s not without its rewards.
Clarissa and Delphine have never looked better.
Glowing skin. Surging confidence. Promotions, bonuses, admiration.
Delphine secures elite contracts.
Clarissa is fast-tracked toward an impressive executive role with bonuses.
Colleagues ask if she’s tried any of the new therapies:
Cryo-Hypnosis.
Paralysis Reset.
The controversial Born Again Mind Over—which involves being buried alive, then “restructured.”
You’d think it would traumatize, but the waiting list is 9 months out.
Clarissa’s only therapy has been Pascal.
The author of her waking dreams.
The scent that clings to her skin like expensive cologne after a romp.
It’s strongest when she’s near him.
The effects are shortening every day.
The hum, however, more frequent.
⸻
Sweat beads down her temple.
She dreads the nights Pascal is with Delphine.
“Playtime,” she calls it. Clarissa has other words.
Sadistic. Narcissistic. Filth.
Monster.
Pascal is a man. Her man.
Delphine is the abuser.
The weekends are the hardest.
Sundays sometimes offer mercy.
When it does, four nights for Clarissa. Three for Delphine.
That means something.
Feels closer to justice.
⸻
Thursday night.
Clarissa’s key trembles in the lock—her grip too tight.
She breathes, turns, and enters.
Pascal sits on the couch, shirtless, paging through Naked Rebel: How to Succeed Before Your Colleagues—one of Delphine’s smug corporate bibles.
He reads it from front to back.
Then again. And again.
Delphine emerges from the kitchen, casually licking raspberry jam from her fingers.
Clarissa smiles like a wife spotting the other woman in her husband’s shirt.
Jealousy isn’t a stab.
It’s an acid bath.
And tonight, Clarissa is neck-deep.
“I made sandwiches,” Delphine offers.
“I thought you said he doesn’t eat like we do.”
“I like to pretend,” she replies, popping another bite. Then sweetly, to Pascal:
“Put the book away. I want you to eat this off my ass.”
Clarissa wonders how to poison jam.
The problem: where to get poison? Which kind?
Pascal rises. Follows Delphine to her bedroom. But pauses—
He turns. Smiles at Clarissa.
“I’m looking forward to our next time together.”
“Let’s go, my dickroid!” Delphine calls, dragging him in. “He’s all yours tomorrow! And don’t worry, I won’t be home ‘til late—go wild, lover girl!”
She gives her a wink.
The door closes.
Locks.
Dickroid?
Another Delphine-ism. Dick and android. Of course she’d call him that.
Clarissa stands in silence.
She can hear them.
Every.
Sound.
Another sleepless night.
Another morning of headphones and headaches.
Anything to drown this tune of the goddamn hum.
⸻
The fantasies begin gently.
Delphine gets tired of Pascal.
She leaves.
Moves abroad.
Dies quietly—something noble.
Ovarian sadness.
Soul rot.
But the fantasies sharpen.
She trips near a transport.
Slips on the way down stairs.
Her head slides under bathwater, post-wine and sleeping aid.
Love’s helping hand.
⸻
Friday.
Work distracts her. Her mind waits hungrily for the evening.
Traffic is backed up—topside and sub-surface.
Another puppet operator fell asleep, maybe. Or a drudge got caught between switching boards.
Doesn’t matter. None of it does.
Clarissa parks her coverage-issued gray replica car.
Her repair claim was denied, but thanks to Delphine’s “leverage, pester and threaten”, tactics from the Naked Rebel, she’ll be getting a new one soon.
With premium audio.
Music to deaf ears.
She walks toward the apartment.
People are out—weekend air and hover-latte vibes.
She notices… they’re watching her. Whispering.
Is that admiration?
No. It’s gossip. You can see it in the eyes.
The property manager walks with his wife and two kids.
What was his name? Nathanial something…
He’s staring at Clarissa. It’s longer than the others.
Then he’s not, but the look makes an impression.
She shrugs it off.
Enters the apartment.
Undresses as she walks—leaving a trail of clothes from door to bedroom.
Pascal lies in bed, radiant.
He looks at her.
That fucking sanguine, magnetic look.
She feels it—the heat, the heartbeat, the drip between her legs.
A tear rolls down her cheek.
He has her heart again.
They make love.
⸻
Later that night.
She lies awake. His arm around her. Spooned. Warm.
It should be perfect.
But one thought pierces the quiet:
Why isn’t he in my bed every night?
She imagines Delphine bursting in.
Touching him.
Claiming him.
Her fingers curl into fists beneath the sheets.
Pascal, his back to her, suddenly stirs.
Like a chemical reaction, “You’re tense,” he whispers.
He kisses the back of her neck.
She softens.
It’s partial this time.
The thought returns.
Clearer now, but with a revelation.
Divulgence.
A beautiful word. So revealing and yet simple.
No more suffering.
No more division.
Free Pascal.
Remove the parasite.
Be one.
She hears it.
The hum shifted tunes.
Rising.
Internal.
Dancing.
Confirming.
Clarissa closes her eyes and knows.
Delphine has to die.