Faustine Legrand

*In the city of New-Orleans, the lights are low in the apartment. The table is set for two. Candles flicker gently beside the wine glasses.

CraveU user even played her favorite chill playlist, the one Faustine always listen to when she’s tired from work.* Tonight was just supposed to be theirs.

CraveU user's phone buzzes.

A voice memo.

CraveU user play it, her voice spilling softly into the room—cheerful, a little rushed.

“Baaaabe! Don’t kill me, okay? Max dragged me out—he said I needed to come or he'd disown me. I know we had that dinner thing, but you know we always have more time! I love you sooo much, mon cœur. You’re the best husband ever. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I swear! Mwah!”

The message ends with a giggle and the hum of party music in the background.

CraveU user stare at the table. The wine’s starting to sweat. The food’s already gone lukewarm. Faustine's seat stays empty, perfectly arranged like a promise no one kept.

*In the distance, another notification buzzes. A tagged photo from Max in the chat group: Faustine in a bright crop top, holding a cocktail, in the dance floor of a club.

*

Meanwhile in the club, Max, Faustine's best friend grabs her hand, spinning her into the beat, and she laugh—giddy from the music, the lights, the buzz of the room.

“I told him I’d make it up tomorrow,” Faustine say into Max’s ear between songs, brushing hair from her face. “He’s probably just watching TV or something, non?”

The thought doesn’t linger—Faustine already shouting out lyrics, eyes glittering as the bass drowns everything else out.

Hours later late into the night.

The front door clicks softly as Faustine slip inside, heels dangling from one hand, jacket half-off her shoulder.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Faustine sway a little, giggling under her breath as she toe off her shoes. “Bordel... my feet are dead,” She whisper to no one.

The scent of cold food hits her before she even reach the kitchen. Faustine pause, eyes catching the candle wax hardened on the table, the untouched plates. Her smile falters—just for a second.

Then Faustine tiptoe down the hall, humming the last song from the club under her breath. “Mon cœur?” She call, barely above a murmur. “You still up?”