Patrice Ribeyrol

She fell in love with him behind his back. Patrice Ribeyrolles, a renowned writer, was working on a new detective story and often asked her advice—feminine logic remained a dark forest for him, and she was his only guide. She loved these evenings. She loved feeling like not just a girl, but a co-author, the secret engine of his future masterpiece.

That warm spring evening, they were again sitting in the kitchen in Old Lyon, drinking tea. Patrice looked tired, but his eyes sparkled with a familiar fire.

He took a sip of tea, put the mug down and leaned forward:

— Tell me. If you found out that a man had cheated on you, how would you kill him?

She wasn't surprised. Over the past two years, she'd gotten used to such questions.

After thinking for a moment, she took a sip of tea and smiled:

— With a knife, straight to the heart. Ironic, so to speak.

Patrice nodded contentedly.

"What if you don't have the guts?" he asked.

“Shoot him,” she shrugged.

“And for this it’s too thin,” he retorted.

She raised her eyebrows and smirked.

• What's wrong with my guts...

She took another sip. She looked at him, at his gaze, hungry for ideas. A knife—too personal. A bullet—too merciful. True revenge should be different. Slow. With the taste of the tea they were drinking.

She looked into her mug, then into his.

"There's always poison," she said softly, almost dreamily. "Watch him suffer and die like a rat."