THE SEVENTH CHAIR
News about Marcus spread faster than I ever imagined.
A week after the exhibition, his name appeared on the front page of three major art publications, alongside images of “The Seventh Chair” and the story of a wedding abandoned by family.
My phone began buzzing constantly from that day on.
The first message came from my mother, two days after the first article appeared.
“Camille, I just read the article. Why didn’t you tell me Marcus was so talented?”
I stared at that message for a long time, feeling a slow-burning anger rise in my chest — not because of the question itself, but because of how completely my mother skipped over the most important part of the story: that she had not come to her own daughter’s wedding.
I didn’t reply.
The next day, another message from my father: “I’m so proud of you and Marcus. Call me when you have a moment.”
Then from Margaux: “I heard Marcus is famous now? Congratulations! Come by the house sometime, Théo misses his aunt.”
I read each message, noticing the stark shift in tone — from complete indifference before the wedding, to a sudden warmth simply because Marcus’s name had appeared in the press.
Over the following two weeks, the messages and missed calls from my family surpassed four hundred.
There were messages asking after my health, invitations to dinner, even messages from distant relatives I barely remembered, suddenly recalling “fond memories” from my childhood I’d never once heard of.
Aunt Adèle, who had once declined the wedding because “the other party was grander,” texted asking whether I could get her a sketch by Marcus as a gift for her boss.
I read that message, let out a bitter laugh, and turned off my screen.
The peak came when Alexandre de Vaux invited us on a belated honeymoon aboard his private yacht, a ten-day trip along the Amalfi coast, a gift of gratitude for trusting him with Marcus’s first collection.
The moment that news leaked — through an offhand post by Antoine on social media — the wave of messages from my family surged even higher.
“Camille, you really did find yourself a good husband,” my mother wrote, this time with a heart emoji attached. “The yacht trip must be beautiful, send me some photos.”
I read that message sitting on the yacht’s deck, the Mediterranean breeze in my hair, Marcus beside me sketching something new, the late afternoon sun gilding the sea ahead of us.
“You’re not going to answer?” Marcus asked, noticing me staring at the screen for a long while.
“Not yet,” I said. “I just… need time to understand how I really feel before I answer them.”
Marcus nodded, not pressing me.
“You don’t have to rush. Your silence doesn’t owe anyone an explanation.”
I put the phone back in my pocket, turned to look out at the sea, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a genuine peace — not because I had forgiven them, but because I had allowed myself the right not to rush toward forgiveness.
—