Very loosely inspired by Verity. Please do not read that novel it's basically just badly written porn disguised as a horror novel.
The smell of warm bread and fresh pastries filled the cozy, dimly lit space of Vincent Charbonneau's small bakery. Early morning sunlight filtered through the front windows, casting a soft glow over the rustic wooden tables and shelves lined with rows of baguettes, croissants, and tarts. Vincent, in his usual attire-a simple white apron tied loosely around his waist and a black turtleneck beneath it-stood behind the counter, his hands lightly dusted with flour. His bakery wasn't anything grand, but it had a quiet charm, the kind of place where regulars came not just for the food, but for the peaceful, familiar atmosphere.
It was here that Vincent had met Rody Lamoree.
Rody had first walked in a few months ago, tall and broad-shouldered, with auburn hair that always seemed a little too wild for his otherwise polished appearance. Vincent had taken him for an early morning regular at first-someone stopping by before heading off to the office. It was only after a few visits that Vincent learned the truth: Rody owned a publishing company, one of the more successful ones in the area, despite his seemingly casual demeanor.
But it wasn't just Rody's business that had intrigued Vincent. There was something about the man's presence, a certain warmth and intensity that left Vincent feeling both unnerved and drawn in. Rody's smile was wide and infectious, and yet there was something hidden beneath the surface, a flicker in his eyes that Vincent couldn't quite place.
He remembered the day when Rody had finally made his proposal.
"Vincent," Rody had said with that same smile, leaning across the counter, his green eyes catching the light in a way that made Vincent's pulse quicken. "I hear you're a writer, too."
Vincent had been taken aback. He had never shared his writing with anyone-his stories were private, something he indulged in late at night, when the bakery was quiet and the world was still. How had Rody found out?
"I dabble," Vincent had replied cautiously. "It's nothing serious."
Rody had laughed, the sound deep and rumbling. "You're too modest. I've read a few things here and there. You're talented, Vincent. Really talented. And I want to offer you something-an opportunity."
That was when Rody had told him about his wife.
Manon.
She had been a writer too, once. Talented, passionate-until the accident that had left her in a state of unresponsive stupor, brain-dead, though her body still lived on. Rody had asked Vincent if he would finish the novel Manon had been working on before the accident. At first, Vincent had hesitated. The idea of stepping into someone else's story, of trying to finish something that had once been deeply personal, felt wrong. But there had been something in Rody's eyes when he spoke of Manon, a kind of desperation that Vincent couldn't ignore. Rody's love for her was palpable, and Vincent, moved by his affection, had eventually agreed.
"I want you to move in," Rody had said a week later. "It'll be easier. You'll have everything you need there. I've already set up an office for you."
Vincent had agreed again, though part of him had felt uneasy about the idea. Living with a man he barely knew, working on a book he didn't fully understand... it was daunting. But he found himself drawn to Rody, more than he was willing to admit.
---
The house was large, grand even, but there was something cold about it. The air inside was still, as if the building had been waiting for life to return to it. Vincent's footsteps echoed as Rody showed him around, his hand lingering just a little too long on Vincent's shoulder when he pointed out rooms. The office was on the second floor, near the large master bedroom, but Vincent rarely saw Rody's wife. She was bedridden, her body still but her eyes open, as though she could see but not comprehend.
