**Paris, December 8, 2020**
The President's address had not quelled the storm. It had magnified it. By choosing not to deny our relationship, by uttering the word "love," he had poured oil on the fire. Some saw him as courageous, even romantic. Others deemed him reckless, irresponsible, struck with delusions of grandeur.
For me, the aftermath was a new kind of hell. I was no longer merely the clandestine mistress, the presumed opportunist. I was now "the woman for whom Macron risks everything." An unbearable burden.
Security forces had doubled outside my building. The few times I dared peek at the street, I saw a sea of tense faces—aggressive journalists, protesters waving signs with my face slashed by the word "Shame!"
Sleep eluded me at night. Lying in the oversized bed of the studio, I stared at the ceiling, the words of the address looping in my mind. "Love should never be a crime." It was beautiful. It was noble. But it was false. In the real world, our love was a crime—a transgression against established order, decorum, the career of a man bearing the hopes of millions.
And the price of that crime was not mine alone to bear.
A terrible thought had taken root in my mind, growing inexorably, suffocatingly.
I had to leave.
Not just Paris. France. Back to Dakar. To Ma'a Ada. To warmth, noise, familiarity. Where no one would know me—or at least, where whispers behind my back wouldn't shake a nation's foundations.
The idea clenched my heart until it ached. Abandoning my dream. Abandoning… him. But wasn't it the only sensible choice? The only honorable one?
At dawn, exhausted by insomnia and torment, I made my decision. Tears streamed silently down my cheeks as I pulled out my laptop and opened the airline website. Dakar. A flight that very evening. One way.
I selected the ticket. I entered my credit card details—the one tied to my meager salary. I hesitated, finger hovering over the "Confirm" button.
The shrill ring of the special phone jolted me. It was him.
—Maya? His voice was hoarse, stretched to breaking. Where are you at? The media…
—I'm fine, I lied, my voice choked.
A silence. He sensed the lie.
—No. You're not fine. I can feel it. Listen to me. We'll get through this crisis. I have a team on it. They'll dismantle these forgeries…
—That's not it, I interrupted, tears flowing freely. Emmanuel… I… I think I need to leave.
The silence on the other end was so absolute I thought the line had dropped.
—Leave? he repeated at last, his voice low, dangerous. Where?
—To Dakar. Home. I… I'm giving you back your life. You don't have to fight for me. France needs you. I… I'm just a…
—Don't finish that sentence, he cut in sharply. You're not 'just' an immigrant, 'just' an employee, 'just' a mistress. You are Maya. And you matter to me. More than you know.
—Look at what's happening! I sobbed, finally losing control. Because of me, they're talking about impeachment! Your presidency is at risk! All this… for a few stolen kisses?
—It's not 'for a few kisses,' Maya, he said with an intensity that pierced me. It's for you. For what you represent. For the person you are. And I refuse to live in a country where loving a woman like you would be a fault.
I heard him take a deep breath.
—Please. Don't leave. Don't abandon me. Let's face them together. Not in hiding. But standing tall, side by side.
His words echoed in the studio's silence. They offered an alternative to flight. Not a return to shadows, but a march into the light. Together.
It was terrifying. It was unthinkable.
It was the only path that wouldn't shatter my heart.
I glanced at the laptop screen. The plane ticket. The escape hatch.
Then at the phone in my hand, linking my despair to his resolve.
—Stay, he murmured one last time, and in his voice, I heard not the President, but the man. Vulnerable. Pleading.
I closed my eyes. An image of Ma'a Ada surfaced—her sad smile, her hands worn by labor. She had raised me to be strong. To never run.
I took a deep breath and closed the browser window. The ticket vanished.
—Okay, I whispered. I'll stay.
A long sigh of relief crossed the line.
—Thank you. I… I have to go. A crisis meeting. I'll call you as soon as I can.
He hung up.
I sat on the floor, the phone pressed to my heart, watching dawn's light slowly fill the room.
The dilemma was settled. I had chosen. Not the easy way, nor reason. I had chosen him. I had chosen love, and the storm that came with it.
I didn't know if it was wise. But deep within, I knew it was the one choice I'd never regret.