Diamonds are Forever: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Trilogy Book 3)

by Charmaine Pauls

  He tricked me. Maxime tricked me once again.

  I’m done. I’m going to beat him at his own game.

  It’s as if a devious spirit invades my body. I’m not myself when I walk to the closet and throw it open. It’s a different woman who pulls open the drawer with my old needlework tools and takes out the scissors.

  With a cry of fury, I attack the dress, ripping into the layers of silk and lace with the scissors. I tear and snip the beautiful dress, a dress with an exclusive label that must’ve cost a fortune. I destroy what it means, cutting into what it stands for until nothing but a bed of white ribbons is left at my feet.

  This is my lesson to teach.

  This time, it’s Maxime who will learn.

  Chapter 10

  Maxime

  I give Zoe enough time to cool down and get ready. She’ll have a bath and make herself pretty like she did on the night I took her virginity in Venice. She’ll resist me at first, but I seduced her into wanting me once. I’ll do it again.

  On my way down to the parking, I send a text to Damian Hart to let him know we landed safely. It’s what any good boyfriend would do. Hart would expect nothing less. I’m still to give Zoe back her phone, but I leave her number in case he’d like to get hold of her. He replies back promptly with a cryptic note of thanks, saying he’d give us a couple of days to settle in before bothering her with calls.

  Today has to be perfect. I go to a lot of effort. A rare flower deserves nothing less. After booking out the quaint restaurant on the hill, I have dozens of pink roses delivered there. The flowers will be everywhere, on every surface and cascading from every wall. I make sure our table has a view and that the others will be moved away to create our own private dance floor. Tonight will be ours alone. I’m too possessive to share this moment with witnesses.

  Organizing the singer takes pulling some strings, but Zoe will like her voice and sweet, romantic love songs. I book a room in a hotel like newlyweds do. I order champagne, chocolate-coated strawberries, and sugar-glazed fresh fruit. I have more roses delivered to the room and order the staff to scatter some of the petals over the bed. I tell them to put rose-scented candles in the bedroom too.

  On the way back, I stop at the church. The priest is a family friend. He doesn’t dare to argue or pose questions. My face is enough to make him gather a choir in a hurry and promise the bells will toll at three o’clock to announce the happy occasion.

  I’m elated when I finally pick up the formal suit from my regular tailor. He’s worked on it for two days straight since I called him from South Africa. It’s a three-piece with a tailcoat jacket, fitted waistcoat, and cravat. My face may not be pretty, but I want to look good for Zoe. I want her to hold fond memories when she looks back at the photos a few years down the line. Fuck, the photos. I almost forgot. I dial a popular photographer in town who immediately clears his schedule.

  Zoe will build a new nest, and this time she may even fill it with babies. I know she wants children. I know I hurt her when I said we couldn’t bring a child into the world, but it was a different world then. I’m a cruel man, but I’ll never be cruel to a child, certainly not cruel enough to spawn bastards and curse them with no recognition, protection, or respect. The more I think about it, the more excited I become about the idea of planting a child in Zoe’s belly, of seeing it grow and knowing I’ve bound her to me by blood.

  My mood is so great I stop at the bakery on the way to get Zoe something sweet, something like a box of delicate choux and macaroons. Double fuck. I never ordered a wedding cake. Slamming a roll of bills on the counter, I tell the petrified owner to make sure he gets a pièce montée to the restaurant by five. I give him the name and address before taking my box of patisserie and making my way whistling back to the apartment.

  All is quiet when I unlock the door. It’s a good sign. Smiling to myself, I serve the pastries in a plate. Never mind that it’s lunchtime and pastries are dessert. Today is a special day, after all.

  Impatient to surprise Zoe, I unlock the bedroom door and push it open. What greets me punches the excitement out of my chest. She sits on the floor, her knees drawn up and her back against the window. Her hair stands in every direction and mascara runs black under her eyes. Next to her lies a pair of scissors, and in front of her the dregs that are left of her wedding dress.

  “What have you done?” I exclaim, my vocal cords refusing to rise above a whisper.

  “Pay attention, Maxime.” Her lip curls up. “This is my lesson to you. I’m done with your games.”

  I’ve never experienced greater rage, neither when I punished Alexis, nor when I revenged Gautier’s death. Not even when I killed the man who took a shot at Zoe. The fury mounts in my body until I shake with it. It’s not the destruction of the dress. It’s what the act stands for.

  Uttering a howl loud enough to shake the roof, I throw the plate at the wall. The pastries splatter against the stone, and pink porcelain falls into pieces on the floor. Zoe doesn’t react. Not even a flinch. The old Maxime would’ve been better equipped to handle this. That Maxime would’ve been able to navigate the situation calmly, to find a way to bend his bride to his will. He would’ve been able to do that because it’s hard to get upset when you feel nothing. However, the new me, the feeling me, has too many emotions clogging up my chest. My ribcage shrinks around my heart until all I feel is suffocating anger and incontrollable madness.

  She thinks this is a lesson? I advance on my unwilling bride with big steps. Zoe shrinks away from me, but even that isn’t enough to stop me. Grabbing a fistful of her blond hair in one hand and her arm in the other, I pull her to her feet.

  She takes the punishment without complaint, hobbling on one foot ahead of me as I march her to the bathroom. Shoving her into the Louis Vuitton chair that stands next to the bath, I keep her there with my hand on her shoulder. I pull the belt of her robe that hangs next to the bath from the loops. I use the belt to tie her hands behind her back, and then drag the chair to the edge of the bath.

  “What are you doing?” she cries.

  “It’s a little late for questions, don’t you think?”

  Pulling the plug in the bath, I let the rose-scented water Francine prepared drain. I had this all worked out to the finest detail. The timing was perfect. I made sure everything was just right before our arrival. I’d handed Francine a set of keys before I left for South Africa so she could come in and set everything up once I’d found Zoe. All of this, Zoe spoiled by making a destructive choice.

  I rip open the box of hair dye I left on the vanity counter and grab her long hair to pull her head back. I’m rough. She yelps. I pull the plastic gloves on before squirting the dye onto her hair and using the comb that came in the box to spread the dark color. After working the black dye through to the ends, I set the timer on my phone.

  My next task is fetching the cold quiche on the nightstand.

  “Open,” I say, stabbing the fork into the quiche and pointing a piece at her mouth like a weapon.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “At this stage, ma belle, I don’t give a damn about what you want. Open the fuck up, or I’ll force your mouth open with clamps.”

  Her lips part even as tears spill over her cheeks, running rivulets through the already smeared mascara. The bite I shove into her mouth is huge. She has to chew a long time to get it all down. I feed her bite after bite, until the fucking plate is empty.

  I fill the toothbrush glass with water and hold it against her lips. The water spills over her chin and down her chest when she drinks, wetting her blouse, but I don’t care to wipe it away. My alarm pings. I turn on the water and let it run warm before rinsing the color from her hair with the hand nozzle. I don’t bother with shampoo. I barely squeeze out all the water. The long strands drip dirty drops over her shoulders when she lifts her head.

  Leaving her there, I go through her closet in the dressing room. There are a lot of dresses, the ones I bought for her and the ones she made,
but nothing in white that looks suitable. Maybe I should make her wear red. That’ll teach her a valuable lesson.

  My hand touches a black dry cleaning bag. It’s a big bag. Puffy. Unzipping it, I lift out the dress she made for her fashion show, the beautiful princess wedding dress the judges called cheesy and scored one out of ten. I take that dress to the bedroom and throw it on the bed.

  When I get back to the bathroom, Zoe’s blouse is soaked. I untie her and pull her to her feet by her arm. I all but drag her to the room. Her gaze widens when she takes in the dress.

  “Put that on,” I say, shoving her toward the bed.

  She turns to look at me. “No.” Her eyes are bluer with her dark hair. Wider.

  “You won’t say no to me. Not anymore. Not today.”

  She shivers. Goosebumps run over her arms.

  “Put on the fucking dress, Zoe.”

  She jumps. Reaching for the buttons of her blouse, she starts to undo them. She undresses until she stands in only her panties. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, more delicate and womanly. So pretty. So destructive. For the first time in my life, I’m not in control. She did this to me. She’ll suffer the consequences. The old me may have taken pity on her. The me I am now can’t fucking think through my furious rage.

  Her lip trembles as she reaches for the dress. On second thought, I pick the scissors up from the floor, open the window, and hurl them outside. They drop with a clank in the street.

  Cold air rushes into the room. It’s barely the end of April. She shivers more. I close the window and watch as she struggles into the dress. She does so quietly, only turning her back on me in silent request when the whole thing is finally fitted. Going to her, I pull the laces through the hoops at the back and tie them together. The dress is beautiful on her. It looks as if it was made just for her.

  My instruction is gruff. “Put on the shoes.”

  She pushes her feet into the heels, flinching when she fits the injured foot. I pick up the flowers and shove them into her hands. I don’t have to worry about thorns. I had those removed when I ordered the bouquet. Francine picked it up with the dress and shoes on her way here.

  “Come,” I say, grabbing her arm and manhandling her to the door.

  I arrange the faux fur drape that goes with the dress she’s destroyed over her shoulders. Then I push her into the hallway and lock up behind me.

  This is how I take her to church—a girl with wet tresses dripping dirty water and mascara running under her eyes.

  I don’t care about putting on my wedding suit. I guess there won’t be any photos to commemorate the day.

  Chapter 11

  Zoe

  Maxime drives to the mairie. At my horror, Francine and Sylvie wait in the reception room on the ground level of the council building. Maxime must’ve already supplied all the paperwork necessary for the marriage authorization.

  I draw back, straining on the tight hold Maxime keeps on my hand. “What are they doing here?”

  “Witnesses,” he says through tight lips.

  I stumble when he pulls me forward. The cut on my heel hurts in the shoe. “I don’t want them here.”

  “I already told you, what you want is no longer my concern.”

  “Not them. Please, Maxime.”

  He doesn’t slow down. “Sylvie’s your friend.”

  “Was. She betrayed me. Francine hates me.” I can’t stand this humiliation.

  His gaze lands coldly on me. “You’ll patch things up.”

  Sylvie’s eyes grow large when we get closer. Slamming a hand over her mouth, she jumps up from her chair. A smile stretches over Francine’s face as she takes me in.

  “Maxime,” Sylvie exclaims.

  He pushes past them without replying, dragging me along.

  “Maxime,” Sylvie whisper-screams as she runs after us.

  “What?” he snaps, pausing in front of a door with a sign that reads marriage office.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He yanks the door open and pushes me inside ahead of him. The man sitting behind the desk gives a start when his eyes land on me. He’s a lot younger than the mayor. In order to perform the ceremony, he’ll be a representative of the mayor.

  “Do it,” Maxime says, shoving me to the desk.

  The man swallows. He looks from Maxime to me.

  “What are you waiting for?” Maxime asks. “I don’t have all day.”

  The man works a finger into the collar of his shirt. Francine and Sylvie follow us inside, but I don’t look at them. I can’t stand Francine’s smug expression and her pristine white, fitted dress or Sylvie’s perfectly bourgeois, powder-blue, two-piece ensemble and the pity on her face. Lifting my chin, I jerk my hand from Maxime’s.

  “Mademoiselle,” the man says, “are you sure this is what you want?”

  “She wants this,” Maxime says.

  The man continues, “Are you here out of free will, miss?”

  “Do you fucking know who I am?” Maxime bellows.

  “I do, sir.” The man takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. “I’d still like the lady to answer.”

  Maxime turns to me with a cruel smile, watching and waiting. He’s not worried, because he knows what my answer will be.

  Regarding the representative squarely, I say, “Yes.”

  His brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

  “She fucking said yes,” Maxime says, his arms drawing tight against his body.

  The man clears his throat. Giving me a speculative look, he opens a book. “By the power vested in me…”

  The rest of the words float away. They’re like burned flakes of paper in a breeze. I tune out of the moment. It’s all too surreal, yet so very actual. Before I ran, I wanted Maxime’s love. I wanted it because I thought I’d give us a try. He told me he was unable to love, but I still hoped. I hoped that maybe the way he cared about me would evolve into something less selfish, something that made us equals. Now I believe him. The man doing this is incapable of loving.

  Maxime lays a hand on my shoulder. His palm is warm on my naked skin where the drape has slipped. I look from where he’s touching me to his face. In contrast to the burning sensation of his hand, there’s only coldness is his eyes.

  “Do you?” the man asks.

  A sniffling sound makes me look to my left. Sylvie is crying.

  “Please, Maxime,” she says. “This isn’t right.”

  “Do you, Zoe?” Maxime asks, those frosted-gray eyes promising nothing but retribution.

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  The representative’s shoulders sag as if he wanted the answer to be no. With a sigh, he says, “I now declare you man and wife.”

  Maxime extends a palm. Francine hands him a ring. Her gaze is like acid when it lands on me. He takes my hand in his and slides the ring over my finger. It’s a big, square-cut diamond. Simple. Elegant. Pricey. Then he places a ring in my hands.

  I look at the platinum band. It’s plain. Unassuming. Mechanically, I slip the ring over his finger. Our gazes lock only for a moment, but it feels like the infinity our rings represent. Maxime drops my hand. There’s a significant distance between us, at least two steps.

  When he turns his back on me and walks out of the room, I don’t move. Sylvie chases after him. Francine follows at a leisurely pace. It takes me a while to regain control over my body. I don’t want to go after Maxime, but the alternative would mean standing here in front of this man’s desk while he studies me with pitiful guilt, as if he’s the one who committed the crime.

  Finally, I hobble out of the room and stop in the hallway where the others are gathered.

  “Thanks for coming,” Maxime says.

  “I prepared the cocktail party,” Sylvie says, fiddling with her clutch bag. “Everything is set up in the reception room.”

  “Enjoy it.” Maxime takes my hand. “We won’t be joining you.
”

  “What about the photographer?” she calls after us as Maxime drags me away. “He’s all set up.”

  “Cancel it,” Maxime says without looking back.

  He bundles me into the car and drives us back to the apartment. My hair is soaking wet, but I haven’t realized how cold I am until now. It’s freezing outside, and the drape doesn’t offer much protection. I study my nails that have turned blue in my lap. I won’t admit it, but I’m scared of what’s going to happen. I’m scared of being alone with Maxime. When I decided to give him some of his own medicine by teaching him a lesson, I didn’t think it all the way through.

  We make our way upstairs in silence. He lets me into the apartment and locks the door behind us. While I’m standing in the middle of the floor, he goes to the kitchen and pours a shot of whiskey that he drains in one go.

  It starts raining. Drops pelt against the circular stained-glass window and the French doors. Not sparing me a glance, he opens the doors and walks out onto the terrace. The rain washes over his dark hair and the same suit he traveled in until water runs in streams from his face and the clothes are plastered to his body.

  He’s upset. I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve seen him jumping off a cliff into the sea in the middle of winter. I’ve seen him cold and collected when he took out the men who tried to kill me. I’ve seen him controlled and distant when he punished and fucked me. Up to now, my choices have only affected me. They’ve only served as lessons. It feels good to take a stance, to turn those lessons around and show him how it feels. I’m finished with being his puppet. I’m no longer the naïve girl who believes in romance and fairytales. I’ve done some growing up since he kidnapped me.