At first, we cut back on entertainment and eating out. Then we start implementing some serious savings, using the heat in the apartment sparingly and relying on the fire to keep the big living space warm. Night after night, I watch Maxime study on his laptop by the dining room table, rubbing his temples while a frown mars his forehead. At least the house is in my name. We’ll always have a roof over our heads, but we can’t survive like this forever.
After a particularly quiet dinner, I pad to the table where Maxime is working. “Hey.”
He looks up. A smile warms his features. “Hey.”
“I need a job.”
His expression hardens. “No.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “Are you going to be that man?”
“What man?” he asks, slamming his computer shut.
“The kind of man who tells his wife what she can or can’t do.”
“Don’t I already?”
His answer hurts because it’s true. Pushing the ache away, I say, “Yet you let me study once.”
“It’s my job to take care of you.”
“What if I need more?”
His tone is inflexible. “You don’t.”
Right. It’s so typical of Maxime to think he knows what I need. I’m not going to win this argument with words. Leaving him to stew over whatever he was working on, I turn and walk to the bedroom, but his words stop me.
“I’ve always taken care of you, Zoe. I always will.”
He’s taken charge of every aspect of my life. It’s not the same of taking care of someone, but I’ve long since given up on making him understand. I’ve always taken care of myself. I might’ve been poor, but I did the best I could. The apartment I grew up in was dilapidated and tiny, but when I lived there alone, it was always clean and smelled of the detergent from my laundry drying in the bathroom. I miss the satisfaction that came with my financial independence.
There was a time Maxime wanted to give me passion and purpose. It wasn’t a means of letting me earn a living as much as a way of keeping me happy. Thérèse’s words that had hurt so much at the time were true, and I’m only realizing it now. I would’ve graduated to become a mediocre designer using great ones like her to build a brand for myself, and Maxime would’ve made it possible to keep me content in the pretty cage he’d constructed to confine me.
Without giving him another glance, I go to the bathroom to have a shower, and crawl into bed. Long after he’s joined me, I lie awake, thinking.
When Maxime kisses me goodbye and leaves for the office in the morning, I fetch the linen he bought at the market and go upstairs to the landing. I run my fingers over the sewing machine standing on the desk. Excitement starts to hum like a distant memory in my veins. My hands itch to transform the cloth into a piece of clothing.
After some deliberation, I pull out my old drawing pad and pencils. I start with a few rough lines, and then fill them in with color. This time, I’m not creating with romantic notions and futile ideas of love. I’m implementing what Madame Page taught me. The design is linear and harsh. There’s no place for frills or lace in my new life. Creating a dress that will pass the strict criteria of a reputable French designer is more than survival on a financial level. It’s a way of molding myself into someone who can survive my new life. It’s an emotional necessity.
By the time Maxime gets home, the dress is stitched together and only missing the finishing touches. I had to set up the dress form in the lounge area since the landing is too small.
He steps inside and stills for a moment as he studies my work. A frown flitters over his forehead, but when he meets my eyes, his lips tilt into a smile. Holding my gaze, he drops his laptop bag by the door and takes off his jacket. The muscles in his back bunch under his shirt as he hangs the jacket on the coat stand. He works his tie loose while he crosses the floor and takes a seat on the sofa in front of the cold fireplace. It was a warmer day, and I try to use the firewood sparingly. In silent instruction, he holds a hand out at me.
Knowing better than to refuse, I walk over and place my palm in his. Gently, he tugs me into his lap. Memories of us sitting like this in his old house when he came home at night fire off in my brain. I settle stiffly against him. I’m wearing a pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt because I wanted to be comfortable while working, and it feels oddly out of place next to his business attire. My hair is twisted in a messy bun on my head, and my face is scrubbed clean of make-up. For some reason, being less presentable than him makes me feel like I’m at a disadvantage in a war that’s about to play off. Everything between us, even when we fuck, is a war. I would’ve felt better equipped to defend myself against his manipulation if we were at par, but now I feel like some kind of Cinderella facing a sophisticated, albeit dark prince.
He drags a hand over my thigh, letting it rest on my knee. “What did you do with yourself today?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to recreate how we used to be, but that dynamic has shifted. I’m still his captive, yet what we were is long gone. It’s not our situation that has changed. It’s me. Where I craved his affection before, I now fear it for all the ways in which it can destroy me. I made the mistake of thinking he was capable of feelings once. I won’t do it twice.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Zoe? Don’t you have anything to tell me?” I try to shift off his lap, but he tightens his arm around me. “I thought you were done with designing.”
“Does it bother you?” I ask in a catty tone. “Maybe you’d prefer I do nothing all day.”
My stubbornness to discuss my day with him is born from my resistance to this strategy, one in which he never gave me a choice, but he doesn’t get angry or impatient. His voice is gentle as he says, “On the contrary, I’m happy that you’re doing something you love.”
I’m not going to tell him I’m planning on selling the dress to supplement his income. We need the money badly, although he refuses to admit it.
“The design is very unlike you,” he continues.
“Yes, well, it was about time I grew up.”
The frown I’d glimpsed when he walked through the door returns as he studies me with a serious expression. “You think you were anything less than grown up before?”
I snort. “I was naïve and stupid.”
He searches my face for another moment. “I’d say you have a certain amount of naivety, but that’s part of what I find so endearing about you. As for stupid, I have to disagree.” When I don’t reply, he continues. “Don’t you see? I don’t want you to change. It’s you I want, just the way you are.”
Too late. I’m already changing. I can’t help it. It’s the only device I have to protect myself from breaking more, but I keep that to myself. It’s a weapon. It’s my secret device, and I’m not sharing that with him.
His eyes darken in a way I’m well familiar with just before he pushes his hand under the elastic of my sweatpants. When his fingers find my folds, shame engulfs me for my body’s reaction. Need makes me heat from my lower body upwards, sending flames that burn hotter in my cheeks. I hate myself for getting wet when he rubs a calloused finger over my clit. Grabbing his wrist, I try to hold him back, but it’s not him I’m fighting. It’s myself.
“Let go,” he whispers, rubbing his nose over my temple.
With his free hand, he wiggles the pants down over my hips, exposing my humble cotton underwear. I want him inside me so badly it aches, yet I plead, “Please, no.”
I feel dirty and weak for wanting this. Instead of obliging, he wraps one arm around me and pushes my underwear down with my pants. Just like before, I’m exposed to him, naked from the waist down. The way he studies me heats my face more, but it also perversely turns me on. I’m lost even before he parts my folds with a finger, testing my arousal. Satisfaction bleeds into his steely gray eyes when he discovers my wetness. Without preamble, he sinks two fingers inside. The stretch makes me sigh even as I hate myself more for responding this way. I feel filthy and deprav
ed as he starts fingering me.
“You want this, don’t you?” he asks on a growl, massaging my clit with his thumb. “Open your legs. Show me what a dirty little slut you are.”
My body obeys of its own accord. I give him better access and the view he wants as he pushes my upper body down. I should protest when he pushes the T-shirt up to reveal my naked breasts. Already, my orgasm is building, and I’m completely lost before I can salvage enough control to stop this humiliation.
“Fuck,” he says through clenched teeth, “you look so good with my fingers in your cunt.”
My lower body contracts at the vulgar words. Self-loathing mounts with my desire. I moan when he pulls his fingers free, but the sound quickly transforms into a protest when he roughly flips me over. Some self-preservation returns, bringing me to my senses, but he pushes me face-down with one arm over my back, my body stretched out over his lap on the sofa.
“Show me how you come,” he says, teasing my entrance with a feather-light touch.
I don’t want to, but I’m lying helpless as he plunges his fingers back inside me.
“Such a dirty little slut,” he says, hammering out a rhythm that has my toes curling.
Turning my face away from him, I pinch my eyes shut. I try to imagine that I’m someone else, but all I can think about is how I must look with my ass in his lap and my sex exposed. His brutal movements extract sloppy sounds from my wet sex. It’s embarrassing and a dirty turn-on at the same time. When he grinds his palm on my clit, my hips lift to meet the demand.
“What did you do with yourself today, cherie?” he asks, battering my body closer to orgasm.
My breathing is too erratic to speak.
“Did you miss me?” he asks in a husky voice.
I did, and I feel like a failure for it. It only makes me close my heart off to him even more, turning off my thoughts and giving over to the physical sensations he extracts with such cruel precision.
“Are you close?” he taunts. “Do you want to come?”
He used to make me ask for it before I ran. I broke every time. Now is no exception. I mewl when he traces a line with his finger down my spine. My body draws tight when he follows the crease between my globes to tease my dark entrance.
“You know what will be even hotter than finger fucking your cunt?” he asks. “Fucking your ass at the same time.”
I don’t know what had gotten into him tonight, only that this dirty talking is new. He’s more intense than ever. I’m so close I don’t even fight him when he pushes a digit past the resistance of the tight ring of muscles of my dark entrance. He slips the intrusion in slowly, stretching me with a burn that adds more flames to fire raging through my body. His movements are synchronized, pushing me higher and closer to oblivious ecstasy.
“Every hole in this body is mine,” he says with a voice thick with lust. “Say it.”
I’m past caring about my modesty or pride. “Yes.”
“To do with as I please. Say it.”
“Yes,” I mumble with my face pressed against the sofa.
“Do you want my cock?”
There’s only one answer. “Yes.”
“Why?”
This is the only way I can give myself to him. “Because you give me no choice.”
“Damn right. There is no choice. You’re mine. Forever.”
I mourn the answer even as my thoughts start to splinter and my body flies. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, leaving me weak in its aftermath. It’s quick and powerful. There’s nothing gentle or sweet about it. I’m shaking from the intensity.
Making me go down to my knees, he unzips his pants and frees his cock. His fist is tight in my hair as he grabs my head and lifts it just enough for my mouth to stretch around his cock.
“Suck me like a good girl,” he says, spreading his legs.
I barely have time to take a breath before he thrusts past my lips, hitting the back of my throat.
“This is us, Zoe. Me and you. Get it?”
I’m only half cognizant of the question. The meaning of his words doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m degraded and beyond saving, a wife but still a whore. I take what he gives. I breathe when he lets me and allow him to use me to get off. This is what I accepted when I agreed to return to France with him. It’s the price I’m paying for keeping Damian and his family safe. I’ll do it again and again, whatever it takes.
He comes with a groan, emptying himself down my throat. I don’t have a choice but to swallow, but I do so greedily, taking the only thing I’ll ever allow myself to take from him again.
“That’s it,” he says, stroking my hair. “You’ve been so good.”
I’m far from it. I’m his dirty toy, his object to manipulate and defile.
“Now tell me that wasn’t perfect,” he says.
I don’t say a word, because in its own, perverse, ugly way it was perfect.
“I love you, Zoe,” he says, stroking my back.
The words cut deep, because he can’t possibly mean them.
Chapter 24
Maxime
The sun is barely up when I wake. Leaving Zoe to sleep, I have a shower and dress in a pair of black Italian fitted pants and a dark purple tailored shirt with a matching tie. The ankle boots and gray wool coat I choose to round off the ensemble are Italian, too. I like to dress well. It makes up for my lacking physique. My body still fills out the clothes well. The diamond business is less physical than my previous position. I’m no longer using my fists or fighting skills like I used to, but I make sure I stay in shape by working out every evening at an old boxing gym not far from the apartment. It’s not about vanity but about survival and being strong enough to keep Zoe safe. I’m no longer in the mob, but Alexis will always pose a danger. I can never let my guard down.
After combing my hair and splashing a dash of cologne on my cheeks, I close the bedroom door so I won’t wake Zoe. I switch on the coffee machine and gather my files from the table where I worked last night. I stuff everything into my laptop bag before taking out the leaflets I printed yesterday at the office, alerting the residents of an unauthorized entry into the building. What happened when Alexis got in can never happen again.
While I sip my coffee, I study the dress on the form that stands in front of the circular window. It’s just long enough not to be indecent, but the short slits on the sides defy that decency with an almost rebellious intent. The neckline is low, framed by a broad lapel that gives it the look of a male jacket as if challenging femininity. Three-quarter-long sleeves with a fold-back cuff that repeats the sharply pointed lapel add balance to the otherwise too-short hem. It’s a dress that demands confidence. Not just anyone will be able to pull off the look.
The worry that ate its way into my mind last night returns. The design isn’t like Zoe. She’s changing. She’s slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it. Last night I tried to restore the balance by showing her I’m still in charge. As long as I can manipulate her lust, I can control her body, but it no longer seems to be working. What has changed?
She won’t step out of line. She cares too much for her brother. That’s still the same. What’s different is her attitude. She’s closing herself off and molding herself into someone else. If my harsh demonstration on the sofa last night didn’t work, then maybe it’s the wrong strategy. Maybe forcing dominance isn’t the way to go forward. Maybe she needs some power of her own in this relationship. For once, I should let her take the lead. Instead of setting the pace of our sex life, I should let her take the initiative.
With a last glance at the closed bedroom door, I put my empty cup in the dishwasher and leave. On my way down, I push a leaflet under every door. I’m certain now Alexis slipped in behind me that day. I was too blinded with anger to pay attention to what was happening around me, a mistake I won’t make again. Only Zoe can push me to such a state of carelessness. Still, I’m not taking chances. Everyone in the building must be aware of what has happened.
Vigilance is prevention, and prevention is always better than cure.
There are ten apartments, three on the first three floors and ours taking up the whole of the top story. When I’ve done my distribution, I exit into the crisp morning air. Summer is around the corner. It’s in the brighter blue of the sky and the way the sunrays already slide over the neighboring building to disperse with wedges that cut through the alleys. At the corner bakery, I take a table outside and order a croissant and an espresso. I’m not taking breakfast outside only to adhere to the French tradition, but also to keep an eye on our building before I head to the office. So far, no conspicuous men that could be connected to Alexis are showing up to watch our street.
While I eat, I read my emails on my phone. There are little confirmations for the auction in Paris. My regular buyers are still skeptical about my split from the mafia. Until I’ve proven I’m as capable on my own as when I was the mafia underboss and there’s no danger of retribution from my family, they’re not going to support me. The stones Damian Hart provides are of good quality. They are pure with great color. They don’t come free, and whilst I have a vault full of them, it’s not going to help me keep the business afloat if I can’t sell them.
There aren’t that many buyers in the world. The European ones are especially finicky. They know the consequences of being disloyal to my family only too well, ironically thanks to my own doing. For years, I was the one who doled out the lessons. I have no doubt that my brother has something to do with their reluctance in supporting my business even though they need the stones. Ours are conflict free and the quality is much higher than any other on the market. Plus, Hart has recently extended to add black diamonds to his inventory, a craze that has hit the world by storm. For those who can’t afford a highly graded diamond, a black diamond is the perfect alternative. It makes diamonds accessible to a broader market. Thanks to Hart, I’m the exclusive importer of black diamonds to Europe. Yet the buyers are not biting. If I don’t manage to win them over soon, the business is in serious trouble. I’ll be going down, and I’ll be damned before I take Zoe with me.
Diamonds are Forever: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Trilogy Book 3) Page 14