Then why is today is the exception? It doesn’t make sense. He seemed so reluctant for me to go. Did something happen? Is that why he looked so worried? Is that why he’s having such a long meeting on a Saturday? He’s having it at home?
Wait. That look on his face when I left—the concern and eagerness—wasn’t because he didn’t want me to go. He couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
Every instinct I own goes on high alert. That’s what’s been eating at me all the way here. Something is wrong, and it’s bad.
Turning, I rush back up the pier.
Benoit straightens at my hurried approach, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. Alarm flashes across his face. “Miss Hart?”
I run past him, pressing the remote to unlock my car.
“Zoe,” he calls after me. “Zoe, wait.” When I get behind the wheel, he throws down the baguette and runs for the Mercedes. “Fuck!”
I push down on the gas, breaking the speed limit. The Mercedes battles to keep up. My phone rings. Maxime? I yank it from my pocket and check the screen. Benoit. I cut the call and dump it on the seat, calling Maxime on voice command, but the phone goes straight to his voicemail.
Shit. What’s happening? Something feels awfully wrong. He sent me away for a reason. For my safety?
My phone rings again. Benoit. I reject the call and drive faster. I think about calling Francine and asking her to check on Maxime, but then I remember it’s her weekend off.
My nerves are shot by the time the house comes into view. My hands are shaking when I cut the engine and throw the car door open. The Mercedes races through the gates, Benoit coming to a hard stop behind me. He jumps from the car as I’m racing up the steps, catching up with me just as I grip the handle of the front door.
“Zoe.” He grabs my wrist. “Stop.”
I look at where he’s touching me. “Let go.” Maxime will cut his hand off for this.
“Fuck,” he groans, releasing me. “Zoe, listen. Don’t go in there.”
Pushing the door open, I walk inside. I stop in the entrance and listen, expecting gunshots or fighting. What greets me is much worse.
Soft, feminine laughter.
The sound hits me like an arrow in the heart. Nausea rushes through my body. My stomach burns with it.
Maxime’s voice reaches my ears. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his tone is pleasant. The woman replies, then laughs again.
I follow their voices to the library and stop in the open door. Maxime sits on the couch and a woman with auburn hair and honey-colored eyes sits in the armchair in front of the fire, in my armchair, the chair in which Maxime has stripped me naked, draped me over his lap, and made me come more times than I can count. She’s impossibly young and beautiful, cultured like his mother, wearing a dress Madame Page will approve of.
It only takes him a second to become aware of my presence. We’re attuned to each other. That’s what happens when you live together for thirty months. I know he hates lemon juice, and he knows I love sun-dried tomato salad dressing. He has to know this is killing me.
Maxime’s expression is stoic. He holds my eyes unfalteringly. The woman is still talking, her voice ringing through the space in a well-groomed Parisian accent, not foreign like mine. There’s no funny pronunciation to tease her about or to find endearing. She’s perfect. Then she catches on and follows his gaze.
At the sight of me, her back snaps straight. She drags her eyes over me, taking in my Mary Poppins coat and sticky-salty, windblown hair.
Leaning her hands on the armrests, she pushes to her feet. “You will get rid of her. I will not be humiliated.”
Maxime stands.
Picking her bag up from the foot of the chair, she walks past me with a lifted chin. I stare after her, familiar and new pain braiding together, twisting my insides. I know the ache of betrayal. I know the ache of having your life stolen but this…This is new. This is huge. I can’t even find a box for it in the wall that makes up my soul. I can’t file it with lies or betrayal. Not even jealousy is an accurate description. It cuts much deeper, leaving scars that will never heal.
Silence stretches through the house when she closes the door behind her like a well-bred lady. Me, I would’ve slammed it. Only her perfume lingers. Expensive. Classy. Everything I’m not. And the memory of that laugh. The torture of imagining what Maxime had said to her to make her so happy.
The silence is infuriating. I want him to explain. I want him to make excuses. I want him to tell me it’s a misunderstanding, that she’s his cousin or long-lost sister.
I take in his passive stance, how his hands are shoved deep into his pockets and his eyes give nothing away. Always hiding secrets. Never playing open cards with me. Waiting for me to make the first move. It’s unfair, but his silence leaves me no choice.
“Who is she?” I ask in a tremulous voice.
“Izabella Zanetti, Leonardo Zanetti’s sister.” He holds my gaze, not as much as flinching when he says, “My fiancée.”
Chapter 20
Zoe
* * *
The world crashes down around me. I didn’t think it was possible to die and still be alive. I didn’t think I could be in hell right here on earth. Yet the flames lap at me, mocking me yet again for my stupid naivety.
“The Italian I met at the auction?” I force through the lump in my throat. “That Leonardo?”
“Yes,” Maxime says.
I curl my fingers until half-moons from my nails cut into my palms. The pain is the only thing preventing me from breaking down in tears. “How long?”
“My father made a deal.”
My voice rises. “How long, Maxime?”
“The engagement party is next Saturday.”
I inhale once, twice, trying not to show him how hard it is to breathe, how this minces me up inside. “Is that what you were discussing?”
“Yes.” He adds in a flat voice, “Among other things.”
I guess other things meaning the wedding. Oh, my God. I’m going to be sick. How long has he been playing me? “For how long have you known?”
“I don’t think that matters.”
My pulse jumps. Betrayal and humiliation turns to anger. “Don’t you dare, Maxime Belshaw. Don’t you dare tell me my feelings don’t fucking matter. Tell me! You owe me at least this much.”
“Two years.” He gives me a resigned look. “The contract was signed two years ago.”
Fuck. God, that hurts. I stumble back a step. “You made a fool of me.”
“No, Zoe. You’re not a fool.”
“Don’t you fucking say my name.” I hold up a shaking finger. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He takes a step toward me. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“When were you planning on telling me?”
Another step. “This doesn’t change anything.”
I take three more steps back. “Like hell it doesn’t!”
“We’ll still be together, Zoe. Marrying Izabella is a business transaction.”
“When?” I manage through trembling lips.
“In spring.”
“In April?” I cry out. “You’re marrying her in four months?”
“You’ll still be my mistress. I’ll still spend the majority of my time with you.”
I think I’m going to break down, after all. I bite on the inside of my cheek until the urge to turn hysterical passes. “You’ll fuck her.”
“Only to create a heir.”
“To make a baby.” My teeth chatters around the words.
“Yes,” he says with a frown, as if he’s having a hard time understanding why I should be upset about that.
“What about us, Maxime? Have you considered that? What if I wanted a baby?”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Swallowing my tears, I lift my chin. “Why?”
“Bastard children aren’t recognized. I won’t be able to protect it with my surname. More so, bastard kids have a hard time adapt
ing. They always come second. That’s not fair to any child.”
Does he even realize how far his selfishness goes? “And how are you supposed to get rid of me before this marriage?” I ask, repeating his fiancée’s words.
For the first time, he has the decency to look guilty. “Naturally, as my wife, Izabella will live here.”
“So, you’re throwing me out.” I backtrack to the stairs. “I’ll start packing, then. I’ll be glad to go home.”
He comes after me so fast I don’t have time to run. His fist is in my hair before my foot is on the second step of the stairs.
“I’m not throwing you out,” he growls against my ear, “and I’m not sending you home.”
“I’m not sleeping with an engaged or married man. There’s no point in keeping me. You’ll have to take what you want with force, but I refuse to be the other woman.”
His hold tightens in my hair, making my scalp sting. “Marriage has nothing to do with sex and love. Not in my world. If I want our business to survive, I don’t have a choice but to honor that contract and marry Izabella. I’ll respect her and care for her as my wife, but it’s you I want.”
“I can’t do this, Maxime. You have no right to ask this of me.”
His voice turns cruel. “Oh, but I’m not asking, little flower.”
“Fuck you,” I cry, pulling so hard his hand comes free from my hair with the long strands stuck to his fingers.
“Maybe it’s a good idea to start packing, after all.” He reaches for me, but I jump away. “In time, you’ll get used to the idea.”
“Never,” I bite out. “Not as long as I live.”
“That’s how you felt at first, but you got used to this.” He waves a hand around the space. “You’re a survivor. You’ll adapt.”
I can’t listen to him anymore. I escape up the stairs, and he lets me. The only mercy he gives me is not coming after me. I keep on moving until I run out of stairs. Rushing into the tower, I shut the heavy door behind me. There’s no key to guarantee my solitude. The only door in this house with a key is Maxime’s study. That’s where he locks away his laptop and the phones, any form of communication with the outside world. My passport has to be in there. I have to find it.
Sitting down on the window seat, I wrap my arms around myself. I’m cold. Shivering. Finally, the tears I’m trying so hard to swallow erupt. They escape with ugly wails of shameless, pitiful crying. I focus my blurry gaze on the distorted vision through the stained glass window. The color twists through my tears like a kaleidoscope. The sounds of footsteps falling on the stairs makes me suck in and hold my breath. The sob trapped between my ribs aches, but I keep it in with all my might. I can’t let anyone see me like this, least of all not Maxime.
A knock falls on the door. “Zoe?”
I can’t answer. If I do, he’ll hear my brokenness. I’m not giving him that much.
“I’m coming in,” he says.
I swallow, somehow finding inhumane strength to keep my voice even. “If you care about me at all, even just a little, you won’t.”
Silence. After a beat, he says, “I’m going to my parents’ house. I’ll be back for dinner.”
“To see her?”
“To smooth things over. She’s upset.”
No shit. Pulling my legs up, I wrap my arms around my knees.
“Benoit stays here,” he says, “in the house.”
Another silence. Finally, after a long stretch of waiting, his heels tap an even rhythm on the stairs as he descends.
I let out the breath I was holding. My chest expands with another sob. Suddenly, I’m not sure whose cruelty is worse, Alexis’s or Maxime’s. Maxime knew all along while he was fucking me and being kind to me, watching me fall for him a little more each day, that he was promised to someone else. This is my limit. This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back and sends me over the edge.
Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I rest my head against the cold stones of the wall and close my eyes. No wonder Maxime’s family hates me so much. It all makes sense now. I’m the imposter, the seducer, and the mistress. They’re the wives. I think back to a conversation I once had with Sylvie when I still thought we were friends. It was over a glass of wine after class. We talked about made men and how they treated their women. I wanted to know more about what it meant to be property since it had become my label in Maxime’s world.
“It usually goes hand in hand with big depth payoffs that can’t be honored,” Sylvie had said.
The revelation shouldn’t have startled me. Still, her words shocked me. “Like selling a person to settle a debt?”
“Or making big, financial sacrifices for a woman. Taking care of her for life.”
It sounded too savage to be true. “Why not just marry? Why use such a degrading term?”
“Property isn’t degrading. It’s a coveted and protected position. It means hands-off to all other men. Whoever dares to touch a man’s property is dead. Marriages are made for the business, to further relationships that’ll profit the family. Men seldom want or love their wives. As you can imagine, there are a lot of mistresses going around in our circles. Us girls, the ones who are expected to remain virgins and marry a man of our father’s choice for the sake of a contract, don’t get to be mistresses. We get to remain faithful and suffer their existence pretending we don’t notice. Of the lot, I’d say we’re the worst off.”
She was wrong. They get to be respected. They get to go out with their husbands in public. They’re not hidden away somewhere, only taken out of their golden cages on occasion for a quick, dirty weekend in a hotel with mirrors on the ceiling. Maxime won’t be able to take me to his events any longer. Izabella will be on his arm. I’ll wait alone for the crumbs of his time, tucked away like a cheesy princess dress in a black dry-cleaning bag, a hidden secret in a dark closet. Among women, only the wives are recognized. That’s why Maxime never introduced me to the wives when he hoped I’d make friends. That’s why I only got to mix with the women who didn’t wear diamonds on their ring fingers. No, the wives are much better off. The wives get to have the babies. That is maybe the worst, the part that twists the blade the deepest into my heart.
I sit there until my stomach protests with hunger pangs and my throat is so dry it’s hard to swallow. The day turns dark. The tower is freezing cold. Pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, I rub away the tears. I feel dry and empty. I won’t let Maxime find me like this. He’s bound to be home soon. I can’t even let myself think about what’s happening at his parents’ house. It hurts too much.
The door squeaks when I open it. I listen. The house is quiet. I walk down the stairs into the deserted darkness, not bothering to flick the lights on or turn the heat up. I walk straight to Maxime’s study and test the door. Locked. I have to find a way in. If only I knew how to pick a lock.
I walk to the kitchen and stop in the door. Benoit sits at the window counter with a mug in front of him, reading something on his phone.
He looks up. “Jesus, Zoe.”
I hold up a palm. “Don’t speak.”
He knew. They all knew. Everyone knew and no one bothered to tell me. They’re all on Maxime’s side. I’m on my own in this, always have been. Just like Damian has always said. Why didn’t I listen to him? Why did I prefer to cling to stupid fantasies?
“There’s coffee,” Benoit says. “You look like you can do with some.”
I take a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water from the tap. Taking aspirin from the cupboard where Francine stores the sugar cubes, I drink it for the throbbing pain in my head. Crying always does that to me.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, ignoring Benoit’s stare as I take butter and jam from the fridge. When I open the drawer to take a butter knife, I pause. The slot for the sharp vegetable knives is empty. I look at the knife block on the counter. All the bread and carving knives are gone. Even the scissors.
Benoit clears his throat. “Maxime thought it w
as better to lock the knives away.”
He thought I’d try to kill him? Harm myself? No, that’s not my plan. That’s not who I am. An image of Damian and me sitting with our knees drawn up in a dark closet with only a flashlight and a book filters into my mind. I hear the fighting and glasses breaking. I feel the cold fear of violence. I hear my brother’s voice, telling me our circumstances don’t define us.
Maxime was right about one thing. I’m a survivor. I’m going to follow Damian’s advice.
I’m going to save myself.
Chapter 21
Zoe
* * *
By the time Maxime gets home, I’ve moved my clothes and toiletries to one of the spare bedrooms, the one the farthest away from the bedroom adjoining his, the one meant for his wife.
I’m in bed when he knocks on the door. I stay on my side with my face turned to the wall and my eyes closed. Porcelain clatters as his footsteps near. There are no fancy rugs or carpets in this room, only a cold, barren stone floor, just the way I prefer. It reminds me I’m in his prison, not in his home.
A whiff of roses reaches my nostril.
“I brought you a cup of tea,” he says.
The cup and saucer click on the nightstand. The mattress indents as he sits down on the edge. When he strokes a broad palm over my hair, I cringe. He withdraws the touch.
“No one can change what you mean to me, Zoe,” he says. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before. When you touch me, I’m alive. You’re the only person in this world who makes me see light. The only good I have inside me is when you’re around.” He pauses. “There’s not much I can deny you. You know that. I’ll make you happy again. I promise.”
I turn on my back and open my eyes. His face is beautiful in its imperfection. It’s a face I hold dear to my heart, but I won’t let him hurt both me and the woman who’s been promised to him. I won’t be the reason for making another woman suffer the way I’m suffering now.
Diamonds in the Rough Page 15