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.
Those lessons I hated so much, they did serve one good purpose. They taught me how much it hurts to love. To hope. To crave scraps of affection. Maybe that’s the most important thing Maxime taught me. After what he did today, I’ll never open my heart to him again. I’ll never make myself that vulnerable for anyone. Love is a joke. It’s a laughable weakness. I’m so over it. It’s time to woman up. It’s time to seal the walls around my heart and grow a thick skin.
After a long time, he comes back inside. A puddle accumulates around his feet on the floor. Grabbing a dishtowel from the kitchen, he dries his hair. He doesn’t look at me as he stalks past me toward the room. The water in the shower comes on. I kick off the shoes that are pinching my toes and limp to the bedroom, hovering outside the door. I listen to the sounds Maxime makes as he dries his hair and dresses. I’m still standing on the same spot when he appears in the door several minutes later.
My gaze drops to the overnight bag in his hand. “Where are you going?”
“To a hotel.” He presses a phone in my hand. “You know my number.”
Without another word, he walks from the apartment, leaving the door wide open.
I stare at the empty space as the quiet slowly fills me up, at the freedom of the open door. It’s fake, that freedom, a false promise. The ring on my finger is more effective than handcuffs. The promise I made is more imprisoning than a lock and key. It’s a stronger token of ownership than a choker necklace. That’s the message Maxime left with the open door.
Footsteps fall on the landing. It’s a strong beat. Only a man’s stride can tap out that promise of dominance on marble. Why is he coming back? Did he forget something?
Refusing to cower, I limp to the door to meet him head-on.
Then I stop in my tracks.
“Hello, Zoe,” Alexis says, pushing inside.
Chapter 12
Maxime
Lying in the bed big of the honeymoon suite surrounded by petals and candles, I stare at the ceiling. I haven’t even bothered to cancel our dinner. Neither the singer, nor the cake. I’ve only scavenged enough energy to let the priest know he could send the choir home.
As darkness creeps through the window, a strange sensation grows with the shadows. It’s a brand new feeling.
Regret.
I’ve fucked this up. I’m out of control, which is why I can’t be with Zoe. The way I behaved wasn’t a well-crafted lesson. I was running on pure, undiluted emotions. I allowed my feelings to control me instead of the other way around.
That has never happened. I’m not sure what to do with these feelings, these things living in my chest. It’s a godawful sensation, downright depressing. I wish Zoe has never made me feel. It hurts like a bitch, worse than the flames that melted my skin. The intensity with which she makes me experience things is frightening. What if I don’t master these emotions? I have to get a grip on myself and fucking learn to control these foreign sentiments.
A knock on the door startles me.
Zoe?
The only way she could’ve found out where I am is by tracking my number via the geolocation app on her phone. Pushing off the bed, I go to the door with my stupid heart thumping in my chest. I pull it wide open with hope chasing the corners of the shadows away, but my wishful thinking collapses like dominoes.
My voice is dejected. “Francine.”
She’s wearing the same dress from this afternoon, a white one that shows off her legs. “Can I come in?”
I lean in the frame. “How did you find me?”
“You sent me your itinerary to go over everything and make sure you didn’t forget something, remember?”
Fuck. Yeah. I’m not thinking straight. I turn the wedding ring around my finger with my thumb, feeling the weight of it. “What you do want?”