She pulls me into a hug. “I’m always here for you. Damian and I both are.” Holding me at a distance, her eyes turn imploring. “You can always come back if it doesn’t work out like you hope. Don’t you forget that.”
I smile through my tears, knowing it’s an impossible notion. There’ll be no coming back ever again. This time, Maxime is keeping me for good. He’s not going to let me slip through his fingers twice.
Maxime puts a consoling arm around my shoulders, the act tender as he leads me away from the people who mean everything to me. With every step, my heart breaks a little more, and by the time we’re stepping on board, the tears flow freely. No matter how hard I try, I can’t hold them in.
Handing our bags to a steward, Maxime takes my shoulders and propels me to a double seat. “It’ll get better.” He sits and pulls me into his lap. “You have to give it time.”
Time. Time didn’t help the first time round. I doubt there’s any remedy. I wiggle off his lap and shift to the far corner of the seat. His jaw clenches, but he lets me.
I decline the champagne and food he offers. Sometime during the night, he lowers the seatback and covers my body with a blanket. It should be impossible to sleep, but after the restless night I spent tossing and turning next to Maxime, I eventually doze off.
It’s early morning when he wakes me for the landing. He calls a valet service, and a driver brings his car from a private parking garage nearby. I’m numb when he drives us home, irrationally expecting the sights to have changed like when Russell took me back to South Africa, but everything looks disturbingly the same.
Instead of driving us to his house in Cassis, he heads for town and parks in the underground parking of the building where he bought me an apartment. The Mini Cooper he gave me is parked in its place. Of course. Life flows back into my body as the blood heats in my veins. His wife is at home. This is me. This is the home of his mistress.
I get out before he can come around the car, and slam the door. He stares darkly after me as I walk to the dingy elevator instead of the stairs, leaving him to get the bags. I test my code. It still works. Getting in, I push the button for the fourth floor. Maxime catches the door just before it closes.
We ride up in silence. I pause when the doors open. There’s no one on the landing, no guard in front of the apartment. Maybe Maxime is too certain I won’t run again. He knows I won’t risk the people I love.
He goes ahead and unlocks the door. The smell of grilled cheese and onions hangs in the air. A quiche is cooling on the island counter.
“I asked Francine to prepare something,” he says. “It’s leek and onion. You like that, right?”
The mention of her name makes me go rigid. I don’t want her here, not in this space too, but I say nothing.
He locks the door and carries our bags to the bedroom. I look around. The sewing machine Maxime bought for me, the one I left in the cellar of his old house, stands on the desk of the upstairs study. Everything else is just like I left it. The champagne glasses I rinsed before running are still standing in the drip tray. He hasn’t eaten here since I’ve left. Why would he? He would’ve been staying at the big house, enjoying the honeymoon. The thought hurts. Unable to stomach it, I walk to the French doors and peer outside.
The wind has blown the greenhouse door open. I must’ve not closed it properly. One of the pot plants has blown over. The terracotta pot lies in pieces on the ground, the delicate white orchid dying on the heap of dark soil. Unlocking the door, I go out into the cold wind and scoop what I can salvage of the sand in an empty pot before carefully replanting the flower. It’s still alive, but I’m not sure it will survive the shock.
The greenhouse smells of damp soil, and the floor is wet. Drops of water shine on the leaves. I look up. An overhead irrigation system has been installed. At least the plants didn’t die of thirst in my absence. Whoever did the work must’ve forgotten to latch the door.
When I get back inside, Maxime waits in the lounge. Taking in his emotionless expression, I swallow.
“Come here,” he says with an even voice.
I’m not going to let him touch me like that. His gaze tracks my movements as I slip around him.
“Damn you, Zoe,” he says, coming after me with big steps.
I escape to the room, hoping to reach it so I can lock myself in before he follows me inside, but when I get to the door I stop so suddenly he slams into my back.
The air is knocked from my lungs not only by the collision, but also by the sight in front of me. I stare at the dress hanging from the curtain rail in front of the window, illuminated by the soft early morning light.
A white dress with a wide skirt and an embroidered bodice.
A wedding dress.
A bouquet of white roses tied with a pink ribbon lies on the bed. Two velvet boxes are neatly arranged next to the flowers, a square one that holds the diamond choker necklace and a smaller one with the earrings he gave me in Venice. On the floor at the foot end of the bed stands a pair of white Cinderella shoes. The room smells of roses, and I already know I’ll find petals and candles in the bathroom.
My throat closes up. It doesn’t make sense. Spinning around, I look at Maxime’s left hand where his wedding band should
