“What’s going on?” I ask in a hoarse voice.
He backs me up into the room. “I would’ve explained if you’d given me a chance.”
“Explain what?” The back of my knees hit the bed.
“Stay,” he says, walking out of the room.
I obey not because I want to but because I’m stunned into a state of immobility, frozen to the spot.
A moment later, he returns with a slice of quiche served on a plate. He sets it with napkin and fork on the nightstand.
“Explain what, Maxime?” I ask with a dry mouth.
“Eat something, dye your hair, have a warm bath, and put on the dress.”
“Put on the dress why?” I ask, hysteria creeping up on me.
He only looks at me, looks and looks and looks until I want to scream.
My voice rises in volume. “Tell me.”
He just stands there, mechanical like a robot, infuriatingly calm. “You know why.”
Banging my fists on his chest, I cry, “Tell me, damn you.” My mind begs for an explanation. “Say it.”
He catches my wrists in a painful grip. His calm slips, and ice glazes the gray of his eyes. “We’re getting married.”
I sink down onto the bed, my wrists still captured in his hands. “You are married.”
“I called it off. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
No. I didn’t want to cheat. I didn’t want to be the mistress of a married man, but I don’t want to be his wife. Not like this. My breath catches. “I don’t understand.”
“I gave it all up for you, Zoe.”
His words are like lava being dripped over my head. My face grows hot, the heat rolling out over my body to the tips of my toes. “What did you do, Maxime?”
“I paid a price.”
He paid a price. He didn’t marry Izabella. “The contract…”
“My father made a new deal. Alexis stood in for me.”
Alexis married Izabella?
“No cheating,” he says through tight lips, lowering his head to mine. “No one else but you. I’m all yours. No more hands-off excuses, Zoe. Tonight, I’m taking what’s mine.” He lets me go with a shove.
I can only stare at him in dread. He can’t be serious. Yet his face says otherwise. His angry steps as he retreats tell me just how serious he is. So does the key that turns in the lock after he’s slammed the door shut.
At the sound, I come to my senses. Jumping up, I run to the door and pull on the handle. Locked. I twist around and lean on the wood, sweat breaking out over my brow.
A marriage is forever.
A marriage is for love.
How far will he take his games? How much more betrayal can he manage? Hasn’t he broken me enough? Anger rises from the hollowness in my stomach to the empty cavity of my chest. The rage swells through me like a wave. It steals my senses and blurs my sight until all I see is that damning white dress through a veil of red.
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
