I gape at him. “You can’t seriously be thinking about sex right now.”
“If I give you a choice between pulling down your panties under that skirt and straddling my cock or walking through the door, what will you choose?”
Taken aback, I continue to stare at the rough contours of his face. The old me would’ve never left anyone with such an injury, but living with Maxime has hardened me. The sight of blood still makes me queasy, but I’m also growing desensitized to it.
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “You put up a good show for your brother.”
Anger replaces my concern. Straightening, I ball my fists. “What did you expect? Do you think I want you and my brother to go to war? Who will survive, huh? Tell me who’ll win.”
He continues to stare at me with his cool gaze. “I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.”
“Exactly.” I look down at him with all the loathing I’m capable of mustering from my soul. “I’m not risking my brother. He did nothing to deserve it.”
“Go, then, pretty little flower.” His smile turns mocking. “Run.”
I don’t let him tell me twice. I turn my back on him and leave while I can, slamming the door on my way out. On the other side, I lean against the wood to drag in a few deep breaths and settle my trembling heart.
This new road we’re heading down, I have no idea where it’s going.
Maxime acts aloof in the day that follows, but I have something else on my mind. Luckily, I only have to wait two days for my doctor’s appointment. The gynecologist was willing to squeeze me in between patients. I don’t tell Maxime about the scheduled visit. I go during the day when he’s at work, knowing no one is following me like before. Maxime will still be able to track my whereabouts via my phone, but he got used to me moving around freely in town to do grocery shopping and window-shopping for supplies. As long as I don’t run, he’s no longer checking up on me.
I’m not going to seek physical affection from Maxime. On the contrary, I’d rather avoid it. However, I do breathe easier knowing pregnancy won’t be a risk.
With my health taken care of, I throw myself back into work. For two weeks, nothing happens. I get a few likes on my social media accounts, but no one calls about the dress. With no money to buy more fabric, I spend the time making sketches and playing housewife. Welcoming the distance Maxime has put between us, I use the space to cram my head full of new design ideas.
During the third week, I finally get a call about the dress, but my spirit sinks when I hear the woman’s Texan accent.
“I love the style, and it’s exactly what I need for a charity lunch event,” she says after a long introduction of telling me about the challenges of finding fashionable clothes for her slim figure and small breasts, “but I’d love a fitting before I make a decision.”
“You do realize I’m in the south of France, right?” I could mail the dress to her, but if she needs adjustments mailing it backward and forward can turn out to be expensive and lengthy.
“That’s not a problem. I’m due in Cannes for the film festival in a couple of weeks. My flight lands in Marseille. We can meet before I shoot through to Cannes.”
I sit up straighter. “You’re going to the festival?”
“I’m a nominee,” she says in an almost embarrassed tone and then adds shyly, “Vera Day.”
I’ve been out of touch with the news and outside world for so long I have no idea what’s going on in the entertainment world. I’m typing her name into the search field of the browser on my laptop even as I ask, “Do you already have a dress for the festival?” Ambition and desperation make me bold. Normally, I’d never have been so forward.
“Of course.” She laughs. “It’s a Valentino number, and I forked out a fortune for it.”
My heart starts beating faster when numerous pages come up under my search. “I bet I can create something a lot more original and fresher for you.”
I skim over the information. Vera Day starred in a recent contemporary war drama that’s been nominated for a Golden Palm award for the best director, best screenplay, and best actress. I scroll through the photos. Willowy and gracious with an enchanting smile, she’s a portrait of humble innocence and self-assured feminism. Idolized by millions, the blond beauty is the perfect spokesperson for a clothing brand.
“Look,” she says, “my agent is probably going to steamroller over my choice of an outfit for the charity event anyway, but whatever the outcome, I’d love to own this piece. It’s just…” She pauses.
“You?”
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “Perfectly.”
“Right, then. Let’s schedule a fitting. I can make adjustments and have it ready for you before you head back home. How does that sound?”
“Great.” She squeals. “Thank you so much.”
“And,” I take a deep breath, “I’d really like to present you with a dress for the festival.”
“I feel like you get me and what I want, but I can’t justify forking out another big amount when I’ve already—”
“You don’t have to buy the dress. I’m only asking that you wear it and if a reporter is interested mention the brand. You can return it after the event. No cost.”
“You want advertising?”
“Yes.” It’s my turn to add shyly, “I’m just starting out.”
She sighs. “Now it’s going to be hard for me to turn you down. I’ve started out not so long ago, so I know how hard it is.”
My hope surges. “You don’t have to promise anything. Just try on the dress and see what you think.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in that.”
We set a date and time, and I take her private email address in
