I failed at design school, but maybe the failure wasn’t all a loss. It’s only two dresses. There’s a long road still before I can say I’ve made it, but it’s a start, and a good one. For that, I’m grateful to Maxime, no matter how unorthodoxly it came about.
When Maxime comes home an hour later, I’m still floating in my bubble. Usually, I’d have dinner ready, not because I want to be a good housewife, but because I like to be useful. Tonight, I don’t feel like cooking. We’re not eating pasta. We can order Chinese takeout for a change.
Removing his jacket by the door, he eyes the mannequin. “Finished the dress?”
“Yes.” I turn sideways on the sofa. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, hanging the jacket on the coat stand.
“For the design school.”
He crosses the floor. “You already thanked me.”
I did. It was the day he ushered me out of the house to meet with Izabella behind my back. I stiffen at the memory, but then brush it away. It’s only fresh in my mind because I saw her at his office last week. It’s not her fault. I know that. Knowing about me must’ve hurt her too. A part of me understands why Maxime regrets not marrying her. I understand he’d want things to be like they used to. I understand what he’s given up for me. What I don’t understand is why. He doesn’t love me and never will. He said so himself. Why go to such lengths to steal me back? I never thought obsession could be so consuming.
In a way, the knowledge that he wouldn’t have chosen differently if given the chance of who to marry again is soothing. It placates my bruised ego, however warped that may be, because if given a choice, I’d scurry for freedom. I’d scurry like a mouse, exchanging the cake it had been fed in a cage in the blink of an eye for breadcrumbs in the freedom of gutters.
He stops in front of me. “Aren’t you going to show me?”
“I sold it.”
“Already? You didn’t tell me.”
I look up at the man in the stylish clothes. He’s wearing a white shirt and dark silk suit. The fitted waistcoat that’s back in fashion accentuates his narrow waist and broad chest. Of course, he was always wearing it, long before it became fashionable again. Need stirs in my body. After all, it’s been a long time, and I’m only human.
“I wasn’t sure she’d take it,” I say.
“Who wouldn’t?” He unknots his tie, letting it hang loose around his neck. “It’s a beautiful creation. Did you put the necklace in the safe?”
I fold one leg under my body. “She took the necklace with the dress.” The valuation certificate was in the box. “She’d love to see more pieces. I said you’d mail her a brochure.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Did you sell it at full price? You know how much it’s worth, right?”
I point at the cheque lying on the coffee table.
He looks at the amount. “Holy hell, Zoe. Who did you sell it to?”
“Vera Day.”
“The Vera Day?”
I nod.
He frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know if she was going to take it. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Jesus.” He glances over my shoulder. “Is that what the champagne is for? We’re celebrating?”
I swipe my hair behind my ear. For once, I’ve left it loose in tamed curls down my back and not in a messy bun on my head. I’m wearing a decent dress and heels instead of the sweatpants and T-shirts I favor for working. “I got it for Ms. Day, but she’s watching her calorie intake.”
“Right.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I suppose if clients are shopping for clothes with a five digit number price tag, champagne and artisanal macaroons are the least you can offer.”
I smile. “That’s pretty much how it works.”
“It’ll be a shame to waste it,” he says, making his way over to the counter. He pours two glasses and carries one with a raspberry macaroon, my favorite flavor, back to me.
When he holds the patisserie to my lips, I don’t open. I take it from his fingers. The corner of his mouth flicks up even as his eyes dull with disappointment. I’ve given him nothing since the night he made me come in his lap on this sofa, and he hasn’t taken. He wants me, but I can’t make myself take that first step. I don’t want to give him even as little as that.
Shoving the whole pastry into my mouth, I chew very unladylike. Yet he watches like it’s the most erotic sight he’s seen. Self-conscious now, I wipe a crumb from my lips with the back of my hand.
“Here,” he says, putting the glass in my hand. “You may want to swallow that down before you choke.”
There’s humor in his words. I ignore it as I take a sip, washing down the cake stuck in my throat. My body is nervous with awareness. If he touches me, I’ll falter. When he turns away to study the mannequin, my stomach drops with disappointment. I may hate him, but my body still wants him, and I can only hate both of us more for that.
“She looks strange without the dress,” he says, rounding the doll. “With it, she almost looked human.”
“They make them very realistically these days.”
“Not so much,” he says.
“How do you mean?”
Bringing his hand around from behind, he cups her breast. “No nipple. They should make them with nipples so you can see the way it pushes against the fabric of a dress.” He brushes a thumb over the tip where the imaginary nipple would be.
My breasts tighten in response. “Why would anyone want to see that?”
“To know how the dress is going to look without underwear.” He looks at me as he drags his palm down her side to her hip. “Some dresses don’t allow for a bra.”
I swallow, imagining his hand on
