Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Maxime never mailed them.
His words ring through my mind. You can write to Damian as much as you like.
He never said he’d send the letters. A clever choice of words. Just another sentence constructed to deceive me.
The betrayal stings. Tears burn behind my eyes. I didn’t think I had more to shed. Untying the ribbon, I go through the pile. Every week, every letter—they’re all here.
A door slams on the other side of the house.
I jump back to life, sniffing as I tie the undelivered words—empty words now, all my warnings worthless—back together and leave it exactly as I found it before closing the drawer.
“Zoe?” Benoit calls from up the hall.
I leave the ruler as it was before, neatly aligned with the desk calendar, and run from the study. I’m not going to make it back to the library. Benoit’s footsteps are already falling too close. Slowing to a walk, I smooth down my hair, take my phone from my pocket, and inhale deeply.
Benoit rounds the corner and stops when he sees me, suspicion pulling his brows together.
“Found it,” I say breathlessly, forcing a smile to my lips and holding the phone up for him to see. “I left it in the toilet.”
He regards me narrowly. I don’t know if he believes me, but finally he throws a thumb at the door. “We better get going. Maxime wanted me to bring your sewing machine.”
“No, thanks,” I say in an upbeat tone as I head for the door. “I don’t need it any longer.”
He follows me outside and gets into the car when I do.
“You shouldn’t give up so easily,” he says, starting the engine. “With the sewing, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m not giving up.” Not by a long shot. I’m only more determined to get away now than ever.
“Good.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t speak on the way back to the city. It gives me time to process what I’ve discovered. Damian must think I’ve abandoned him. He doesn’t know his jail mate is his enemy. He doesn’t know I’ve been taken and held against my will. He only knows what Maxime made me write on the fancy hotel stationary in Venice—that I ran away with a foreigner who swept me off my feet.
“You all right?” Benoit asks.
“Mm?” I look away from the ocean. “Yes.”
“If you ever want to talk… Nah, what am I saying? I’m probably the last person you’d talk to.”
I give him a smile. “I appreciate it, anyway.”
“Make sure you charge your phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let it happen again. Maxime won’t like it.”
“I know.”
He pulls into the underground parking and insists on accompanying me to the door where the other guard is still positioned.
“We’ll send a replacement in an hour,” Benoit tells the man.
“Thanks, Benoit,” I say again before shutting them both out behind the closed door.
Leaning on the cool wood, I drag in a few ragged breaths. I hate him. I hate Maxime with every fiber of my being. I hate him as much as my traitorous heart still loves him. This isn’t puppy love. This isn’t a fairytale kind of love. It’s a love forged with thorns, pain, and suffering. It’s a dark love, a habitat conducive to the growth of twisted lust like fungus favors damp places. It’s a black stain over the crack in the wall of my heart, a wolf’s face in a child’s nightmare. It’s a real love, a hard-earned love, the kind that lasts forever. I’ll carry it inside me like a parasite for the rest of my life. I’ll nurture it like a host unwillingly nurtures a cancer by breathing and eating. I’ll suffer it like the unwanted burden it is, but I’ll suffer it alone.
Pushing away from the door, I go to the foreign bathroom in the foreign space and strip naked. I fiddle with the settings of the shower until I figure out how to operate them and wash my body and hair. I dry off and pull on a robe.
My clothes arrive shortly. A team of three women unpack the rails full of dresses and boxes full of shoes. In under an hour, they’re gone.
I go to the fridge and open it. There’s rosé champagne and pink caviar, a dinner fit for a celebration. I choose the champagne. Popping the cork, I pour some in one of the beautiful crystal flutes with the glass roses creeping around the stem and walk to the circular window. I stare through the colored glass, but all I see are white envelopes and black ink.
The door opens and shuts.
Silence.
Pain.
When will it stop?
Will time alone ever be enough?
“Zoe.”
His voice. I shiver. I hate him, and I want him. God, how I hate myself for needing him, even now. Especially now. He designed this. He made sure I have no one else to turn to. That’s how he caught me in his beautiful web. I’m not letting him spin any more lies around me.