“You better have an early night,” he says. “It’ll do you good.”
After the main meal, he excuses himself. I follow him to the entrance where he pulls on a jacket and coat, but he’s withdrawn again, already preoccupied with the business and the fires I imagine he had to put out after last night. When the door shuts behind him, I can’t help but stand in the middle of the foyer with my arms wrapped around myself, feeling lost. I can’t help but think that every time he walks out of the door he may never come back.
Chapter 11
Zoe
* * *
The minute my back hits the mattress, I pass out. I have no idea if Maxime came to bed, because I sleep nine hours straight, and when I wake in the morning, I’m alone. It’s still early. Part of me is worried and part of me grateful for the space. My emotions are all over the place. I’m tearful, and my defenses are down. That makes me vulnerable—a susceptible target for more hurt. I need to pull myself together.
I try not to think, but the gears won’t stop turning in my head. Where is Maxime? How is Gautier’s family coping? Are the police going after Maxime for the killings? Will I ever get away from my captor now? Do I want to get away? Can I really turn a blind eye to everything and throw myself into my studies even if I don’t deserve a place in the program?
The questions are futile, because the answers, even if I had them, won’t change anything. Very little is in my control. By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I don’t feel lighter. The killings and truth Maxime revealed still weigh heavily on my chest.
I go down for breakfast, walking down the dim hallway with the portraits. The faces stare at me, judging quietly. A man died. Several. Some by my kidnapper’s hand. How does one live with that? How does he? The stairs creak under my feet. The noise is amplified in the big, quiet house. I pass empty rooms and the cold library and stop in front of the locked study door. The phones must be in there together with everything else Maxime doesn’t want me to find. It’s useless, but I feel the handle. As I expected, the door doesn’t swing open under my pressure.
I continue to the dining room. Fruit and croissants are set out on the table. Giving the buttery pastries and fat oranges a long look, I go on, walking to the kitchen. What I need is comfort food. Familiar food.
When I enter, Francine looks up from wiping down the counters. My presence makes her go stiff. I don’t bother to say good morning, as I don’t expect her to reply. Going past her, I take a mug from the cupboard.
“Can I help you?” she asks, propping her hands on her hips.
“No, thanks.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line when I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Don’t you drink tea? It’s in the cupboard behind you.”
“Not today.” I blow on the brew. “Oh, was the coffee for you?”
She dumps the cleaning cloth on the counter. “I’ll just have to make a fresh pot.”
“There’s still plenty left.”
Grabbing the flask, she pours what’s left of the coffee down the drain and rinses it. I take a sip. It’s strong. While she polishes the flask harder than necessary with a dishcloth, I look for the sugar. All I find is a box with a corner cut open. Since there isn’t a sugar pot, I fill a cup.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She pushes a bowl with cubes my way. “This is France. Get used to the way we do things here.”
I consider that for a moment. It’s a stupid rebellion, childish really. On any other day, I may not have found her rebuke worthy of a response, but today isn’t just another day. Today, I add two heaped spoons of sugar to my coffee, giving her a sweet smile. Her fingers clench on the dishcloth. Making a mental note to never take cubes, I pop a slice of bread into the toaster. What is it with the French and cubes, anyway?
Eyeing the bread, she says, “There is breakfast in the dining room.” She continues, adding a little jab, “As per Max’s orders.”
“Does he decide what I’m eating?”
“He pays my salary.” Her lips curve into a smile. “That means whatever he decides goes.”
I lean my butt against the cupboard. “Exactly. That makes him your boss. So, if I were you, I’d remember my place.”
Her eyes flare. “That makes you what? His girlfriend?”
The toast pops. I dump it on a plate. “Oh, nothing as romantic as that. I think until yesterday I was a hostage. Today, apparently, the term is property.”
She blanches. She doesn’t like the statement. That’s strange. To me, property sounds like an insult.
“I suppose hoping there’s peanut butter is stretching it too far?” I ask as I go through the food cupboards.
“You’re nothing but a distraction,” she says to my back. “Max is never that careless. You almost got him killed last night.”
Inwardly, I still at the words. It’s not as if it hasn’t been running through my mind. Anyone can die at any moment, but Max’s lifestyle puts him—us—at a higher risk. A much higher risk.
I settle on the butter and jam in the fridge.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asks.
“I’ll pass your concern to Maxime.”
I’ve lost my appetite, but I spread a thick layer of butter and jam on the toast and take a seat by the window nook to eat.
“Do you mind?” she asks just as I open my mouth to take a bite. “I’m busy, and you’re in the way.”
She’s asking to me leave? I lower my hand. “Actually, I do mind.” I don’t know where the nastiness comes from. I only know I’ve reached my limit. “I’d like to eat in peace. You can come back in fifteen minutes.”
Color rises in her cheeks as she stares at me with her wide green eyes so perfectly set off against her porcelain white skin.
“If you prefer that the order comes directly from your boss,” I say when she doesn’t move, “you can always call Max.”
“Your days are numbered.” The color of her irises turns brilliant. “We’ll see who’ll have the last laugh.” Head held high, she walks from the kitchen.
If only she knew. Even if Damian’s life is no longer the sword Maxime holds over my head, he made it clear he won’t let me go. Anyway, running is impossible. I have no money, no passport, and I doubt I’ll get far, not if Maxime is the head of the most powerful mafia group in France. I can dial no one except for Maxime from my phone, and I don’t have access to a laptop. The only measure of freedom I have is going to school. Phones aren’t allowed in class, and Maxime’s men are watching my every move outside of class. Even if I did get my hands on a phone or somehow managed to send an email to the South African embassy, Maxime made it clear he’d chase me. After what happened in South Africa, I don’t doubt it for a minute. Damian is in jail, unable to help me. I don’t have friends or allies here. I can’t ask anyone for help.
Even if I wanted to get away, I’m stuck.
Despondency descends on me. I need to get out of this house. After rinsing my mug and plate, I grab my satchel and step outside. Two cars are waiting. Benoit drives me to school while three men follow in the second car. I don’t make a fuss. If anything, I’m grateful. I’m scared, but I can’t lock myself up and hide from Maxime’s enemies forever. Clutching my satchel, I look around for cars with tinted windows as we enter the city. I’m nervous. The tension snakes up my stomach and squeezes my chest.
“You can relax,” Benoit says. “We cleaned the streets up.”
I glance at him. “I’m really sorry about Gautier.”
His jaw bunches.
“I’ll understand if you think it’s my fault,” I say.
“I’m not an idiot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Look, it’s bad enough that I have to babysit you. Can we please not talk? I’m not exactly in the mood for conversation. If not for you—” He cuts off with a cussword, then swears some more under his breath.
I shrug. “Sure.” The nonchalant act costs me. It takes everything I have not to show him how guilty his words make m
e feel. It’s easier to roll the window down and pretend I’m staring outside.
Sighing, he wipes a hand over his beard. “Look, I’ve got nothing against you—”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
When he parks in front of the school, I get out before he does. “Thanks for the ride,” I say before shutting the door.
I’m early, but when I arrive at the classroom, Madame Page and the other students are already there.
I pull out a chair next to Thérèse, and whisper, “I thought the class started at nine.”
“It does.” She gives me a bleary-eyed look. “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to get a free ride. We’re all putting additional time in and working extra hard to pass.”
“Mademoiselle Hart?” Madame Page calls from the front. “A word with you outside, please.”
All heads turn to me when I follow Madame Page outside. Benoit and one of the guards stand a short distance down the hallway. Madame Page startles at their presence. With their suits and dark glasses, there’s no guessing as to who or what they are, and what they’re doing here.
Ignoring them with visible effort, she shuts the classroom door and pushes her glasses over her head. “You may think you don’t have to attend classes like everyone else, but I won’t allow you to make an idiot of me and a joke of my course.”
“I’m really sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. I know it reflects poorly on me, especially since it was only the second day, but I assure you I’m very serious about this course. My absence was due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Circumstances, mm?” Her look is sour. “That’s your excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Then care to tell me why you didn’t grace us with your presence?”
“I… Um, personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons.” She purses her lips. “If this was anyone else, they would’ve been expelled.” She points a finger at me. “No absence without a doctor’s certificate. The fact that you’re here means someone else lost out on an opportunity, someone talented and willing to work. If you can’t appreciate what’s been given to you on a silver platter, at least try to respect the rules.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I can’t even say it won’t happen again, because my life isn’t in my own hands. Maxime decides. He controls my days, nights, hours, and minutes.
She drops her glasses back over her eyes. “Apology not accepted. Get inside and try not to disrupt the rest of the class, especially not Thérèse. She’s on the bottom of the ladder. If she can’t beat five of her fellow students, she’s out. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” I say, averting my eyes.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I follow her back inside, but I ignore the stares and arrange my pencils and sketchpad on the table. For the rest of the morning, I try to catch up on what I’ve missed. They’ve completed the first model on business theory. Even if practical isn’t until next year, all of them have brought in pieces for Madame Page’s feedback. That was what the others were working on until late last night. I’m a good seamstress with three years of experience, but I realize with a sinking heart they’re all better than me. If I’m to keep up, I’ll have to work at home. I’ll have to work harder and longer hours. I don’t have a choice but to use the sewing machine Maxime gave me, even if I was adamant about not touching it after finding out how I got into the school.
Madame Page announces a group project where we’re supposed to work in teams of two to hand-dye an organic textile for our textile science class. There’s a lot of excited whispering about it. Some of the girls already call out one another’s names to pair in teams.
At lunchtime, Benoit and the other guy follow me to the canteen where I grab a sandwich and fruit salad. They get the cooked lunch, pay for their meals and mine, and sit down at a table in the corner. I doubt they’ll appreciate my presence, so I approach Christine, the pretty dark-haired girl.
“May I?” I motion at the empty seat next to her.
She blows a sigh from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t own the tables or the chairs. You can sit wherever you want.”
“Do you want to work together on the team project?” I ask as I sit down.
“Work together?” She laughs. “With you?”
I unwrap my sandwich. “It could be fun.”
She snorts. “No, thanks.”
The rejection stings a little, but I’m the one who has to put more effort into getting on with my fellow students. I understand why they’re mad. I can’t give up that easily. “Why not?”
Her fork clanks as she puts it down on her plate. “Why not?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a bite from the baguette.
“Here’s why. You don’t have to work. You don’t have to earn this degree. Hell, you don’t even have to show up. You’ll graduate with flying colors, open an exclusive brand label with a head office on the Riviera that your rich mafia boyfriend pays for, and because you’re null and worthless at designing but like to pretend that you’re a hotshot fashion guru, you’ll pay people like me who worked my ass off to work for you.
“My designs will be branded with your label, and you and your shady boyfriend will carry on drinking champagne with the high society and making more money while I work my fingers to the bone, get paid your peanuts, and watch as you take all the credit. That’s fucking why.”
It takes me a moment to find words. “Is that what you think of me?”
“That’s how it works, sunshine.” Picking up her tray, she gets to her feet. “Excuse me if I’m not exactly in the mood for teaming up with you.”
“You don’t know me. You have no right judging me.”
“I have every right. My father works three jobs to pay for my studies. I would’ve worked six if I didn’t have to study day and night. We don’t get things handed to us. We earn it.” She adds with a sneer, “You won’t understand what that means.”
“Maybe I understand more than what you give me credit for. Maybe if you give me a chance—”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to give you a chance.”
Aware of everyone staring, I keep my voice low. “Surely, we all deserve a chance.”
“You want me to spell it out for you? Even if your work didn’t suck, you’d still be a fake.”
The tightness in my stomach grows. “What do you mean my work sucks?”
“Madame Page presented our profiles yesterday while you were playing hooky. Grow up. You’re not a princess, and this isn’t the eighties. Frills and lace are long since out of fashion. Your designs are cheesy and immature. You’re only making a fool of yourself.” Giving me a pitiful shake of her head, she walks to the table next to ours. “Can I please sit somewhere I won’t get indigestion?”
The girls move up to make space. Someone takes her tray while she comes back for her chair. It makes a screeching sound as she drags it over the floor to her new place. The dining room has gone quiet. Everyone is looking at me.
I bite into my sandwich and chew like I don’t care. I swallow like the food isn’t a lump of sawdust in my throat that threatens to choke me. From the corner of my eye, I see Benoit wipe his mouth and dump the napkin on the tray. When he pushes back his chair, I give him a small shake of my head. Interfering, and God forbid forcing Christine to sit with me, will only make matters worse. I eat in silence while the people around me go back to their conversations. Their whispers are quieter than before, their gazes often colliding with mine. They don’t even bother to look away when I catch them staring.
This is the moment I hit rock bottom, when the day just gets too much. Finishing off the last of the sandwich, I swallow it down with some water and brush the crumbs from my skirt. I grab my bag and walk outside into the heat where I can drag in the salty sea air and bite the inside of my cheek until the urge to cry passes.
Benoit and his buddy come out of the building. I turn my back on them so they won’t see the humiliation on my face. Go
d, I could do with a friend right now. In a life that was still my own, I would’ve called one of the girls from work, and we’d be binge watching a silly series while pigging out on popcorn and wine. Or we would’ve sewn together, creating frilly and cheesy creations that are immature and out of fashion. I inhale deeply to steady myself.
Taking my phone from my bag, I stare at it for a long time before I dial Maxime’s number.
His deep, rich timbre comes over the line. “This is a pleasant surprise.” The way he rolls the R still makes the hairs in the nape of my neck stand on end in both a good and bad way. “A first for us.”
I’ve never called him. He seems pleased that I’ve finally relented. Now that I’m speaking to him, I hesitate. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. “Am I bothering you?”
“Never.” I can almost hear him smile. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?”
I study the drops from the wet grass on the tip of my shoe. “Did you come to bed last night?”
His voice turns even deeper. “Why? Did you miss me?”
I bite my lip. Always, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I was just wondering.”
“Just wondering, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, kicking at a stone.
“Were you worried about me, Zoe?” From the satisfaction that sounds in his tone, he already thinks I did. He just wants me to admit it.
Suddenly, I’m too tired for this game. I’m too tired to hide my feelings from him. “How could I not be?” I don’t bring up the other night again. We’ve spoken about it as much as is healthy for both of us.
His manner sobers. “I didn’t want to make you worry. I had loose ends to tie up.”
“So, you didn’t sleep.” I glance up to catch Benoit studying me. “You must be tired.”
“Don’t worry, I can go a couple of nights without sleeping. Is this why you’re calling? You want to know if I’m tired?” He adds in a huskier voice, “Or you’d like to see me?”
The hope in his words almost makes me give in, but no, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m still too unsettled and angry. I’m upset that I even have to make this call to ask his permission.
Diamonds in the Rough Page 9
