Diamonds in the Rough

by Charmaine Pauls

  “If you want to make me happy,” I say, “let me go.”

  “I’ll give you anything in my power, but not that.”

  “There’s no point in keeping me. I’m not a cheater. I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  “We’ll go to Venice.”

  “Venice?” I bite out. “Do you think that place holds any good memories for me?”

  He flinches. “Making love for the first time isn’t a good memory?”

  “You stole my virginity with manipulation.” My tears threaten to spill over again. “You stole my love knowing you belonged to another. There’s no place in the world you can take me to make me forget that.”

  “Where’s the girl who believed in love and romance?”

  “I don’t believe in fairytales any longer.”

  He cups my cheek. “But you want to.”

  I turn my face away, escaping the touch. “Please. Leave me.”

  He considers me for a moment, then stands. Staring down at me, he says, “I’ll give you time to get used to the change.” After another stretch of silence, he walks to the door. In the frame, he turns. “Drink your tea. You’ll feel better.”

  When he’s gone, I grab the cup and hurl it at the wall. It breaks with a shattering sound into pieces, the rose petal infusion wasted on the floor.

  I don’t sleep that night. I lie awake in the dark, thinking. At daybreak, I have a shower and dress in my favorite leggings and jersey. I brush my hair and put on my makeup. I eat breakfast in the knife-less kitchen. I clear out the room Maxime turned into a workspace for me, packing the fabric, buttons, lace, ribbons, and thread into boxes that I seal. Benoit helps me to carry them down to the cellar. I vacuum and air the room, getting rid of my presence and smell. I make sure there’s no traces left of me, nothing that can hurt another woman. All that’s left when I’m done is my sewing machine. I seal it in its original box and make Benoit carry that to the cellar, too.

  By the end of the week, the armchair in the library has been replaced with a new one I’ve ordered online. The old one I’ve burned on the beach. Maxime says nothing through it all. He gives me the space he’s promised. His guards avoid me. They avert their eyes when I go outside for a walk. Even Francine isn’t cruel enough to say she told me so. Like everyone else, she keeps her distance. They’re avoiding me as if I’m on death row.

  On Wednesday, Maxime comes to find me in my new room. He’s holding my coat and scarf in his hand.

  “Come on,” he says. “We’re going for a ride.”

  “Where to?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We haven’t spoken since the night he promised to give me time, but I haven’t stopped thinking. My thoughts haven’t been quiet for a moment. There’s something I need to know.

  “If Damian doesn’t honor the deal you have with Dalton, what are you going to do to him?”

  His expression becomes closed-off again. “Whatever it takes.”

  “That’s your plan? That’s why you’re keeping me? To use me against him?”

  “I already told you why I’m keeping you.” He holds the coat open. “Come now. You’re going to like what I want to show you.”

  “If you didn’t have me, what else would you use?”

  He sighs. “There’s always someone or something a person cares about.”

  “You’ll hurt him or whoever and whatever he cares about to have your way.”

  “In short, yes.”

  I nod. That’s what I needed to know.

  “Zoe, please. Don’t make me put this coat on you. I want this day to be pleasant.”

  Too late. Pleasant is no longer an option for us. Maybe he should’ve just given me to Alexis. It would’ve saved his future wife and me a lot of tears. Turning, I let him help me into the coat and stand obediently while he winds the scarf around my neck.

  “That’s better,” he says with a soft smile.

  I follow him to his car, but get in before he can get my door. I don’t ask where we’re going. For now, I simply go along. He follows the highway to the city and weaves his way through the narrow streets toward the center. Close to the old town, he parks. We make our way on foot through the pedestrian area until he stops in front of a beautiful, old building.

  “This is it,” he says, looking up at the stone façade. “It dates from 1000 BC.”

  I have no interest in the history of the building or why we’re here. The guards who followed check the street before he punches a code into the panel that opens the street door. We climb all four levels of a winding staircase to the top and exit in a long, narrow corridor with a red carpet and a carved wooden door at the end.

  “Here,” he says in front of the door, handing me a key with a red ribbon tied through the hole in the top.

  I take the cold metal, letting the silk ribbon slide through my fingers.

  “Open it,” he says.

  Inserting the key in the lock, I turn it like he’s told me.

  “Go on,” he says, placing his palm on the small of my back. “Go inside.”

  I open the door and step inside not because I want to, but to escape his touch. It smells of fresh paint. Pausing just inside the door, I look around. It’s a loft apartment, beautifully renovated to leave the antique stone walls bare. A round window with stained glass panels dominates the ocean-facing wall. It stretches all the way from the ceiling to the floor. The floors are polished stone. White mohair rugs are scattered around. All the furniture in the open-space living area is white—the leather sofas, the velvet armchair, the whitewashed table, and the renaissance chairs. Each chair is of a different style, covered with a different white fabric, the textures and weave patterns adding uniqueness while the white gives uniformity. Only the backs are upholstered with fabric portraying images of different flowers in creamy beige.

  A wrought iron spiral staircase leads to an open landing with a desk and chair. A study. A bookshelf stretches from the floor of the lounge to the ceiling of the study. The shelves are filled with English and French books, the titles ranging from classics to modern fiction and non-fiction. My gaze falls on The History of Fashion from the Middle Ages. For easy access, a ladder on wheels is hooked to the top shelf. There’s a reclining chair and reading lamp under the stairs. Sofas and a low coffee table are arranged around a fireplace with carved flowers on the mantelpiece.

  The kitchen takes up the right-hand side of the space. The cupboards are whitewashed and the appliances stainless steel. Through the glass panels on the doors, crockery in pink and gray are visible. Even the wine glasses are a deep pink with roses decorating the crystal stems. A huge bouquet of pink roses stands in an antique white vase on the island counter that serves as a more informal table with two tall chairs.

  A door leads off to the right. My feet carry me there, compelling me to take it all in. It’s a bedroom. The king-size bed is covered with white linen and pink scatter cushions. The French doors open onto an ornate waist-high rail. The windows face the building opposite the narrow street. White organza curtains provide privacy.

  A door leading from the bedroom gives access to a well-organized dressing room with ample cupboard space. Another door opens into a windowless bathroom with Harlequin white-and-black tiles and a skylight allowing natural light. There’s a spa bath like at Maxime’s house and a shower with double nozzles. The vanity area is spacious with a big mirror and a padded stool. The bedroom, dressing room, and bathroom run along the back of the kitchen. It’s huge. One room. For one person. Maybe for a partner who sleeps over on occasion. No rooms for children or visiting family.

  Up to now, Maxime has let me take it all in silently, following quietly behind me. I catch his gaze when I turn to exit the bathroom.

  His tone is eager. “There’s more. Come.”

  He walks ahead of me to the French doors opening from the living area out to a terrace. We exit from the warm interior into the frosted winter air. My breath is a white puff as I exhale. A splash pool, Jacuzzi, and small
summerhouse take up the ocean side. A vine creeps over the metal awning that will provide shade in summer. Potted olive trees frame the summer house and another stands next to a small garden table and two wrought iron chairs. Big pots with winter flowers are arranged around the space to form a terrace garden. A glass greenhouse filled with neatly arranged plants in terracotta pots is constructed on the left. I spot cherry tomatoes, chilies, carnivorous plants, and orchids through the glass.

  “What do you think?” Maxime asks behind me.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say honestly. He must’ve invested a fortune in this place. I turn to face him. “Did you have the renovations done?”

  “It took two years,” he says proudly.

  Two years. All the pain from Saturday comes tumbling out. “Ah. Well, I guessed you didn’t just pop out and buy this place yesterday.”

  “No.” His expression sobers as he studies my face. “I bought it two years ago.”

  He planned it all along. He knew he’d need a place to ship me to.

  “The work is only just finished,” he says.

  Otherwise, he would’ve made me move in sooner.

  “I’ll have your clothes sent over,” he continues. “A team will unpack everything. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

  The hurt spreads and spreads until I breathe and exhale it, until my heart beats with it and my pulse pumps with it.

  “So,” I say, “this is the new golden cage.”

  “It’s yours, Zoe. No one can ever take it away from you. The day anything happens to me, this apartment will belong to you together with enough money to allow you to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

  I stare at him, my feelings adrift. My emotions won’t let me make sense of anything. They won’t let me form words.

  He approaches tentatively, his arms spread out with his palms facing the heavens. “Will you at least let me hold you?”

  The offer tears me to pieces. I need the solace. I so badly need for someone to hold me. Just for a minute. Just for a few seconds. But he belongs to another.

  Biting back my tears, I shake my head.

  I’m not a cheater, and he’s not a rapist. He won’t take me by force, not without my consent.

  He drops his arms. “I’ll let you settle in, then. The fridge is stocked. If you need anything, you only have to call.”

  The agony is so complete I want to sink to my knees under its force. A silent scream catches in my chest when he turns his back on me and walks through the door. I can only stand there while he rips my life apart with his kindness.

  Chapter 22

  Zoe

  * * *

  It takes me a while to come to my senses. I’m frozen from cold when my limbs finally obey the signals from my brain to move. The first thing I do is go to the front door and yank it open. A man stands on attention in the corridor. My spirits sink. Of course.

  “Babysitting?” I ask like a bitch.

  “I’m here to protect you, ma’am, and to let Mr. Belshaw know if you need anything.”

  “What if I need to go out?”

  “Your car will be delivered shortly, but you’re not to go anywhere without Mr. Belshaw’s permission. I’m to accompany you.” He adds, “For your safety.”

  “Where’s Benoit?”

  “He’s driving your car over, but he’s no longer your appointed detail.”

  I suppose Benoit is Maxime’s best man. He’d be protecting Maxime’s wife.

  I shut the door in his face and let my handbag drop from my shoulder to the floor. Crouching down, I turn it upside down, shaking the contents out over the polished stone. I gather all the loose bills, and then the ones in my purse. I have enough money for a plane ticket to Spain. I can disappear from there, but I need my passport.

  Sitting down with my back resting on the wall, I bite my nail. I have to get into Maxime’s study. I’ve seen him taking guns from a safe in his room, but there weren’t any documents inside. It has to be locked somewhere in his study. Maybe now that I’m no longer living in his house, he’ll leave the door unlocked. Which means I only have to get into his house. I have to try, at least.

  I scramble to my feet and open the door again. “When Benoit drops off my car keys, can you please ask him to say hi before he goes?”

  He gives me an uncertain look.

  “I just want to say goodbye. We’ve been through a lot.”

  Everyone knows about Gautier. The hard resolve on his face softens. “Fine.”

  I take my phone to the study and use a paperclip to force it open. After removing the battery, I replace the cover and drop the phone in my inside coat pocket. Then I make tea while I wait.

  The doorbell rings an hour later. I open the door to Benoit.

  “Your keys.” He holds the car keys out to me.

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting them. “Is Maxime home?”

  “He’s at the office. Why?”

  “I need you to drive me back to Maxime’s place. I left my phone there.”

  He scratches his head. “I’ll let Maxime know. He can drop it off.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “He’ll be angry with me. You know how he gets when I forget my phone.” It’s one of Maxime’s nonnegotiable rules, especially after the drive-by shooting.

  Benoit rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll be in and out. Come on. What am I going to do? Rob him? Please, Benoit. I don’t want to get into trouble with Maxime. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  He glances over my shoulder. “Is the place all right?”

  “It’s lovely. Now will you help me?”

  Taking his phone from his pocket, he says, “Maybe it’s in your bag. Have you checked carefully?”

  I cross my arms. “Of course, I have.”

  He scrolls down his screen and dials my number. “It’s dead.”

  “Damn. The battery must’ve run flat.”

  He sighs. “Fuck. Fine. In and out. Understand?”

  “Thanks, Benoit.”

  Benoit nods at the guard by my door. “No need to report this. We’re just going back for her phone.”

  I swallow a sigh of relief as Benoit leads me to the underground parking and shows me my parking space.

  “You’ll need the card I left in your visor to lower the concrete pillars that block vehicles from using the pedestrian area,” he explains. “Only residents are allowed on these roads.”

  We get into the Mercedes. My nerves are all over the place. I can’t stop myself from fiddling with the tussles of my scarf.

  “You all right?” Benoit asks, shooting me a sideways glance.

  “Just unsettled.” When he frowns at me, I add, “With the change and all.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Don’t beat myself up about cheating? Don’t be upset about Maxime’s upcoming engagement and wedding?

  The usual guards are around when we stop at the house, but they don’t ask questions. For all they know, Benoit is acting on Maxime’s instructions.

  Benoit stops in the entrance to take off his coat. I glance around the space in which I already feel like a stranger. It’s as if my mind and heart know I’m no longer welcome, whereas my feet carry me along the familiar path to the library wing. Oh, thank God. The door to Maxime’s study stands open, just as I hoped.

  “Where did you leave it?” Benoit calls after me.

  “I’m not sure. I think the last time I used it was in the library.”

  I listen for sounds of life before I enter. Only the faint clanging of pots and pans come from the kitchen on the other side of the house. There seems to be no one else except for us and Francine.

  “Get a move on,” Benoit says.

  I turn over cushions and feel along the seams of the couch. “Do you mind checking in the kitchen? I don’t feel like facing Francine.”

  “I thought you said you used it here.”

  “I th
ink so, but I can’t remember,” I say, straightening. “Maybe I left it in the kitchen where I had breakfast.”

  “I should just tell Maxime to check the geolocation,” he grumbles.

  “Only as a last resort. Maxime will be furious with me.”

  I pretend to look around the desk, watching from under my lashes until he walks through the door. The minute he’s gone, I tiptoe to the frame and peer around. When he rounds the corner, I rush to the study, trying to make as little noise with my heels on the floor as possible.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest. If Benoit catches me, he’ll definitely tell Maxime. There will be hell to pay. I’ll lose whatever little freedom I have. Maxime will no doubt think up a cruel lesson to punish me, and I would’ve wasted the only opportunity I’ll ever have of escaping.

  Hurrying to his desk, I start at the most obvious place by going through his drawers. I yank open the top one and search through the neat stack of files. The second drawer holds old invoices and receipts, and the third stationary. My hope sinking, I go for the top drawer on the other side. More papers and files. Shit. My hand shakes uncontrollably as I pull open the second drawer. A notepad and diary. My breathing is staccato when I grip the handle of the last drawer. Please, God, let it be here. I pull, but the drawer is stuck. Something has bent upward inside, preventing it from sliding open. I look around on the desk, and settle on a ruler. Wiggling it through the small space at the top of the drawer, I manage to push down the papers blocking it and free the drawer. I almost pull it off its track when it finally gives.

  Hurry, Zoe. Hurry.

  I stick my hand inside, and then freeze. A stack of envelopes tied with a ribbon is pushed to the back of the drawer. That’s what got stuck. The pile is so big it’s higher than the drawer.

  My breath catches. I can’t drag air into my lungs. It’s as if I’ve taken a punch in the stomach. I know what those letters are even before I pull the pile out and turn it to the light. My handwriting. Damian’s address in jail.

  Maxime never mailed them.