Diamonds in the Rough

by Charmaine Pauls

  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.

  “I brought dinner. Chinese. I didn’t think you’d feel like cooking.”

  I turn.

  He’s unpacking food cartons on the island counter. “What did you do with yourself this afternoon?”

  “Why? Do you care?”

  He lifts his gaze to mine. “You know I do.”

  I take a sip of champagne. “Nothing.”

  “I’m having a home gym delivered. There’s space to put it in the dressing room.”

  I laugh. It’s a nasty sound. “You want me to work out? Make sure I don’t get fat from staying locked up in here all day?”

  He takes two plates from the cupboard. “You don’t have to stay locked up. You can go where you want as long as you let me know and my man goes with you.”

  “To check up on me and report back to you?”

  “To keep you safe.” He opens a carton and scoops noodles onto a plate. “I still have enemies. They’d still like to get to me through you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Only for your safety.” He tears a packet open with his teeth and pours sweet and sour sauce over my noodles the way I like. “I told Benoit to bring your sewing machine.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You can putter around in the garden. That’s why I had the greenhouse installed. I remembered the plant in your apartment.”

  “How considerate.”

  “You’ll find plenty of good books. I got all the latest bestsellers. Romance. The flat screen I ordered wasn’t ready today, but I’ll make sure it’s here by Monday. You’ll have unlimited access to movies and those soapies you like.”

  “The news?”

  “Not the news or any other channels.”

  “I suppose that means no laptop, either.”

  “The pool will make up for it in the summer. You can spend your days outside. There’s a fully equipped gas barbecue in the summerhouse. It’s easy to operate. I’ll show you.”

  “I would’ve been happy with a shack, Maxime.” No money in the world can buy me. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong.”

  His face darkens. Pulling out one of the tall chairs, he says, “Come sit.”

  I pad over obediently and shift onto the chair.

  Taking another flute, he pours himself a glass of champagne. “To your new home.”

  I don’t raise my glass to his.

  “I want you to be happy,” he says.

  Just like that. Like it’s a button I can push. On. Off. God, I wish it was that easy.

  “You should take up a hobby.” He pushes the plate toward me and hands me a pair of chopsticks. “Painting or yoga. Journaling. Knitting. Anything you like.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He leans his elbows on the counter, putting our faces close. “In case you had any illusions about it, I’m staying the night.”

  It’s like slap in the face. “This is what you call respect?”

  He walks to the lounge and crouches in front of the fireplace. “This is where I’m supposed to be,” he says, throwing a log into the empty fireplace, “and nothing about us is wrong.”

  I can’t listen to it. I hop off the chair.

  “Where are you going?”
he asks, the darkness that’s such an integral part of him surfacing in his voice.

  “To the bathroom.”

  His gaze burns on my back as I walk to the bedroom and close the door behind me. Placing a hand over my stomach, I fight to calm my breathing. My heart thrums in my temples when I rush to the bathroom and go through my medicine box. A long time ago, right at the beginning of our relationship, Maxime got me sleeping pills. He thought it would help me to rest better. I’ve only taken one, and I hated how it made me feel. I was groggy in the morning, feeling worse than when I have a few hours of unmedicated sleep.

  Pushing two of the pills out of their foil casing, I place them on the marble vanity, crush them with my hairbrush, and sweep the powder into the palm of my hand. Then I hurry back to the living area before my hands turn clammy from stress and the powder sticks to my skin.

  Maxime is building a fire when I enter. He’s busy enough with arranging the logs not to notice when I brush the powder into his glass. I give it a stir with my finger for good measure, and rub the rest of the residue that’s stuck on my palm off on my robe.

  When he returns, I take my seat and pick up my chopsticks. “Aren’t you eating?”

  He gives me an approving smile. “I wanted to make sure you were taken care of first.”

  I break the sticks apart and twist the noodles around one.

  He grins. “Let me.”

  Leaning over me from behind, he arranges the chopsticks in my hand and manipulates my fingers to show me how to use them.

  His voice is husky, his soft words and accent seductive against my ear. “Like this.”

  I inhale him, the clean smell of winter. The heat from his body penetrates my skin through my thick robe. I want him badly. I want to use him to take my pain away. I know he’ll let me, but it’s wrong to desire another woman’s man. I stuff my mouth full of noodles. It’s all I can do not to give in to temptation and tell myself it would be for old time’s sake.

  “You’re angry with me,” he whispers, running his nose along the line of my neck.

  Goosebumps break out over my skin. It’s a lot more complex than anger. What will he say if I confront him about the letters? He’d tell me he never lied. He’d say he told me I could write them. He never promised to mail them. He’d know I snooped around in his study, and he’d want to know why.

  I swivel the chair away from his touch. I’m only a woman, and he makes me weak. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone. His tie sits askew, as if he’s pulled on the noose. I trace the outline of his chest with my eyes, remembering every groove and outline that define his muscles. I commit this sin, taking with my eyes, but I can’t look lower to where his manhood swells under the expensive fabric of his tailored pants.

  “Eat with me,” I beg. Anything to not let me give in to temptation. Our love and hate runs too closely together. Fucking, and hating, and loving have all become the same thing.

  “Whatever my flower wants,” he says, tracing my lips with a finger.

  I lean away. “Please, don’t,” I say with a shaky breath. “Don’t call me that, and don’t touch me. I’m not ready.”

  To my relief, he drops his hand. When he takes the chair on the opposite side, the distance is my saving grace. I lift my glass. He does the same. I drink. So does he. I eat and drink, watching him do the same. He tells me we should have a picnic in one of the sheltered coves in summer. One of the coves. We can never swim on his private beach again. I haven’t said goodbye to his house. The notion jars me. I never had time. Not enough to find closure. I listen while he talks, happy for him to make conversation for the both of us like only he can.

  We finish the champagne in front of the fire sitting side by side on the sofa. Our bodies aren’t touching, but I remember with longing how I used to curl up in his lap. The logs are almost burned out when he finally gets to his feet.

  Yawning, he says, “I’m tired. Come to bed?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I wait for him to disappear into the bedroom before going through the pockets of his jacket where he’s thrown it over the back of the sofa. No phone. I didn’t expect as much. He usually carries it in the pocket of his pants.

  I give it a good ten minutes before going to the room. Maxime is passed out in bed, snoring softly. One arm is thrown over his forehead, and the other is resting on his stomach. The nightstand is empty except for the lamp. There’s no phone. I go to the dressing room. His clothes are neatly folded on the velvet bench. The sliding doors of the closets are open. Half of the space is filled with his shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes. He must’ve sent them with my things. I couldn’t even pretend to be interested in how his team has organized our clothes. Maxime must’ve opened the closets to make sure they’ve done a good job.

  Listening to be sure he’s still snoring, I feel through the pockets of his pants. Shit. Nothing. I check in the bathroom. No phone. I go back to the room to check the nightstand again. Kneeling, I check under the bed and utter a soundless sigh of relief. He dropped his phone between the nightstand and the bed. He’s really knocked out good.

  After hastily pulling on a pair of socks, I touch Maxime’s hand gently. He doesn’t stir. I poke him a little harder. No reaction. Taking his thumb, I push it on the thumbprint button of his phone to unlock the screen, and then slip through the room to the living area. I can’t go out into the hallway. The guard will be there. Instead, I pull the French doors open as quietly as I can and close them behind me. The night is freezing cold.

  It’s not that late yet. With shaking fingers, I type the number for the correctional services where Damian is held and bite my nail as I wait for the call to connect. My body is shaking from more than the cold. If Maxime catches me, he’ll punish me like never before.

  “Johannesburg Correctional Services. May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Damian Hart, please.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Calling hours are from nine to eleven am.”

  “It’s a family emergency. May I leave a message?”

  “Do you know his section?”

  “A section.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  The line goes on hold. A song comes on. Please, hurry.

  “Ma’am, he’s been released on parole.”

  My mouth parts, but no sound comes out. I cough. “I’m sorry,” I squeeze through my tight throat. “Can you tell me when?”

  “Almost a year ago.”

  My lips go numb. “Thank you.”

  I cut the call. He got out. A year ago. Maxime didn’t tell me. He has to know. He said he was keeping tabs on Damian. I clench the phone so hard the edges cut grooves into my skin. Before the screen goes dark, I call up an internet search page and type Dalton Diamond.

  The page that comes up takes the wind from my sails. I read through it with growing disbelief. Dalton Diamonds has changed its name to Hart Diamonds after Damian Hart did a hostile takeover by acquiring the majority of the shares. I scroll to the contact section with growing panic, urgency spurring me on as I keep on glancing at the doors, expecting Maxime to storm through them any minute.

  I open the icon. There’s a contact form. Shit. My hand shakes so much I miss the menu button twice. I select About the Owner. There’s a separate contact button at the end of that page. Saying a silent prayer, I click on it.

  A number appears. A message pops up. Would you like to connect? I press yes.

  A gruff voice comes on the line. “Damian Hart.”

  Oh, my God. I press a fist against my mouth to suppress a sob.

  “Hello?” It sounds as if he’s been sleeping.

  “Damian?” I manage with an unsteady voice.

  Alarm filters into his. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Zoe.”

  All traces of sleepiness vanish. He’s wide awake now. “Zoe?”

  I recognize the alertness and caution that are part of Damian’s making. I don’t waste time. I tell him, “I need your help.”
/>   “Where are you?”

  “In France.”

  His tone is strong, reassuring. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to get me out of the country. I’ll need a passport. A false identity.”

  “Where’s your nearest airport?”

  “Marseille.”

  “How quickly can you get there?”

  “Tell me when.” I’ll figure out a way.

  “Hold on.” There’s a small pause. “There’s a flight on Saturday morning at eleven.”

  “Perfect.” Maxime will be occupied with his engagement party.

  “I’ll send a man. The name’s Russell Roux. Tall, dark, and he’ll wear a blue suit and red tie. The code word is apple pie. Meet him at the Air France information counter at eight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I reach you on this number?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “You can’t call me again.”

  “Zoe, is there someone I need to take care of?”

  I know what he means with take care of. “No. Just get me out of here.”

  “I’m bringing you home, Zee.” He doesn’t waste time with asking questions. “Whatever this is, we’ll handle it.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  There’s caution in his tone. “Take care.”

  “See you soon.”

  I hang up, taking a moment to find my composure before wiping clean my search and call history. The apartment is quiet when I go back inside. Maxime is no longer snoring. My body breaks out in a coat of sweat. I drop his phone into the pocket of my robe and tiptoe back to the room, but he’s still passed out in the same position.

  Careful not to wake him, I shift the phone back between the nightstand and the bed on the floor. I take another shower to warm up and dress in a tracksuit before getting into bed. I stay well on the edge, far away from Maxime, but sometime during the night when I finally fall asleep, we find each other, because I wake up with his body pressed against my back and a heavy arm draped over my waist.

  For a moment, I simply experience us. I take the memory and store it away.

  I pretend to be asleep when he gets up. I don’t stir while he’s having his shower or gets dressed. I sense him staring down at me. I wait for him to call me out on my bluffing, but he only presses a kiss on my temple and quietly leaves.