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Yet here I am again, watching helplessly as Maxime pays the transport company to drive my meager possessions to a charity store. Next, we drop the keys off at the rental agent. Maxime pays the rent for the two months’ notice I was supposed to give, and I ask that the deposit is paid into Damian’s account once the inspection of the unit has been done. I called in to work this morning to explain the situation. Since I don’t have a contract yet, there aren’t any legal issues about my hasty resignation.
The little clothes I’ve brought with me are packed in the bag Maxime carries to his private plane. As I entered the country under my false identity, I’m leaving it under the same name. On paper, Zoe Hart has never left France.
Damian, Lina, and Josh come to the Lanseria airport to say goodbye. It’s a difficult farewell, but I do it for the people I love. I do it to keep them safe—Lina, the baby, Josh, Damian, and yes, even Maxime. There’s no doubt Damian would start a war if he finds out the truth.
Lina takes my hands and steers me a short distance away from the men. “Is this really what you want, Zoe?” she whispers.
“Yes.” I try to say it with a smile and conviction. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for being here for me when I needed a friend.”
She pulls me into a hug. “I’m always here for you. Damian and I both are.” Holding me at a distance, her eyes turn imploring. “You can always come back if it doesn’t work out like you hope. Don’t you forget that.”
I smile through my tears, knowing it’s an impossible notion. There’ll be no coming back ever again. This time, Maxime is keeping me for good. He’s not going to let me slip through his fingers twice.
Maxime puts a consoling arm around my shoulders, the act tender as he leads me away from the people who mean everything to me. With every step, my heart breaks a little more, and by the time we’re stepping on board, the tears flow freely. No matter how hard I try, I can’t hold them in.
Handing our bags to a steward, Maxime takes my shoulders and propels me to a double seat. “It’ll get better.” He sits and pulls me into his lap. “You have to give it time.”
Time. Time didn’t help the first time round. I doubt there’s any remedy. I wiggle off his lap and shift to the far corner of the seat. His jaw clenches, but he lets me.
I decline the champagne and food he offers. Sometime during the night, he lowers the seatback and covers my body with a blanket. It should be impossible to sleep, but after the restless night I spent tossing and turning next to Maxime, I eventually doze off.
It’s early morning when he wakes me for the landing. He calls a valet service, and a driver brings his car from a private parking garage nearby. I’m numb when he drives us home, irrationally expecting the sights to have changed like when Russell took me back to South Africa, but everything looks disturbingly the same.
Instead of driving us to his house in Cassis, he heads for town and parks in the underground parking of the building where he bought me an apartment. The Mini Cooper he gave me is parked in its place. Of course. Life flows back into my body as the blood heats in my veins. His wife is at home. This is me. This is the home of his mistress.
I get out before he can come around the car, and slam the door. He stares darkly after me as I walk to the dingy elevator instead of the stairs, leaving him to get the bags. I test my code. It still works. Getting in, I push the button for the fourth floor. Maxime catches the door just before it closes.
We ride up in silence. I pause when the doors open. There’s no one on the landing, no guard in front of the apartment. Maybe Maxime is too certain I won’t run again. He knows I won’t risk the people I love.
He goes ahead and unlocks the door. The smell of grilled cheese and onions hangs in the air. A quiche is cooling on the island counter.
“I asked Francine to prepare something,” he says. “It’s leek and onion. You like that, right?”
The mention of her name makes me go rigid. I don’t want her here, not in this space too, but I say nothing.
He locks the door and carries our bags to the bedroom. I look around. The sewing machine Maxime bought for me, the one I left in the cellar of his old house, stands on the desk of the upstairs study. Everything else is just like I left it. The champagne glasses I rinsed before running are still standing in the drip tray. He hasn’t eaten here since I’ve left. Why would he? He would’ve been staying at the big house, enjoying the honeymoon. The thought hurts. Unable to stomach it, I walk to the French doors and peer outside.
