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Those lessons I hated so much, they did serve one good purpose. They taught me how much it hurts to love. To hope. To crave scraps of affection. Maybe that’s the most important thing Maxime taught me. After what he did today, I’ll never open my heart to him again. I’ll never make myself that vulnerable for anyone. Love is a joke. It’s a laughable weakness. I’m so over it. It’s time to woman up. It’s time to seal the walls around my heart and grow a thick skin.
After a long time, he comes back inside. A puddle accumulates around his feet on the floor. Grabbing a dishtowel from the kitchen, he dries his hair. He doesn’t look at me as he stalks past me toward the room. The water in the shower comes on. I kick off the shoes that are pinching my toes and limp to the bedroom, hovering outside the door. I listen to the sounds Maxime makes as he dries his hair and dresses. I’m still standing on the same spot when he appears in the door several minutes later.
My gaze drops to the overnight bag in his hand. “Where are you going?”
“To a hotel.” He presses a phone in my hand. “You know my number.”
Without another word, he walks from the apartment, leaving the door wide open.
I stare at the empty space as the quiet slowly fills me up, at the freedom of the open door. It’s fake, that freedom, a false promise. The ring on my finger is more effective than handcuffs. The promise I made is more imprisoning than a lock and key. It’s a stronger token of ownership than a choker necklace. That’s the message Maxime left with the open door.
Footsteps fall on the landing. It’s a strong beat. Only a man’s stride can tap out that promise of dominance on marble. Why is he coming back? Did he forget something?
Refusing to cower, I limp to the door to meet him head-on.
Then I stop in my tracks.
“Hello, Zoe,” Alexis says, pushing inside.
Chapter 12
Maxime
Lying in the bed big of the honeymoon suite surrounded by petals and candles, I stare at the ceiling. I haven’t even bothered to cancel our dinner. Neither the singer, nor the cake. I’ve only scavenged enough energy to let the priest know he could send the choir home.
As darkness creeps through the window, a strange sensation grows with the shadows. It’s a brand new feeling.
Regret.
I’ve fucked this up. I’m out of control, which is why I can’t be with Zoe. The way I behaved wasn’t a well-crafted lesson. I was running on pure, undiluted emotions. I allowed my feelings to control me instead of the other way around.
That has never happened. I’m not sure what to do with these feelings, these things living in my chest. It’s a godawful sensation, downright depressing. I wish Zoe has never made me feel. It hurts like a bitch, worse than the flames that melted my skin. The intensity with which she makes me experience things is frightening. What if I don’t master these emotions? I have to get a grip on myself and fucking learn to control these foreign sentiments.
A knock on the door startles me.
Zoe?
The only way she could’ve found out where I am is by tracking my number via the geolocation app on her phone. Pushing off the bed, I go to the door with my stupid heart thumping in my chest. I pull it wide open with hope chasing the corners of the shadows away, but my wishful thinking collapses like dominoes.
My voice is dejected. “Francine.”
She’s wearing the same dress from this afternoon, a white one that shows off her legs. “Can I come in?”
I lean in the frame. “How did you find me?”
“You sent me your itinerary to go over everything and make sure you didn’t forget something, remember?”
Fuck. Yeah. I’m not thinking straight. I turn the wedding ring around my finger with my thumb, feeling the weight of it. “What you do want?”
“I reckoned you could do with a friend.”
“Wait. How did you know I wasn’t at home?”
“I went around to see if you needed anything. The way you and Zoe got married made me worry. Your car wasn’t in the parking. Thought I’d take a chance and check here. Bingo.”
“I appreciate the concern. Now good night.”
I start to close the door, but she slams one hand on the wood and the other on my chest.
The touch is repulsive on my dead skin. I back up a step, giving her the opportunity she needs to wiggle her way into the room.
She shuts the door. “Just one drink. Don’t look so scared.”
I smirk at that. Walking to the minibar, I take out the vodka and whiskey. “What do you want?”
She saunters over to the table where the champagne stands in the ice bucket. “Nothing too strong for me.” Popping the cork, she pours two glasses and hands me one. “Want to talk about it?”
