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A knock sounds on the door. I tear my gaze away from my phone. Maxime stands on the threshold with a vase of lilies.
“These are from Damian,” he says. “The florist delivered them just as I arrived.”
I drop my arm to my side. “What are you doing here?” It’s not that I don’t want to share the happy news with him. I only need a moment to compose myself. If I tell him now, he’ll see the longing in my eyes.
He walks over and leaves the flowers on my desk. “It’s Friday.”
I inhale their sweet fragrance. It’s the third bouquet Damian has sent since the opening of the boutique. Taking the card, I read the message.
Congratulations. I’m proud of you.
It goes both ways.
“And?” I ask, leaving the card on my desk.
“I thought we could go to Paris for the weekend.”
“Paris? I’m working tomorrow.”
“You’re the boss.” He perches on the corner of my desk. “You can take off one day.”
“Why Paris?” Except for one, blissful weekend in Corsica when I was stupid enough to believe we were happy, we’ve never travelled. Venice doesn’t count. I’ve scrapped that from my memory. Buried it deep down.
His lips tilt, but it’s not a smile. “Because.”
I watch him closely, my heart squeezing as I wait for the lie.
“I have to go for business,” he says.
I exhale a long, silent breath. I’m always on my guard, walking a tightrope between mistrust and faith, and it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting not to trust your spouse. It’s exhausting to be terrified of the day he’ll betray me again.
“Zoe,” he says in chastising tone. “I said I wouldn’t lie. When will you believe me?”
The day he no longer gives me reason to doubt. Can a bird change feathers?
“I’ve made mistakes,” he says. “Don’t let that be our future.”
I don’t want to talk about our future. “What does this so-called business entail?” He has no diamond auctions planned until the end of summer.
“It’s old business.”
“Mafia business?” I exclaim softly.
“Just something I need to take care of.”
“Two birds with one stone, huh?”
He cups my cheek. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately.”
It’s true, but I refuse to feel guilty about it. Turning my face away from his touch, I harden my heart. “I have a business to run.”
He follows me to the door. “The business won’t go under in one day.”
I charge through the frame into the workshop. “It may.”
The girls look up. Their gazes are fixed on my husband with dreamy expressions. They shouldn’t believe everything they read in magazines.
“Janice.” I flick my fingers in front of my newest employee’s face. “Pull out that seam and stitch it again. Make sure it’s straight next time.”
She snaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Veronica, that pocket is askew. Do it over.”
I evaluate their work with a practiced glance as I walk through the workshop. I never forgot Thérèse’s words about being a mediocre designer who pays better ones peanuts to do the work and taking all the credit. That’s why I’m extra aware of each of my employee’s work quality. My expectations are high, but I don’t expect anything of them I can’t do myself. My salaries are above the market average. If I spot potential, I move them up in the line of work. For the moment, I still take care of the designs. If anyone shows enough talent, I won’t hesitate to promote that person to a position of designer. I don’t make them sign exclusivity clauses in their contracts. If they want to go independent, I won’t stand in their way. If I believe in their work, I’ll even invest in their business.
“You haven’t answered me,” Maxime says above the whir of the machines.
I stop, making him bump into my back. Iona, who’s cutting a pattern, giggles. I turn on him with a huff. Here, between the smell of fabric and the soothing hum of stitching, I feel at peace. I’m safe. Having him here doesn’t fit. It’s like dropping a stone into a quiet pond.
“Maxime.”
I open my mouth to tell him no, but he takes my phone from my hand and swipes a finger across the screen. I’m aware of the faces staring at us as he looks at the photo of Damian and my niece.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, not looking up from the screen.
I swallow. “Her name is Josephine.”
When he meets my gaze, his eyes aren’t filled with the anger I expected. They’re filled with compassion. “It’ll come. We’ll get our turn.”
My cheeks turn hot. It’s not the subject. It’s the lie. I never told him I went for another birth control shot. I justified the omission, telling myself his honesty wasn’t going to last. Sooner or later, he’ll lie again, but if I asked him for honesty, I owe him the same. Whether he loves me or not, we’re in this for life. He’s not letting me go. The least we owe each other is the truth.
