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It takes all the strength I possess to sit back down and fold my hands around the teacup. It hurts. It hurts my self-esteem and my pride, but I swallow it with my tears, not only for Damian, but also for myself.
“Good decision,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
My body stiffens under his touch. Thankfully, he pulls his hand away.
While I force pancakes and strawberries down my throat, washing it down with rose petal tea, he makes phones calls in French. He stays on the far side of the lounge, as if giving me space would help to keep down my food.
When my plate is empty, he calls me over with a flick of his fingers.
I stand and walk over like the obedient dog he’s making of me.
Approval softens his features. He likes my obedience, or maybe it’s just easier for him not having to fight and threaten me constantly. “Would you like to have a shower? I’m having clothes sent over for you in a while.”
“I have clothes.” Which I love.
“They won’t serve you here.”
I give him a hateful look.
His smile is patient. “The weather here is much less forgiving than in your country.”
“I’ll have a shower,” I bite out.
“Another good choice.” Another mocking smile. “You’ll find everything you need in the bathroom.”
I go to the bathroom and lock the door for good measure. As he promised, the cabinet is stocked with cosmetics and toiletries. I even find my normal brand of shampoo as well as the conditioner I could never afford.
Opting for the shower instead of the bath, I quickly wash and dry off. I apply some body lotion to alleviate the dryness of my skin. I don’t know if it’s a side effect of the drugs or the flight. I’ve never travelled. I do know from reading that Venice is a fourteen-hour-long flight from Johannesburg. The surrealism of it all still shakes me to my core. When I’m done, I pull on a clean robe with a hotel logo.
Maxime is waiting in the lounge when I step out. There’s a rail with dresses, jackets, and coats. Several pairs of boots are displayed on the floor. A box with underwear stands on the coffee table.
“I think this is your size,” he says.
Despite my resolution to take as little from Maxime as possible, I can’t help but go over to admire the clothes. My fingers itch to touch the fabric. I lift a tag and nearly faint at the price. It’s Valentino. I’ve never shopped in a department store, let alone a boutique. My clothes are either self-made or bought at the flea market. Owning a piece from a world-renowned designer has only featured in my dreams, which is why I drop the tag. I’m not giving Maxime more of my dreams.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Don’t you like the clothes?”
I turn to face him. “No.”
He shrugs. “Then I’ll choose what you wear.”
I watch with mounting anger as he takes a navy wool dress with white sailor collar and matching coat from the rail.
“I think this will look good on you.” He pushes the items into my hands. “Go put that on.”
I jut out my chin. “No.”
“You prefer to go out naked?” Something sparks in his eyes, something dark and demented, as if the idea appeals to him. “Maybe I should let you walk around without clothes. I could put a collar and chain on you instead. Would you like that? Would the way people look at you make you wet?”
“You’re sick,” I spit out.
He puts his nose inches from mine. “Right now you still have a choice. Remember what I said about not wasting the little you have.”
Dumping the blue set on the couch, I back away. “Fine. You win. You can have your way in this, but you’ll never have a piece of my soul.”
He smiles. “I never asked for your soul.”
Seething, I spin away from him and flip through the clothes with more force than necessary. My hand stills on a beautiful pink coat with a scrunched collar. The matching dress is a fitted cut with puffy sleeves.
“Good choice,” he says.
Grabbing the box with the underwear, I escape to the room. The dress fits perfectly. I finish off the outfit with nude winter tights and boots.
A knock falls on the door just as I finish drying my hair. I pull a brush through it and reluctantly open the door.
Maxime’s gaze trails over me. There’s nothing in his eyes to tell me what he thinks, not that I care.
“Time for work.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the lounge.
I jerk free but follow him to the writing desk pushed against a window. A writing block with the hotel logo and pen lie on the desk. He pulls out the chair in silent command. Once I’m seated, he puts the pen in my hand.
