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I suck in a breath. On the screen is a copy of a letter, the last one I wrote to Damian. He flicks his finger again. Another letter. Again and again. All my letters.
“Where did you get these?” I cry out.
He tilts his head, giving me time to figure it out for myself.
“Zane da Costa.” I say the name like a curse.
“You’ll sign it Zoe with two x’s and two o’s like you always do.” He tears off the page, crumples it in his fist, and indicates the blank sheet.
With no choice, I start again, writing Maxime’s words but signing as myself.
“That’s better,” he says, folding the page exactly in the middle and sliding it into one of the matching envelopes with the hotel logo, proof that I’ve truly left the country, and proof that I’m in a luxurious hotel on my dream vacation.
Oh, my God. That’s why Maxime did it. That’s why the sly bastard brought me here. It’s for appearances sake. If Damian had any doubts after reading my letter, this would convince him I met a wealthy stranger who treats me like a princess. It will smooth over any concerns Damian may have, because princesses are loved and adored.
I twist in the chair to face the man who made me a hostage. Hostages aren’t loved and adored. They’re used and manipulated. “You’re a bastard.”
“Shh.” He plants a kiss on my head, looking smug as he slips the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. “You’ve been a good girl. Get your coat. It’s time for your reward.”
I stand on wooden legs. When I don’t move for several seconds, Maxime fetches the pink coat and throws it over my shoulders. He hands me a fur-trimmed wool hat and matching scarf. I feel frozen, my fingers too stiff to obey the signals from my brain as he helps me into the coat and buttons it up. He fits the scarf and hat, and finally the gloves, dressing me like a child.
He seems like a happy tourist looking forward to exploring a new city when he pulls on his own coat, scarf, and gloves.
“Have you been here before?” I blurt out, because the guard I should be keeping on my tongue seemed to have shut down with my mental and physical functions.
“Many times,” he says.
My tone is biting. “Then this should be very boring for you.”
“But it makes me the perfect tour guide.” He offers his arm.
I let him hook his arm through mine. I’ve already fought too many battles with him that I can’t win. I need to save my energy for the ones that matter.
Outside the room, Gautier and Benoit stand guard, just like Maxime had said. They nod at Maxime in greeting but ignore me. We go down a hallway with beautiful paintings and mirrors and descend a staircase with a carved wooden rail. The lobby is extravagantly furbished with tones of burgundy and gold. We cross a marble foyer, and then we’re in a cobblestone street.
A blast of cold air hits me, making my eyes water. Of course. It’s winter here. I didn’t think about it, not even when Maxime dressed me up in warm clothes. Abstractly, the knowledge registered, but my brain was on shutdown. The sudden chill makes me shiver.
Maxime pulls me closer. “Warm enough?”
I stiffen. I’m not, but I nod. I walk next to him, deflated, while Gautier and Benoit follow. I absently take in the sights Maxime points out, not to spite him or myself, but because I simply can’t gather any enthusiasm, let alone excitement. My mind takes in the beautiful city, but my heart doesn’t process the sensory experiences as joy.
We visit Saint Mark’s Basilica, Dodge’s Palace, and the Rialto Bridge. At each one, we pose for photos Benoit takes with Maxime’s phone. I smile when Maxime tells me to, the gesture stiff and unnatural, but when he shows me the photos we look like every other couple in a pose—happy and carefree. It’s the trickery of the scenery, of the wind that blows wisps of hair across my face, hiding my expression and making us look breathlessly windblown instead of cruel and trapped. I suppose the photos are more evidence in case my friends back home ask questions. Maybe Maxime will even include one in the letter to Damian.
In the afternoon, we stop for pizza at Pizzeria Megaone. Maxime says it’s famous throughout the world and that I’ll spot some of the Italian families dining there. I don’t care about spotting infamous mafia members. I eat the pizza and drink the wine, noticing in the back of my mind that the bill is the price of buying a pizza franchise back home. Maxime does all the talking, keeping a steady conversation, but the words float into one ear and out of the other. I’m in a strange kind of limbo. It feels as if I’m not present but staring down at myself from somewhere else, somewhere safer.
