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“Breathe,” he says, locking his fingers around the column of my neck.
I drag in a ragged breath, and then come so hard my teeth chatter. He doesn’t let me go. He continues to massage my oversensitive clit, milking every ounce I have left until his cock grows even thicker and he yanks me to his body so hard I’ll have bruises on my neck and hip tomorrow. He punches his hips up, even if he’s already sheathed to the hilt. He thrusts twice more, grunting as he empties himself in my ass. It must be the singular most powerful orgasm of my life.
“You did beautifully,” he whispers, “like I knew you would.”
It burns when he pulls out. My body sags in his arms. He catches me around the shoulders and under my legs, holding me to his chest. Out of nowhere, right in the middle of my drunken state, the reason why I was so upset earlier hits me. I’ve fallen for him, and since he’s incapable of returning my feelings I have no reassurance he won’t replace me with someone else. Wait. Shouldn’t I want him to replace me? Am I not supposed to want to get away? Isn’t being his captive the reason for my anguish and unhappiness?
I don’t know how I get back to the bedroom. Somewhere between the burn and gentle kisses I black out. My dream is weightless and painless, a place where broken hearts and bodies don’t exist. Idle words float in and out on a moonlight breeze, words that bring both terror and salvation as they promise to never let me go.
Chapter 5
Zoe
There are nine girls in Madame Page’s class at the Marseille-Mediterranean College of Art. Smelling of cigarette smoke, she’s an elderly woman with red hair and overlarge, square-rimmed glasses.
A delicate girl with jet black hair and slanted eyes sits next to me.
“Hi,” I say, taking my sketchpad from my satchel. “I’m Zoe.”
She gives me a sidelong glance, then moves an inch toward her side of the drafting table. Lifting her chin, she says, “I’m Christine.”
The woman on the other side of me snickers. She has dark brown hair and eyes, and freckles like mine. “I suppose you want to know my name, too,” she says. “I’m Thérèse.”
Madame Page walks into the center of the room. She’s wearing a straight white dress with square pockets and black piping. It’s a Saint Laurent number.
“Quiet, please. For your first lesson, I want to get a sense of each of your unique styles.” She claps her hands together. “Quick now. Open your manual on module one.”
I take out my notepad and pens while the others open the module on their laptops or tablets. Maxime won’t allow me a laptop or tablet. I didn’t even have the concession when I was studying French.
Madame Page pushes a printout titled Module One over the table without looking at me.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the stack of papers stapled together.
Going through the introductory module, Madame Page explains we’ll start with the basics such as design principles, drawing, building form, textile science, business practices, and history, and work our way up to pattern creation. Practical design will only start in the second year for those who make it. A panel of independent judges will judge a design contest at the end of the second year, including compulsory evening wear and a wedding dress, to determine which scholars will make it to the third and final year. The competition is severe. Only six of us will be accepted into next year’s level. She talks about perseverance and discipline before pointing out a few class rules. No eating and drinking. No chitchatting. No copycatting.
“I’m looking for a fresh perspective, for a unique style,” she says. “Each of you shows potential.” She locks eyes with Thérèse. “Thérèse, you have an eye for lines but you’re lacking detail. In this class, we’re going to work on your strengths and weaknesses.” Skimming over me, she moves to Christine. “Christine, I love your dare, but there’s a fine line between eccentric and flamboyance. Juliette, your simplicity is refreshing. I love how you play with color and texture. I’m looking forward to seeing more of your work.”
One by one, she goes around the table, ignoring me. I shake it off. It was probably just an innocent oversight.
For the next hour, we make rough sketches and notes. Madame Page gathers the sketches and goes through our notes. She gives detailed feedback on each one with praise and critique, but she only glances at mine without making any comments.
My chest pulls tight as she places my pad back on the table. I flip the page back to find nothing written in red, not like on Thérèse and Christine’s sketches.
“I bid you a good day, ladies,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
