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Cupping my hips, he meets my eyes in the glass. “You’re so perfect it hurts to look at you.”
Yes, it hurts. I turn away from the picture, condemning it to the place where I lock away all my painful memories.
He takes my hand and kisses my fingers. “Every eye will be on you tonight.”
When he puts my hand on his arm, I don’t protest. I follow him out in the hallway and into the elevator. We exit on the first floor. The ballroom is already buzzing with people. I’m relieved it’s a seated dinner and not a cocktail, which means I don’t have to follow like a puppy while Maxime mingles. I can sit down and drift away while the speeches drone on.
A hostess shows us to our table. The hall fills up even more. Maxime pours me a glass of water. It seems the couple who were seated with us didn’t show up, because when the speeches finally start, we’re alone at our table.
Maxime drapes an arm around the back of my chair. He drags his fingers over my shoulder and along the curve of my neck to my nape where his thumb traces the choker before brushing over a vertebra.
Leaning over, he whispers in my ear, “Talk to me, Zoe.”
I look at him. He wants to talk here? Now?
“You’re upset,” he says in a low voice. “Tell me. I’ll make it right.”
“You can’t make it right,” I whisper back.
“Try me.”
Tears burn behind my eyes again. “I never entered that school on my own merit, did I?”
He stiffens. “Who told you?”
“No one. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”
Anger sweeps over his features. “If you’re being treated unfairly just because—”
“No.” I don’t want trouble for Madame Page. It’s bad enough he forced my way in with his powerful family connections. “How did you do it? Did you donate a ridiculous amount of money to the school?”
His lips tighten. “No one says no to me, not in this city.”
“I see.” I look away so he won’t see the tears I can’t contain.
Gripping my chin, he turns my face back to him. “Is it so bad that I want to make you happy?”
“Yes, Maxime. This is bad. This is really bad.”
“Why?” he asks though clenched teeth.
“You made me believe I earned it.”
“You did,” he says with conviction.
“That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a fashion design expert. It was up to the board and Madame Page.”
He looks confused. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I was happy until I found out it’s a lie.”
Gripping my hand hard under the table, he says, “I pulled a lot of strings to make this happen for you, so you’re going to swallow your pride and be a good girl and go to school and do what you love. It’s that simple.”
“You’d think it is.”
“If you’re implying I don’t care, you’re damn right. I don’t give a damn what Madame or your classmates think. You shouldn’t either.”
I guess that’s the difference between us, and the crux of the problem. He doesn’t give a damn. Unfortunately, I do.
“No more talking about this,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my knuckles.
I breathe in deeply to abate my tears and put a stopper on my emotions. I can’t give the people around us the satisfaction of witnessing my distress. It’s too personal. Too vulnerable.
I eat as much as I can stomach, feeling raw inside. Feeling cheated. What else is Maxime hiding from me? I’m peeling away these layers of truth one at a time, and I’m scared of what I’ll find at the core. I’m so tired of floating in the dark and drowning in his secrets.
It’s after midnight when the dinner is finally over and Maxime has greeted everyone he wanted to. Networking is important.
“I know you’re tired,” he says, placing a palm on my lower back. “We can sleep here if you like.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to go home.”
Home. It’s not the first time I’ve said it tonight, but we both pause when the word leaves my lips. Maxime is kind enough not to make a big deal out of it, even as more of the possessive satisfaction I’ve come to recognize washes over his face. He tells Gautier to fetch my overnight bag from upstairs and ask at reception for a valet to bring his car around.
The same questions as always repeat through my mind when he escorts me outside. Why is Maxime keeping me here? I know it has something to do with the diamonds from the questions he posed before kidnapping me, but why is he holding Damian’s life over my head? I’m distracted, but simultaneously hyperaware of the warm night and how the heat seems to lift for a brief reprieve even as Maxime’s broad palm burns hot on the exposed skin of my back. Benoit and Gautier move ahead of us, Gautier carrying my overnight bag. The valet rounds the corner with Maxime’s Bugatti. The Mercedes in which the guards came is parked across the street.
