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His words are killing me. Between Francine and me, she’s the one who’s better off. At least she doesn’t have to live with him day and night while suffering the knowledge for an unloving eternity. I’m so fucking pathetic. Why do I do this to myself over and over? Why do I keep wanting us to be different?
“If you can’t love me,” I say, “set me free.” It hurts too much to live like this. “Please, Maxime. We can just forget about everything. I won’t lay charges. I won’t tell a soul. Not even Damian. I promise.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I cry out.
“Because I can’t live without you.”
I can only stare at him, trying to get a grip on the old hurt that won’t let go. Just when I think I’ve accepted my situation, I have to go and lift the lid on the pot of my twisted emotions.
“I’m sorry.” Folding his arms around me, he pulls me close. “If it makes you feel better, I’m living to make it up to you.”
It doesn’t, but there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s not going to change, and I’m not going to cry about it.
My heart must be hardening slowly but surely, because my eyes are dry when I pull away. “Thank you for being honest with me.” I’m bleeding inside, but I put on a smile. I’ve learned from the master.
He kisses my lips. The action is tender, apologetic. It’s like a kiss on a child’s cut knee. His eyes fold in the corners. Giving me a thoughtful nod like he’s just ticked a task off his to-do list, he takes the flowers and walks to the bathroom. I act on autopilot, dumping lipstick and perfume into my clutch bag. Anything to keep my hands busy and hide how I’m feeling.
When he returns, he takes my hand like his words haven’t torn me apart. “Shall we go?”
I know the right answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” He kisses my cheek. “I think you’ll like the exhibition.”
We drive to town without making conversation. He takes a few calls, but, like always, avoids discussing business in front of me. For my own protection, I assume.
The minute we enter the gallery, guests swamp Maxime. To be honest, I’m happy for the reprieve. I need some space from him.
When he hands me a glass of champagne that he takes from a passing waiter, I say, “I’m going to look for Sylvie.”
He nods, casts a glance around the room, and flicks his fingers at Benoit.
The place is packed. Making my way through the masses with Benoit following closely, I pass contemporary paintings featuring garbage. Rotting food, one-eyed dolls, and burnt flowers are the subjects. I get the message, but Maxime was wrong. I hate it.
The crowd thins toward the back. A room leads off to the right. I go inside. A mobile light display illuminates nails in the wall. Mumbling, “Excuse me,” I push through the spectators who entered behind me and make my way to the room on the opposite side. Just before I reach the archway, Sylvie’s bubbly laugh reaches my ears. Oh, thank God. I’m not going to dump my problems on her, but I can do with a friend. I’m about to enter when my name pops up in her conversation. I stop in my tracks.
“I don’t know how you can stand her,” a female voice says. “Her clothes are so distasteful.”
“The princess stuff is the worst,” Sylvie says.
“Did you see her dress when they walked in tonight?”
“Hideous.”
“Someone should tell her.”
“Ha,” Sylvie says. “I just can’t be bothered.”
Sucking in a breath, I lean a hand on the wall. My heart starts thumping with a heavy beat. It’s a beat I recognize well, one that pumps with the knowledge of betrayal.
“I hate how naïve she is,” Sylvie continues.
They can’t be talking about me. Sylvie is my friend.
“I don’t see what Maxime sees in her,” the other woman says.
“Boobs and ass, obviously,” Sylvie replies. “The fact that he won’t marry her says a lot.”
A wave of heat rises from my stomach to my chest, making me feel sick.
A hand lands on my arm. “Are you all right?”
I look from the hand to its owner. Benoit. “Fine.” I down the champagne and hand him the glass. “I need another drink.”
Turning around, I go in the opposite direction. I don’t stop until I’m somewhere in the middle of the floor, hidden by strangers. Benoit hands me another glass. I thank him and swallow it down.
“Hey,” he says, “you better go easy on the booze.”
I hand him the empty glass. He’s right. I’m not my father, but maybe I am the naïve princess Sylvie described. I fell for her deceit, didn’t I? I was stupid enough to believe she was sincere. Taking a glass of juice from a nearby cocktail table, I keep an eye on the archway.
