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“It usually goes hand in hand with big depth payoffs that can’t be honored,” Sylvie had said.
The revelation shouldn’t have startled me. Still, her words shocked me. “Like selling a person to settle a debt?”
“Or making big, financial sacrifices for a woman. Taking care of her for life.”
It sounded too savage to be true. “Why not just marry? Why use such a degrading term?”
“Property isn’t degrading. It’s a coveted and protected position. It means hands-off to all other men. Whoever dares to touch a man’s property is dead. Marriages are made for the business, to further relationships that’ll profit the family. Men seldom want or love their wives. As you can imagine, there are a lot of mistresses going around in our circles. Us girls, the ones who are expected to remain virgins and marry a man of our father’s choice for the sake of a contract, don’t get to be mistresses. We get to remain faithful and suffer their existence pretending we don’t notice. Of the lot, I’d say we’re the worst off.”
She was wrong. They get to be respected. They get to go out with their husbands in public. They’re not hidden away somewhere, only taken out of their golden cages on occasion for a quick, dirty weekend in a hotel with mirrors on the ceiling. Maxime won’t be able to take me to his events any longer. Izabella will be on his arm. I’ll wait alone for the crumbs of his time, tucked away like a cheesy princess dress in a black dry-cleaning bag, a hidden secret in a dark closet. Among women, only the wives are recognized. That’s why Maxime never introduced me to the wives when he hoped I’d make friends. That’s why I only got to mix with the women who didn’t wear diamonds on their ring fingers. No, the wives are much better off. The wives get to have the babies. That is maybe the worst, the part that twists the blade the deepest into my heart.
I sit there until my stomach protests with hunger pangs and my throat is so dry it’s hard to swallow. The day turns dark. The tower is freezing cold. Pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, I rub away the tears. I feel dry and empty. I won’t let Maxime find me like this. He’s bound to be home soon. I can’t even let myself think about what’s happening at his parents’ house. It hurts too much.
The door squeaks when I open it. I listen. The house is quiet. I walk down the stairs into the deserted darkness, not bothering to flick the lights on or turn the heat up. I walk straight to Maxime’s study and test the door. Locked. I have to find a way in. If only I knew how to pick a lock.
I walk to the kitchen and stop in the door. Benoit sits at the window counter with a mug in front of him, reading something on his phone.
He looks up. “Jesus, Zoe.”
I hold up a palm. “Don’t speak.”
He knew. They all knew. Everyone knew and no one bothered to tell me. They’re all on Maxime’s side. I’m on my own in this, always have been. Just like Damian has always said. Why didn’t I listen to him? Why did I prefer to cling to stupid fantasies?
“There’s coffee,” Benoit says. “You look like you can do with some.”
I take a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water from the tap. Taking aspirin from the cupboard where Francine stores the sugar cubes, I drink it for the throbbing pain in my head. Crying always does that to me.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, ignoring Benoit’s stare as I take butter and jam from the fridge. When I open the drawer to take a butter knife, I pause. The slot for the sharp vegetable knives is empty. I look at the knife block on the counter. All the bread and carving knives are gone. Even the scissors.
Benoit clears his throat. “Maxime thought it was better to lock the knives away.”
He thought I’d try to kill him? Harm myself? No, that’s not my plan. That’s not who I am. An image of Damian and me sitting with our knees drawn up in a dark closet with only a flashlight and a book filters into my mind. I hear the fighting and glasses breaking. I feel the cold fear of violence. I hear my brother’s voice, telling me our circumstances don’t define us.
Maxime was right about one thing. I’m a survivor. I’m going to follow Damian’s advice.
I’m going to save myself.
Chapter 21
Zoe
By the time Maxime gets home, I’ve moved my clothes and toiletries to one of the spare bedrooms, the one the farthest away from the one meant for his wife.
