My hand touches a black dry cleaning bag. It’s a big bag. Puffy. Unzipping it, I lift out the dress she made for her fashion show, the beautiful princess wedding dress the judges called cheesy and scored one out of ten. I take that dress to the bedroom and throw it on the bed.
When I get back to the bathroom, Zoe’s blouse is soaked. I untie her and pull her to her feet by her arm. I all but drag her to the room. Her gaze widens when she takes in the dress.
“Put that on,” I say, shoving her toward the bed.
She turns to look at me. “No.” Her eyes are bluer with her dark hair. Wider.
“You won’t say no to me. Not anymore. Not today.”
She shivers. Goosebumps run over her arms.
“Put on the fucking dress, Zoe.”
She jumps. Reaching for the buttons of her blouse, she starts to undo them. She undresses until she stands in only her panties. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, more delicate and womanly. So pretty. So destructive. For the first time in my life, I’m not in control. She did this to me. She’ll suffer the consequences. The old me may have taken pity on her. The me I am now can’t fucking think through my furious rage.
Her lip trembles as she reaches for the dress. On second thought, I pick the scissors up from the floor, open the window, and hurl them outside. They drop with a clank in the street.
Cold air rushes into the room. It’s barely the end of April. She shivers more. I close the window and watch as she struggles into the dress. She does so quietly, only turning her back on me in silent request when the whole thing is finally fitted. Going to her, I pull the laces through the hoops at the back and tie them together. The dress is beautiful on her. It looks as if it was made just for her.
My instruction is gruff. “Put on the shoes.”
She pushes her feet into the heels, flinching when she fits the injured foot. I pick up the flowers and shove them into her hands. I don’t have to worry about thorns. I had those removed when I ordered the bouquet. Francine picked it up with the dress and shoes on her way here.
“Come,” I say, grabbing her arm and manhandling her to the door.
I arrange the faux fur drape that goes with the dress she’s destroyed over her shoulders. Then I push her into the hallway and lock up behind me.
This is how I take her to church—a girl with wet tresses dripping dirty water and mascara running under her eyes.
I don’t care about putting on my wedding suit. I guess there won’t be any photos to commemorate the day.
Chapter 11
Zoe
Maxime drives to the mairie. At my horror, Francine and Sylvie wait in the reception room on the ground level of the council building. Maxime must’ve already supplied all the paperwork necessary for the marriage authorization.
I draw back, straining on the tight hold Maxime keeps on my hand. “What are they doing here?”
“Witnesses,” he says through tight lips.
I stumble when he pulls me forward. The cut on my heel hurts in the shoe. “I don’t want them here.”
“I already told you, what you want is no longer my concern.”
“Not them. Please, Maxime.”
He doesn’t slow down. “Sylvie’s your friend.”
“Was. She betrayed me. Francine hates me.” I can’t stand this humiliation.
His gaze lands coldly on me. “You’ll patch things up.”
Sylvie’s eyes grow large when we get closer. Slamming a hand over her mouth, she jumps up from her chair. A smile stretches over Francine’s face as she takes me in.
“Maxime,” Sylvie exclaims.
He pushes past them without replying, dragging me along.
“Maxime,” Sylvie whisper-screams as she runs after us.
“What?” he snaps, pausing in front of a door with a sign that reads marriage office.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”
He yanks the door open and pushes me inside ahead of him. The man sitting behind the desk gives a start when his eyes land on me. He’s a lot younger than the mayor. In order to perform the ceremony, he’ll be a representative of the mayor.
“Do it,” Maxime says, shoving me to the desk.
The man swallows. He looks from Maxime to me.
“What are you waiting for?” Maxime asks. “I don’t have all day.”
The man works a finger into the collar of his shirt. Francine and Sylvie follow us inside, but I don’t look at them. I can’t stand Francine’s smug expression and her pristine white, fitted dress or Sylvie’s perfectly bourgeois, powder-blue, two-piece ensemble and the pity on her face. Lifting my chin, I jerk my hand from Maxime’s.
“Mademoiselle,” the man says, “are you sure this is what you want?”
“She wants this,” Maxime says.
The man continues, “Are you here out of free will, miss?”