I stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor, the lights of Marseille stretching out below like a bed of diamonds. The ache in my heart bleeds and grows. The shame and betrayal are like stains on my soul. I can almost forgive Maxime for making me fall in love with him. Almost. At least that wasn’t intentional. It happened all on my part because I opened my stupid heart when I opened my body, but this I can never forgive.
Rushing to the telephone, I lift the earpiece and dial zero.
“Good evening, Miss Hart,” a male voice says. “How may I assist you?”
“I’d like to make a local call, please.” If I can reach the embassy, I can ask for help. “Can you connect me?”
He clears his throat. “Sorry, ma’am. No calls. Mr. Belshaw’s instructions.”
Of course. It was worth a try. “Thank you, anyway,” I say before hanging up.
My gaze falls on the bottle of champagne cooling in the ice bucket, the cork already popped. I pour a glass, but stop before bringing it to my lips. I said I wouldn’t become my father. Drowning my problems isn’t going to help. I leave the glass on the table and unzip the bag on the bed. It’s a pink dress—simply beautiful. Silk rose petals are sewn onto the skirt with teardrop crystals. I brush my fingers over the stretch velvet fabric, admiring the craftsmanship. The dress looks as if it’s made from rose petals that are scattered with drops of dew. It must’ve taken hours to hand-sew the detail. It only intensifies the ache in my chest that Maxime should know my taste so well.
The overnight bag contains my toiletries and makeup. I shower, take my hair up like Maxime likes it, and apply a light coat of makeup before putting on the dress. It has a high neck and low back, the fabric kissing my breasts and legs. I haven’t touched the new sewing machine yet. I wanted to focus on my sketches first. Now I’m not sure I can.
After fitting the strappy heels, I go out onto the balcony and let the breeze cool my skin as I inhale the fragrance of the night. Salt drifts in from the sea. It’s mixed with the smell of industrial oil and grilled sausage wafting from the hotdog vendor on the street corner four stories below. It’s the smell of night and the city, of potential and freedom. In Johannesburg, it was smoke and coal, fabric dye near the flea market, and leather coming from the shoe factory. Each city holds its own prison, a life I yearn to escape. Yet here I am, a prisoner of my own making, bound to the heart of a merciless man.
The door opens and closes. There’s a silent pause. I imagine him crossing the floor on the soft carpet. A moment later, his heels fall hard on the balcony tiles.
He comes to a stop next to me. Citrus and cloves reach my nostrils, wiping the city and night away and its feeble promise of freedom.
“I have something for you.” Taking my hand, Maxime turns me to face him. His gaze slips over me, evaluating my efforts. “You look beautiful.”
We haven’t laughed since the sewing machine. I was going to laugh with him tonight. I imagined us like this, at home, maybe on the beach, sharing a moment from my day. He’d pull me into his lap and make me tell him everything while listening attentively like he always does.
“You never tell me about your day,” I say.
He drags his knuckles over my cheek. “You didn’t drink the champagne I ordered for you.”
“I’ve learned my own lesson.”
He smiles. “One glass isn’t going to hurt.”
No, but it’ll take the edge off, and I don’t want to dull my senses tonight. I want to punish myself with the truth for being so repeatedly, stupidly naïve.
I don’t know where the words come from. They’re out before I can stop them. “You used me that night.”
His look is amused. “The night you got drunk? You let me.”
True.
Leaning closer, he brushes his lips over my neck. “You liked it.”
I did.
“It’s on the table,” he says. “Go open your gift.”
I don’t want another one, but I don’t have the energy to fight this war, too. I let him pull me back inside. A velvet box lies on the table. I flip the lid back to reveal a diamond choker. The stones are brilliant and beautifully set. It looks invaluable. It looks like a really expensive collar.
“Turn around,” he says, lifting it from the velvet cushion.
I face the mirror, watching my reflection as he puts the choker around my neck and secures the clasp at the back. The woman who stares back at me isn’t me. She’s the woman who sold her body in exchange for a life and a reprieve from lessons, a woman who’s just accepted another magnificent token of ownership.