There are many subjects Maxime doesn’t like to discuss. We don’t mention my jump, but I do feel better for it. Stronger. I did something scary and pushed my boundaries. It reinforced my spirit. It helps me keep my soul intact while I give my body to my captor on a daily basis. It helps me ignore that I come every time, that I crave his touch and sometimes his roughness. It helps me cope with who I’ve become.
No matter how I look at it, I can’t see myself like Maxime wants me to. He claims he doesn’t see me as a whore. That isn’t real. It’s make-believe, a fantasy he stole from my dream to enact in a castle on the edge of a cliff in France. He treats me like the princess I’ve always wanted to be, showering me with every possible material luxury, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m selling my body or being locked up in his tower.
However, he still allows me outside at free will, and I walk the grounds frequently, spending long hours looking out at the ocean. I walk in the gardens, the maze, and go down to the beach. It should be nice in summer. His guards never speak to me, not even when I greet them, but they do keep a close eye on me. If Maxime is home when I’m outside, I often see him standing on the terrace, watching me from afar, and from closer whenever I dare it near the cliffs again. I’m not going to jump a second time. Once was enough.
We go out often, eating in restaurants in town or visiting the sights. We walk around hand in hand like a couple in love while Maxime buys me treats at ice cream and strawberry stalls. He dresses and feeds me, and I say thank you with a smile. I don’t like being the eye candy on his arm, but he insists the outings are good for me. Maybe they are. Maybe they keep me from going insane.
Francine comes in every weekday and every second weekend, but she avoids me. I keep out of the kitchen. I don’t have any friends. I have no one to confide in. All I have are my letters to Damian, which I write faithfully every week.
A tutor arrives and I take up learning French. The course is intensive, four hours of classes a day plus two hours of homework. It’s a good distraction for my mind. I’ve always enjoyed languages, and I’m a fast learner. It amuses Maxime to no end. He enjoys holding me on his lap in front of the fire in the evenings, making me repeat phrases and testing my vocabulary. He says my accent is adorable. It makes him smile. When I’m not working in the library with my tutor—an elderly man Maxime no doubt appointed only because of his age—I’m doing homework in the tower. I’ve pulled the desk to the window, using the window seat as a chair, and now that the weather is changing it’s not so cold up there.
My life takes on a routine, a predictable one that makes it easier to cope, and when the jasmine starts to bloom and poppies bleed all over the wild grass near the cliffs, I can hold a basic conversation in French and understand most of what’s spoken. My reading isn’t bad, either.
On a sunny afternoon when the birds are loud in the garden Maxime comes home with a big box. His granite eyes are unusually bright with excitement. He installs the box on the table in the dining room and takes my hand to pull me closer.
“For you,” he says, watching me with eager attention.
“Me?” There’s nothing printed on the outside, no clue as to what’s inside.
“Open it.”
I pull at the masking tape, but I don’t manage to break the seal.
“Fran,” he calls toward the kitchen. “Bring a pair of scissors.”
We’re still speaking English when we’re together, a habit from when we met that stuck.
Francine enters with a pair of scissors, eyeing the box with curiosity.
“What is it?” I ask, taking the scissors. I can’t help my smile. Maxime’s excitement is contagious. I’ve never seen him like this before.
“A gift,” he says.
“A gift?” Francine looks at him. “That’s a first.”
He shrugs. “Are you going to open it today, still?”
I laugh. “Maybe you should open it.”
“I’m tempted, but that’s not how it works with gifts.” Stepping closer, he cups my cheek, giving me a look so tender the foundations of the fortress around my heart shake a little.
Remembering Francine is watching us, I step back to escape the intimate touch. “What?”
Maxime smiles, soft and genuine. “I like it when you laugh. I should buy you gifts more often.”
“You do,” I say. “All the time.” I’m not going to tell him I still feel like the extravagant clothes and jewelry are payments for my obedience and payoffs for my body. I don’t think I can handle a repeat of what I went through on the night of the auction.