It’s a long, off-shoulder evening dress. The cut is simple. What makes it extraordinary is the diamante tulle. It’s shimmery, delicate, and so faintly pink the color is a mere blush. I love it. It’s completely me. The thought makes me go rigid. Of course, Maxime knows. He probably went through my books and sketches when he went back to see Bruce and wipe away the evidence of my existence.
Pink silk underwear and thigh-high stockings with a lace trimming are set out next to the dress. A velvet box catches my eyes. My curiosity piqued, I reach for the box and flip back the lid. A pair of solitaire diamonds sits on a black velvet cushion, their light brighter than sunrays or a rainbow. They’re enormous, at least a couple carats. I’ve never owned a diamond, but I know a lot about them from the clippings I collected of my dream ring, the one the man who loved me was going to offer me.
I close the lid and throw the box back onto the bed.
What am I doing?
How can I admire objects my kidnapper bought? Soon to be my lover. A chill breaks out over my body. When I think of the alternative, of what Maxime showed and told me, I drop the towel and pull on the clothes.
Everything fits perfectly, even the heels that are the same color as the dress. I’m about to go to the bathroom to brush my hair when I notice the silver brush and cosmetics on the bedroom dresser. I go over and trace the embossed rose on the back of the brush. It’s beautiful, a piece of art. After removing the elastic keeping up my bun, I pull the brush through my hair, almost closing my eyes at how the soft bristles massage my scalp.
I sit down and look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale. I don’t want to look pretty for Maxime. I don’t want to give him me. Tonight, when I give him my virginity, I want to be someone else, someone I don’t care about so I can still face the real me in the mirror tomorrow.
I inspect the makeup. It’s an expensive French brand. Other than mascara and lip gloss, I usually don’t wear makeup and not because I don’t like it. I can’t afford it. Now I go for a dramatic look, using smoky eye shadow and black eyeliner that I round off with a pale lipstick. Definitely not me. The sparkling earrings add the finishing touch.
A clutch bag covered with the same cloth as the dress and an intricately sewn rose fastened to the clip stands next to a bottle of perfume. I dab a drop on my wrist to smell it and notice the marks from last night’s ordeal. My breathing turns shallow, but I inhale deeply and blow the breath out slowly. I can do this. I can put up this act.
Standing, I regard my image in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Good.
A knock sounds on the door. When I answer it, Maxime stands on the threshold with a bouquet of flowers. He’s dressed in a tux and bowtie, and his hair is damp.
“You showered,” I say stupidly, wondering if he’s renting another suite.
“I showered in Gautier and Benoit’s room. I wanted to give you privacy.” His gaze trails over me and fixes on my face. “You look beautiful, Zoe.” He holds the flowers out to me. “These are for you.”
I take them uncertainly. I don’t understand this man who’ll lock me up in a dungeon and buy me flowers before stealing what’s left of my dream. He doesn’t need to woo me. It’s not as if we’re dating.
“Don’t you like them?” he asks.
I look at the cellophane-wrapped bouquet. It’s a colorful collection of sweet peas, poppies, daisies, and cornflowers. The arrangement is informal and uninhibited, just like the wildflowers. It’s lovely.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll want to put them in water before we go.”
I scoot around him, pulling in my stomach to avoid touching him when he doesn’t move out of the way. He watches me as I find a vase on the table and carry it back to the bathroom to fill it with water.
While I take care of the flowers, he blows out the candles, presumably so the suite doesn’t burn down while we’re out to wherever he’s taking me.
“Your bag,” he says when I turn to go.
For lipstick, tissues, and powder, and whatever else a woman on a fuck date may need. He really thought about everything. I drop the tube of lipstick and compressed powder inside for the sake of placating him and hold my head high as I walk to the door.
He stands aside for me to exit ahead of him. In the lounge, he drapes a long white coat around my shoulders and hands me a faux-fur scarf.
“Where are we going?” I ask when he offers me his arm.
He smiles down at me. “You’ll see.”
If this is supposed to be a surprise, it’s not the good kind.
I’m happy that a car and not a boat waits, because the air is wet and cold. He takes my hand and helps me inside. As before, he sits next to me in the back while Gautier and Benoit sit up front.
I stare at the buildings as we pass, trying not to fidget. After a long drive, we stop in front of a building I recognize from my travel books—the Teatro La Fenice. I’ve read about it extensively. Is this why he brought me here? Because he saw various books about the landmark building in my apartment? I’ve always wanted to see an opera, just not with Maxime.
The façade is the only part of the opera house that survived the two fires that almost destroyed the building in 1836 and 1996. It’s stunning. It bears the theater’s insignia in the center, a phoenix rising from the flames. Two statues in niches represent the muses of tragedy and dance. Above them are the masks of Comedy and Tragedy.
The opulence inside is overwhelming. The photos I’ve seen don’t do it justice. I can’t help but stare at the golden pillars and detailed ceiling paintings. Maxime steers me to the Royal Box, the best seats in the house. We’re barely seated before the first curtain call sounds.
I gasp when the curtains rise to reveal the set of a scene in Egypt. The life-size sphinx and pyramid look so real I’m transported to a different place and time. When the opera starts, I forget about Maxime for a moment. It’s Nabucco, goosebumps-worthy and incredibly sad. I loathe to admit I love every minute. When I dare to turn my head in Maxime’s direction, I catch him watching me with undisguised fascination, as if my reaction is the real attraction. It makes me feel like a monkey in a zoo.
During intermission, he gets me a glass of freshly squeezed lemon juice with mint. I eye the glass of wine he sips. I could do with more alcohol courage. Too soon, the beautiful performance comes to an end.
Gautier and Benoit stand guard at the entrance to our box when we exit. Maxime says something to Gautier in French, who nods and leaves. Benoit stays behind, following in our footsteps.
“Do you always have protection?” I ask.
Maxime places his hand on the small of my back to steer me down the stairs. “Yes.”
“Why? Because your family is involved in criminal activities?”
He glances around and says in a lowered voice, “Because we’re powerful.”
“That makes you a target?”
“Always.” He brushes his thumb over a vertebra. “You have to fight to get to the top, and then you have to fight twice as hard to stay there. There’s always someone eager to take your place.”
His touch makes me shiver. “Does being at the top matter so much?”
“Yes.” His voice is filled with conviction. “In this world, only the strongest survive.”