His lips tighten. “No one says no to me, not in this city.”
“I see.” I look away so he won’t see the tears I can’t contain.
Gripping my chin, he turns my face back to him. “Is it so bad that I want to make you happy?”
“Yes, Maxime. This is bad. This is really bad.”
“Why?” he asks though clenched teeth.
“You made me believe I earned it.”
“You did,” he says with conviction.
“That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a fashion design expert. It was up to the board and Madame Page.”
He looks confused. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I was happy until I found out it’s a lie.”
Gripping my hand hard under the table, he says, “I pulled a lot of strings to make this happen for you, so you’re going to swallow your pride and be a good girl and go to school and do what you love. It’s that simple.”
“You’d think it is.”
“If you’re implying I don’t care, you’re damn right. I don’t give a damn what Madame or your classmates think. You shouldn’t either.”
I guess that’s the difference between us, and the crux of the problem. He doesn’t give a damn. Unfortunately, I do.
“No more talking about this,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my knuckles.
I breathe in deeply to abate my tears and put a stopper on my emotions. I can’t give the people around us the satisfaction of witnessing my distress. It’s too personal. Too vulnerable.
I eat as much as I can stomach, feeling raw inside. Feeling cheated. What else is Maxime hiding from me? I’m peeling away these layers of truth one at a time, and I’m scared of what I’ll find at the core. I’m so tired of floating in the dark and drowning in his secrets.
It’s after midnight when the dinner is finally over and Maxime has greeted everyone he wanted to. Networking is important.
“I know you’re tired,” he says, placing a palm on my lower back. “We can sleep here if you like.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to go home.”
Home. It’s not the first time I’ve said it tonight, but we both pause when the word leaves my lips. Maxime is kind enough not to make a big deal out of it, even as more of the possessive satisfaction I’ve come to recognize washes over his face. He tells Gautier to fetch my overnight bag from upstairs and ask at reception for a valet to bring his car around.
The same questions as always repeat through my mind when he escorts me outside. Why is Maxime keeping me here? I know it has something to do with the diamonds from the questions he posed before kidnapping me, but why is he holding Damian’s life over my head? I’m distracted, but simultaneously hyperaware of the warm night and how the heat seems to lift for a brief reprieve even as Maxime’s broad palm burns hot on the exposed skin of my back. Benoit and Gautier move ahead of us, Gautier carrying my overnight bag. The valet rounds the corner with Maxime’s Bugatti. The Mercedes in which the guards came is parked across the street.
A black car with tinted windows rolls slowly down the road. The back window lowers when they’re almost next to us. It must be someone Maxime knows, maybe someone from the party who wants to call out a last goodbye. I look at Maxime to catch his attention. He’s slowed down beside me, staring at the car with a strange expression.
“Get down,” Maxime yells at the same time as a string of shots blast through the air.
He throws his body in front of mine, taking me down to the pavement as the glass door of the casino explodes behind us. I hit the concrete with a thud, his arms cushioning the fall but my head taking a knock that makes my teeth clatter. My elbows and hip burn. My bones are crushed against the hard surface by Maxime’s weight.
Another round of shots go off. People scream. The couple who exited behind us scurry for the casino lobby. My cheek is pressed to the pavement. The concrete is rough and warm against my skin. It smells of dust and car exhaust. I register everything as the black car speeds off.
Someone shot at us.
“Maxime!” I push on his shoulders. Oh, my God! Is he hurt?
His eyes are the color of pale marble, cold and hard, when he lifts his weight and drags his hands over my body in clinical, examining strokes. He’s calm. Collected. Only his voice is urgent. “Are you hurt? Have you been shot, Zoe?”
“I’m fine.”
“Fuck.” He gets up and helps me to my feet.
Benoit is waving a gun. Gautier is lying in the gutter.
What? No! I slam a hand over my mouth.
Maxime bends down and presses two fingers on the jugular vein in Gautier’s neck. His face hardens. “Follow them,” he says to Benoit.
Benoit runs for the Mercedes.
“Get in the car, Zoe,” Maxime says.
I’m aware of him touching my arm, dragging me a little, but I can’t focus on anything other than the blood oozing from Gautier’s temple. I can’t look away from his open eyes and the way the light is missing from their depths.
“Zoe.” Maxime’s fingers dig into my upper arms. My teeth clack together as he shakes me. “I need you to keep it together. Can you do that for me, cherie?”
He turns me toward the Bugatti. The valet stands on the pavement with a stunned expression. I somehow manage to fold my stiff body double and get into the passenger seat when Maxime opens the door for me. He gets in and secures my safety belt, then his own.
Not looking back, he pulls off with screeching tires. We’re driving too fast. It makes me nervous, especially with the narrow road and the steep abyss dropping into the sea. I grip the door handle as he dials Raphael on voice command.
“We have a situation at the casino,” Maxime says when his father replies. “Gautier is down.”
Raphael’s voice is tight. “Motherfucking damn.”
“I’m dealing with it. I’ll keep you posted.”
Maxime switches over to another call, telling someone he needs cleanup. Another call demands backup, the next puts the guards at the house on alert, and the last instructs his lawyer to take care of the police. By the time we arrive home, Maxime seems to have everything, including himself, under control.
It’s only me who’s shaking, unable to process what’s happened.
He comes around and helps me from the car. The front garden is swarming with guards. Two stand at the door. Another waits inside.
“Guard her with your life,” Maxime says.
“Yes, sir.”
Maxime makes his way with long strides to the room he always keeps locked.
I run after him. “Maxime, wait!”
He takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and pushes it open. Reflexively, I remain on the threshold when he hurries inside. It’s an instinctive reaction to knowing he doesn’t want me in there. There’s a big desk against the window and photos on the walls. It looks like a study. He opens a tall safe in a corner cabinet and removes a gun that he pushes into his waistband.
“Maxime, please. What are—?”
The automatic rifle he takes out next makes my words dry up.
Without giving me another look, he locks the door and walks from the house.
I stand in the foyer, staring at the front door he slammed behind him, hearing the echo bouncing off the emptiness.