Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
If I stay here long enough with my head buried under the covers, the pain eventually has to fade.
It’s late morning when I wake up again. I’m still alone. I feel like shit. Shaking all over with a cold fever, I pull the covers up to my chin. I need to eat. My body needs energy to heal. When the ice in my bones turns hot and sweat covers my body, I throw the covers aside and drag myself to the kitchen.
There’s nothing I can heat up and no baguette to make a sandwich. The quickest meal to fix will be scrambled eggs. I take the carton with the eggs from the fridge, but feel so miserable that I leave them with the pan on the counter and just grab the carton of juice. I take it to bed and swallow another painkiller. My throat is killing me.
I must’ve fallen into a feverish sleep again, because sounds in the kitchen jerk me from a dream in which I’m walking with Maxime through the freezing rain to a church in the distance that falls farther away the more we advance.
Sitting up, I grab the knife from under my pillow and hold it out in front of me as footsteps approach and a shadow falls over the threshold. A moment later, Maxime’s tall body fills the frame. The tension in my shoulders eases marginally.
His angular face darkens as he looks at the weapon in my hands. “What are you doing with the knife?”
Sagging with the breath I release, I leave the knife on the nightstand. “Alexis was here. I thought maybe he came back.” I’m so damn angry with Maxime, but too exhausted for a fight.
A thunderous look joins the darkness, making a terrifying tableau of his face. “What?” In two steps, he’s in front of me. “What did he want?” He drags his gaze in a frantic sweep over me. “Did he hurt you? Did he fucking touch you?”
Clutching the sheet to my chest, I say, “He told me everything.”
“Everything?” Just like that, his emotions turn off. The mask falls back in place. “Everything about what?”
“That you gave up your house and position to go after me. Why would you do that?” Why would Maxime drag me to the mairie and marry me if he was going to fuck Francine?
“He said that?” he asks in a flat voice.
He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to answer me. My energy already depleted, I fall back against the cushions. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
He scrutinizes me with a furrowed brow. “Why are you in bed?” Then he says with alarm, “Zoe, you look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I give him a cold smile. “You can go back to your hotel now.”
He presses a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up. You’re sick,” he adds with a hint of panic. “Why didn’t you call me?”
I push his hand away. “It’s only a cold. Go away and leave me alone.”
“Like hell.” Taking his phone from his pocket, he swipes over the screen. “I’m calling the doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” The white dress shirt without the jacket reminds me why I don’t want to see him. Even more so, I don’t want him to see me like this—weak. “I just need you to go.”
He holds my gaze as he makes the call and tells the doctor to come straight over, making it sound as if I’m dying.
“You’re wasting the doctor’s time,” I say when he hangs up. “It’s not the first time I’m having a cold. It’ll pass in a couple of days.”
He paces to the window. “I dragged you out in the cold dressed in a flimsy gown with wet hair.”
If only yesterday could turn into a black hole in my memory. “Why do you even care?”
He turns back to me with a somber regard. “Because I can’t help it.”
I’ve never understood him. I’m no closer to deciphering my husband. He keeps on saying he cares, but caring lovers don’t drag their unsuspecting partners to the altar.
“Why did you do it, Zoe?” he asks with a hint of despair, curling his fingers into fists. “Why push me so far? I wanted to give you a beautiful day.”
“You wanted to control me. It was just another one of your sick manipulations.”
“The dress and the flowers weren’t attempts at manipulating you. Those gestures were genuine. So was the evening I had planned for us. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know what is genuine and what is psychological warfare with you. In all the time you’ve kept me, you never let me get close to you. Not even a little. How am I supposed to know when you’re real?”
His regal posture slips. “The man from yesterday, the man who lost his temper, that man was real, and I don’t like him.”