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)
“They were staring,” he says, shooting me a glance. “You don’t deserve that.”
I lean back into the comfort of the soft leather seat. “I don’t care. Let them look.”
When I meet Sylvie’s gaze as we pass, she averts her eyes.
Hugging myself, I ask, “What did your father mean?”
“He’s not my father.”
I’m not letting him dismiss the question that easily. “What did Raphael mean?”
“Nothing.” He steers the car into the traffic.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “You’re a piece of fucking work, Maxime Belshaw.”
He pulls onto the curb and kills the engine. Anger dances in his cold eyes when he looks at me. “Don’t insult me. Next time, I won’t let it go.”
“Then don’t insult me with more of your lies.” My hands are shaking, but my voice is strong. “Did you make me fall in love with you on purpose?”
He rests his forehead on the steering wheel. “You don’t want to go there. Trust me.”
The blow I’ve been waiting for during all the months he’s kept his word and didn’t tell me a lie hits me full in the face. The fact that I expected it doesn’t make it easier. I fall apart. How many times have I excused him for letting me fall in love with him, telling myself I did it all by myself? I want to laugh. Of course it was a well-orchestrated scheme. Does Maxime ever do anything without meticulous planning?
My tone is as flat as his eyes. “How did you do it?”
He lifts his head. “Zoe, please—”
“I want to know, Maxime.”
He tips back his head and leans it on the headrest. “I figured out what you wanted.”
The hurt slices deeper, twisting into the little that’s left of my heart. What kills me, though, is that it was nothing but a psychological game to him.
“Give me an example,” I say, needing to hurt myself more with the truth. I need to weed him out of my system for once and for all, and he’s just given me the weapon.
He closes his eyes. Suddenly sounding tired, he says, “Don’t do this.”
I slam a fist on the dashboard. “Tell me!”
He lifts his eyelids and turns his face to look at me with the dead gray of his eyes. “You wanted a fairytale. I gave it to you.”
When he took me to Venice, he stole my fantasy. Now I know why. It wasn’t only to give me a twisted version of my dream when he fucked me, but ultimately to make sure I stayed by also slowly but surely stealing my love. My eyes are dry, but I’m shriveling up inside. Everything, even this, was a lie. I open the door. “All this time, I blamed myself for being so stupid to fall in love with you.”
“Close the door,” he says through tight lips.
“It was the only thing I still believed was real. My bad.” Getting out, I slam the door.
He jumps out when I start walking down the road.
“Zoe, come back.”
I lift the strap of my handbag higher on my shoulder and walk faster. He grabs my arm when he catches up with me, but I jerk free.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Get back in the car.” His jaw bunches. “Please.”
“Go to hell.”
I storm up the road, ashamed of my childish tantrum and unable to stop. He made a fool of me. He made me love him as a part of his sick plan, and I played the role of the needy, naïve girl perfectly. I guess I deserve this pain.
He doesn’t come after me again, and I don’t hear the engine of his car start up either. I cross the street, turn left, and walk three blocks to a bus stop where I catch one to the boutique. The boutique is closed due to the funeral, but I can’t go home.
At the boutique, I leave the closed sign and lock the door behind me, thankful for the quiet solitude. I go upstairs and lie down on the couch. The hours tick by as I try to think, but my thoughts are turning in circles. I recall our history from the day Maxime turned up in Johannesburg to the moment I ran. The design school, Sylvie who I thought was my friend, the fact that Maxime’s family planned to marry me to Alexis, everything Maxime has ever lied about turns in my head, all the people who have died, until I have a headache and I can’t think anymore. The cushion underneath my head is wet with tears.
I get up and make a cup of tea in the kitchen. I can’t stomach food. I drink the tea downstairs, staring at the busy street from a dark shop window. When it gets late, I take my bag, lock up, and set the alarm. I take the tram to a nearby hotel and get a room for the night before buying some essentials from the pharmacy across the street. I send a text to Maxime to let him know I won’t be home so he doesn’t go looking for me, but receive no reply. My phone lies on the nightstand of the strange room, the screen remaining black.