I follow their voices to the library and stop in the open door. Maxime sits on the couch and a woman with auburn hair and honey-colored eyes sits in the armchair in front of the fire, in my armchair, the chair in which Maxime has stripped me naked, draped me over his lap, and made me come more times than I can count. She’s impossibly young and beautiful, cultured like his mother, wearing a dress Madame Page will approve of.
It only takes him a second to become aware of my presence. We’re attuned to each other. That’s what happens when you live together for thirty months. I know he hates lemon juice, and he knows I love sun-dried tomato salad dressing. He has to know this is killing me.
Maxime’s expression is stoic. He holds my eyes unfalteringly. The woman is still talking, her voice ringing through the space in a well-groomed Parisian accent, not foreign like mine. There’s no funny pronunciation to tease her about or to find endearing. She’s perfect. Then she catches on and follows his gaze.
At the sight of me, her back snaps straight. She drags her eyes over me, taking in my Mary Poppins coat and sticky-salty, windblown hair.
Leaning her hands on the armrests, she pushes to her feet. “You will get rid of her. I will not be humiliated.”
Maxime stands.
Picking her bag up from the foot of the chair, she walks past me with a lifted chin. I stare after her, familiar and new pain braiding together, twisting my insides. I know the ache of betrayal. I know the ache of having your life stolen but this…This is new. This is huge. I can’t even find a box for it in the wall that makes up my soul. I can’t file it with lies or betrayal. Not even jealousy is an accurate description. It cuts much deeper, leaving scars that will never heal.
Silence stretches through the house when she closes the door behind her like a well-bred lady. Me, I would’ve slammed it. Only her perfume lingers. Expensive. Classy. Everything I’m not. And the memory of that laugh. The torture of imagining what Maxime had said to her to make her so happy.
The silence is infuriating. I want him to explain. I want him to make excuses. I want him to tell me it’s a misunderstanding, that she’s his cousin or long-lost sister.
I take in his passive stance, how his hands are shoved deep into his pockets and his eyes give nothing away. Always hiding secrets. Never playing open cards with me. Waiting for me to make the first move. It’s unfair, but his silence leaves me no choice.
“Who is she?” I ask in a tremulous voice.
“Izabella Zanetti, Leonardo Zanetti’s sister.” He holds my gaze, not as much as flinching when he says, “My fiancée.”
Chapter 20
Zoe
The world crashes down around me. I didn’t think it was possible to die and still be alive. I didn’t think I could be in hell right here on earth. Yet the flames lap at me, mocking me yet again for my stupid naivety.
“The Italian I met at the auction?” I force through the lump in my throat. “That Leonardo?”
“Yes,” Maxime says.
I curl my fingers until half-moons from my nails cut into my palms. The pain is the only thing preventing me from breaking down in tears. “How long?”
“My father made a deal.”
My voice rises. “How long, Maxime?”
“The engagement party is next Saturday.”
I inhale once, twice, trying not to show him how hard it is to breathe, how this minces me up inside. “Is that what you were discussing?”
“Yes.” He adds in a flat voice, “Among other things.”
I guess other things meaning the wedding. Oh, my God. I’m going to be sick. How long has he been playing me? “For how long have you known?”
“I don’t think that matters.”
My pulse jumps. Betrayal and humiliation turns to anger. “Don’t you dare, Maxime Belshaw. Don’t you dare tell me my feelings don’t fucking matter. Tell me! You owe me at least this much.”
“Two years.” He gives me a resigned look. “The contract was signed two years ago.”
Fuck. God, that hurts. I stumble back a step. “You made a fool of me.”
“No, Zoe. You’re not a fool.”
“Don’t you fucking say my name.” I hold up a shaking finger. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He takes a step toward me. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“When were you planning on telling me?”
Another step. “This doesn’t change anything.”
I take three more steps back. “Like hell it doesn’t!”
“We’ll still be together, Zoe. Marrying Izabella is a business transaction.”
“When?” I manage through trembling lips.
“In spring.”
“In April?” I cry out. “You’re marrying her in four months?”
“You’ll still be my mistress. I’ll still spend the majority of my time with you.”
I think I’m going to break down, after all. I bite on the inside of my cheek until the urge to turn hysterical passes. “You’ll fuck her.”