The lights dim and music comes on. A disco ball throws shards of light over the floor. The MC declares the dance floor open. People stare at us as sponsors lead their protégés to the men who won their bids.
“I believe this dance is mine,” I say, pulling Zoe with me to the floor.
She blinks. “Why did you do this?”
“You preferred Leonardo?” My tone is mocking, but there’s nothing mocking about the notion driving like a splinter under my skin, that a woman like her would want a man like him. I bet he’s the kind of handsome that featured in her dreams, those pretty dreams she exchanged for the cold, hard truth. Me.
Before she can answer, Leonardo walks into my personal space. “Thank you.” He leans closer. “You showed me what I wanted to know.” Bumping my shoulder, he walks off into the milling crowd.
My skull pricks when I draw Zoe close.
“What’s that about?” Zoe asks, her eyes as round as earlier when I had her pushed up against the wall.
“Nothing.”
I put my arm around her waist and lead her to the center of the floor where several couples are already dancing. It’s a slow dance. I’m a good dancer, courtesy of my mother who insisted on sending me to dance classes when I dropped out of piano lessons. A refined education has always been important to Maman.
Zoe misses the first step. She trips, bracing herself with her palms on my chest. I catch her around the waist to straighten her and lower my head to whisper in her ear, “Relax. Just follow.”
Uncertainly, she places her palm in mine and lays a hand on my shoulder. I lead us into the two-step, enjoying the closeness of her body and the familiar smell of roses in her hair. A few tendrils still fall around her face from our earlier fight. She’s always pretty, but she’s stunning when she’s disheveled.
She pulls back to look at me. “Why did you do that?”
“You know why.”
“You could’ve just told me you were going to bid on me. You made me stress all night. Why be so cruel?”
“You know why, Zoe.”
“To teach me to trust you?”
Cupping her head, I press her cheek to my chest. “Always.”
Our bodies sway to the rhythm, the curves of her small one fitting to the hollows of mine. She fills the emptiness and brings light to my darkness, but when she doesn’t trust me, she creates that gaping emptiness that brings out the monster in me.
I’m hard for her. Too hard. I’m not myself, not one hundred percent in control. It’s a combination of factors. It’s my jealousy. It’s our fight. What Leonardo said is pulsing in my brain. Zoe’s hesitation needs to be punished. I can’t let her relapse go unanswered. Actions have consequences. She said so herself. What respect will she have for me if I’m not a man of my word? Most of all, it’s how she sees herself, as nothing but my whore.
When the dance is over, I take her arm and lead her across the hall. The other couples are dispersing, some moving in the same direction as us—to the bedrooms upstairs.
Before we reach the door, Jerome stops me. “You’ve made a mistake, cousin,” he says in French.
I raise a brow. “Have I?”
Zoe looks between us with a frown marring her beautiful features.
“You’ve just showed everyone the woman means something to you.”
Something may be a bit of an understatement. “Good night, Jerome. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
He shakes his head as we walk off, clearly not impressed with me.
“Where are we going?” Zoe asks when I usher her into the elevator.
We could’ve just gone home, but I don’t want her to have negative connotations to the place I want her to consider as her safe haven.
She follows me out on the top floor, blindly this time. Too little, too late. Blind obedience won’t serve her now.
At the presidential suite, I swipe the access card and step aside to let her in. She looks around much like she had that first night in South Africa. The view over the city is stunning.
Turning to me, she asks with a shaky voice, “Why are we here?”
I turn the lock. “Strip.”
“You’re going to fuck me?”
“I paid a million euros for your pussy. I’m going to make sure I get my money’s worth.”
Hurt contorts her features. “Why are you doing this, Maxime?”
Advancing on her, I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her head back. “To show you what it’s like to be treated like a whore.”
“Please.” She grips my forearms, her neck straining from my hold on her hair. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m done talking.”
She stumbles as I let her go. Before she falls on her ass, I catch her arm and fling her around. She cries out as I walk her to the window and plaster her body against it. She fights me, but I easily grab her wrists in one hand behind her back and pin her to the pane with my hips while I use my free hand to pull the zipper of her dress down. I shove it over her hips to pool around her feet. With the low back of the dress, she couldn’t wear a bra. Her bare breasts press flat against the glass. I rip away the flimsy thong and let it fall on top of the dress. Then I work a knee between her legs, spreading them apart.