Diamonds are Forever (Diamonds Are Forever Trilogy 3)

A marriage is forever.

A marriage is for love.

How far will he take his games? How much more betrayal can he manage? Hasn’t he broken me enough? Anger rises from the hollowness in my stomach to the empty cavity of my chest. The rage swells through me like a wave. It steals my senses and blurs my sight until all I see is that damning white dress through a veil of red.

He tricked me. Maxime tricked me once again.

I’m done. I’m going to beat him at his own game.

It’s as if a devious spirit invades my body. I’m not myself when I walk to the closet and throw it open. It’s a different woman who pulls open the drawer with my old needlework tools and takes out the scissors.

With a cry of fury, I attack the dress, ripping into the layers of silk and lace with the scissors. I tear and snip the beautiful dress, a dress with an exclusive label that must’ve cost a fortune. I destroy what it means, cutting into what it stands for until nothing but a bed of white ribbons is left at my feet.

This is my lesson to teach.

This time, it’s Maxime who will learn.

Chapter 10

Maxime

I give Zoe enough time to cool down and get ready. She’ll have a bath and make herself pretty like she did on the night I took her virginity in Venice. She’ll resist me at first, but I seduced her into wanting me once. I’ll do it again.

On my way down to the parking, I send a text to Damian Hart to let him know we landed safely. It’s what any good boyfriend would do. Hart would expect nothing less. I’m still to give Zoe back her phone, but I leave her number in case he’d like to get hold of her. He replies back promptly with a cryptic note of thanks, saying he’d give us a couple of days to settle in before bothering her with calls.

Today has to be perfect. I go to a lot of effort. A rare flower deserves nothing less. After booking out the quaint restaurant on the hill, I have dozens of pink roses delivered there. The flowers will be everywhere, on every surface and cascading from every wall. I make sure our table has a view and that the others will be moved away to create our own private dance floor. Tonight will be ours alone. I’m too possessive to share this moment with witnesses.

Organizing the singer takes pulling some strings, but Zoe will like her voice and sweet, romantic love songs. I book a room in a hotel like newlyweds do. I order champagne, chocolate-coated strawberries, and sugar-glazed fresh fruit. I have more roses delivered to the room and order the staff to scatter some of the petals over the bed. I tell them to put rose-scented candles in the bedroom too.

On the way back, I stop at the church. The priest is a family friend. He doesn’t dare to argue or pose questions. My face is enough to make him gather a choir in a hurry and promise the bells will toll at three o’clock to announce the happy occasion.

I’m elated when I finally pick up the formal suit from my regular tailor. He’s worked on it for two days straight since I called him from South Africa. It’s a three-piece with a tailcoat jacket, fitted waistcoat, and cravat. My face may not be pretty, but I want to look good for Zoe. I want her to hold fond memories when she looks back at the photos a few years down the line. Fuck, the photos. I almost forgot. I dial a popular photographer in town who immediately clears his schedule.

Zoe will build a new nest, and this time she may even fill it with babies. I know she wants children. I know I hurt her when I said we couldn’t bring a child into the world, but it was a different world then. I’m a cruel man, but I’ll never be cruel to a child, certainly not cruel enough to spawn bastards and curse them with no recognition, protection, or respect. The more I think about it, the more excited I become about the idea of planting a child in Zoe’s belly, of seeing it grow and knowing I’ve bound her to me by blood.

My mood is so great I stop at the bakery on the way to get Zoe something sweet, something like a box of delicate choux and macaroons. Double fuck. I never ordered a wedding cake. Slamming a roll of bills on the counter, I tell the petrified owner to make sure he gets a pièce montée to the restaurant by five. I give him the name and address before taking my box of patisserie and making my way whistling back to the apartment.