My back arches from the sudden invasion. I grip his shoulders for support when he moves with brutal force, dulling my conscience with his harsh rhythm.
Yes, I did. I married the devil.
What’s much worse is that I love him.
Chapter 23
Zoe
We move back to the apartment two days later. There’s no investigation into Francine’s death. Her funeral is to be held the following week. My stomach is constantly wound tight. How does Maxime live like this? Before, he was protected by his position. Now he’s on his own. The mafia and their connections aren’t going to protect him if the police come after him.
What will happen if he ends up in jail? Will Alexis come after us? Damian managed to build a business from jail. I have no doubt he could’ve ruled an empire. Maxime is no different. A part of me craves the freedom I could have if Maxime is caught, but another part of me can’t bear to see him behind bars. Either way, Maxime will dictate my future, even from jail. He’d never let me go back to my family. Freedom will forever remain my illusion.
We fall into a new rhythm of Maxime leaving for the office after eight and returning for dinner after eight. We eat, fuck, and shower. He spends long hours pouring over reports and statements after I’ve gone to bed. The more I observe him, the more it’s becoming apparent that the business isn’t going as well as he’d hoped. The adjustments are taking their toll. When I ask him about it, he only says some clients who are loyal to his family, meaning the mafia, left when he broke away from them and that it will take some time to find new clients and reassure them his service and stones are solid. Keeping the ship from sinking isn’t an easy task.
At first, we cut back on entertainment and eating out. Then we start implementing some serious savings, using the heat in the apartment sparingly and relying on the fire to keep the big living space warm. Night after night, I watch Maxime study on his laptop by the dining room table, rubbing his temples while a frown mars his forehead. At least the house is in my name. We’ll always have a roof over our heads, but we can’t survive like this forever.
After a particularly quiet dinner, I pad to the table where Maxime is working. “Hey.”
He looks up. A smile warms his features. “Hey.”
“I need a job.”
His expression hardens. “No.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “Are you going to be that man?”
“What man?” he asks, slamming his computer shut.
“The kind of man who tells his wife what she can or can’t do.”
“Don’t I already?”
His answer hurts because it’s true. Pushing the ache away, I say, “Yet you let me study once.”
“It’s my job to take care of you.”
“What if I need more?”
His tone is inflexible. “You don’t.”
Right. It’s so typical of Maxime to think he knows what I need. I’m not going to win this argument with words. Leaving him to stew over whatever he was working on, I turn and walk to the bedroom, but his words stop me.
“I’ve always taken care of you, Zoe. I always will.”
He’s taken charge of every aspect of my life. It’s not the same of taking care of someone, but I’ve long since given up on making him understand. I’ve always taken care of myself. I might’ve been poor, but I did the best I could. The apartment I grew up in was dilapidated and tiny, but when I lived there alone, it was always clean and smelled of the detergent from my laundry drying in the bathroom. I miss the satisfaction that came with my financial independence.
There was a time Maxime wanted to give me passion and purpose. It wasn’t a means of letting me earn a living as much as a way of keeping me happy. Thérèse’s words that had hurt so much at the time were true, and I’m only realizing it now. I would’ve graduated to become a mediocre designer using great ones like her to build a brand for myself, and Maxime would’ve made it possible to keep me content in the pretty cage he’d constructed to confine me.
Without giving him another glance, I go to the bathroom to have a shower, and crawl into bed. Long after he’s joined me, I lie awake, thinking.
When Maxime kisses me goodbye and leaves for the office in the morning, I fetch the linen he bought at the market and go upstairs to the landing. I run my fingers over the sewing machine standing on the desk. Excitement starts to hum like a distant memory in my veins. My hands itch to transform the cloth into a piece of clothing.
After some deliberation, I pull out my old drawing pad and pencils. I start with a few rough lines, and then fill them in with color. This time, I’m not creating with romantic notions and futile ideas of love. I’m implementing what Madame Page taught me. The design is linear and harsh. There’s no place for frills or lace in my new life. Creating a dress that will pass the strict criteria of a reputable French designer is more than survival on a financial level. It’s a way of molding myself into someone who can survive my new life. It’s an emotional necessity.