Diamonds are Forever (Diamonds Are Forever Trilogy 3)

“Do you fucking know who I am?” Maxime bellows.

“I do, sir.” The man takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. “I’d still like the lady to answer.”

Maxime turns to me with a cruel smile, watching and waiting. He’s not worried, because he knows what my answer will be.

Regarding the representative squarely, I say, “Yes.”

His brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

“She fucking said yes,” Maxime says, his arms drawing tight against his body.

The man clears his throat. Giving me a speculative look, he opens a book. “By the power vested in me…”

The rest of the words float away. They’re like burned flakes of paper in a breeze. I tune out of the moment. It’s all too surreal, yet so very actual. Before I ran, I wanted Maxime’s love. I wanted it because I thought I’d give us a try. He told me he was unable to love, but I still hoped. I hoped that maybe the way he cared about me would evolve into something less selfish, something that made us equals. Now I believe him. The man doing this is incapable of loving.

Maxime lays a hand on my shoulder. His palm is warm on my naked skin where the drape has slipped. I look from where he’s touching me to his face. In contrast to the burning sensation of his hand, there’s only coldness is his eyes.

“Do you?” the man asks.

A sniffling sound makes me look to my left. Sylvie is crying.

“Please, Maxime,” she says. “This isn’t right.”

“Do you, Zoe?” Maxime asks, those frosted-gray eyes promising nothing but retribution.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

The representative’s shoulders sag as if he wanted the answer to be no. With a sigh, he says, “I now declare you man and wife.”

Maxime extends a palm. Francine hands him a ring. Her gaze is like acid when it lands on me. He takes my hand in his and slides the ring over my finger. It’s a big, square-cut diamond. Simple. Elegant. Pricey. Then he places a ring in my hands.

I look at the platinum band. It’s plain. Unassuming. Mechanically, I slip the ring over his finger. Our gazes lock only for a moment, but it feels like the infinity our rings represent. Maxime drops my hand. There’s a significant distance between us, at least two steps.

When he turns his back on me and walks out of the room, I don’t move. Sylvie chases after him. Francine follows at a leisurely pace. It takes me a while to regain control over my body. I don’t want to go after Maxime, but the alternative would mean standing here in front of this man’s desk while he studies me with pitiful guilt, as if he’s the one who committed the crime.

Finally, I hobble out of the room and stop in the hallway where the others are gathered.

“Thanks for coming,” Maxime says.

“I prepared the cocktail party,” Sylvie says, fiddling with her clutch bag. “Everything is set up in the reception room.”

“Enjoy it.” Maxime takes my hand. “We won’t be joining you.”

“What about the photographer?” she calls after us as Maxime drags me away. “He’s all set up.”

“Cancel it,” Maxime says without looking back.

He bundles me into the car and drives us back to the apartment. My hair is soaking wet, but I haven’t realized how cold I am until now. It’s freezing outside, and the drape doesn’t offer much protection. I study my nails that have turned blue in my lap. I won’t admit it, but I’m scared of what’s going to happen. I’m scared of being alone with Maxime. When I decided to give him some of his own medicine by teaching him a lesson, I didn’t think it all the way through.

We make our way upstairs in silence. He lets me into the apartment and locks the door behind us. While I’m standing in the middle of the floor, he goes to the kitchen and pours a shot of whiskey that he drains in one go.

It starts raining. Drops pelt against the circular stained-glass window and the French doors. Not sparing me a glance, he opens the doors and walks out onto the terrace. The rain washes over his dark hair and the same suit he traveled in until water runs in streams from his face and the clothes are plastered to his body.

He’s upset. I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve seen him jumping off a cliff into the sea in the middle of winter. I’ve seen him cold and collected when he took out the men who tried to kill me. I’ve seen him controlled and distant when he punished and fucked me. Up to now, my choices have only affected me. They’ve only served as lessons. It feels good to take a stance, to turn those lessons around and show him how it feels. I’m finished with being his puppet. I’m no longer the naïve girl who believes in romance and fairytales. I’ve done some growing up since he kidnapped me.