Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
I’m not going to tell him he makes talking sound like sex. I bet that’s what he’s used to hearing.
“Strange,” he drawls. “You’re the first woman to complain.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I bat my eyelashes. “Did I hurt your fragile ego?”
“No teacher ever managed to rid me of this accent, no matter how many private tutors I had.”
There’s honesty in that statement, like an olive branch he’s offering. I’m too desperate to know why he took me not to take it. “You speak English well enough.”
He takes a sip of wine. “A business requirement.”
“What kind of business are you in?” I can’t stop myself from adding, “Human trafficking?”
He only smiles broader. “When necessary.”
The waiter arrives with our starters. It looks like some kind of seafood soup. In different circumstances, the spicy aroma would’ve made my mouth water, but my stomach churns when the waiter puts a bowl down in front of me.
“Bisque,” Maxime says. “I hope you’ll like it.”
I stare at the lobster tail drifting in the center of the bowl.
“The secret is in the sherry,” he says, bringing his spoon to his mouth.
I drag my gaze from the bowl to his face. “So, France is home.”
“Eat your food, Zoe. If you need to know something, I’ll tell you.”
My anger escalates. “Ah, so we’re on a need-to-know basis.”
“Exactly.”
“What about after dinner? What happens then?”
He stills. “You really need to live more in the present, to enjoy the moment.”
“Because something bad is going to happen later?” I ask a little louder.
His gaze hardens. “Keep your voice down and eat your food.”
If I eat one bite, I’m going to vomit. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not feeding you again until tomorrow morning.”
The last two words get stuck in my head. Tomorrow morning. They add to my barely controlled panic. “Why do you need me until the morning? Why are you doing this?” He reaches over the table for my hand, but I pull away. “Tell me. Tell me now.”
“Calm down. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of all these people by teaching you your place.”
“On your lap?” I say in a catty tone.
“Over my lap, and then you’ll eat on my lap with a smarting ass.”
Tears that refuse to dry up burn behind my eyes. “I hate you.”
“I know. You’ll hate me even more if Damian gets a beating tonight.” He motions with his spoon at my untouched soup. “Now eat.”
“I can’t. I’ll be sick.”
He wipes his mouth on his napkin. “You have two choices. You can either eat the delicious food and enjoy the conversation or be treated like a child and go to bed hungry and sulking. You can see why the first option is hands down the winner. You’ll nourish your body and make the best of a moment you don’t have any control over. It’s up to you. Just know I won’t hesitate to execute my threat. I don’t make idle ones.”
I’m crying with helpless anger by the time his speech is done. I don’t even care any longer that everyone is staring. I just want to go home.
“What will it be, Zoe?”
Picking up my spoon, I grip it so hard the metal pushes painfully into my palm.
“Good decision.” His voice is calm but his gaze attentive, waiting for the moment I crack.
I dunk the spoon with a shaking hand in my bowl. The tremors running over my body are no longer only from fear, but also from anger and injustice. I force the liquid down my throat, tasting nothing.
Maxime continues to watch me until I’ve cleared my bowl. Every swallow is a battle I fight. I drink more wine than I’m used to, downing the first glass and throwing back another straight after.
The waiter doesn’t look at me as he clears our bowls and serves the main dish—lobster for Maxime and ordinary pasta for me. I somehow manage to eat everything and keep it down, although in the morning I’ll probably not even remember what I ate.
Through it all, Maxime makes conversation and even lighthearted jokes. When our dessert and herbal tea arrive, he pours a cup and hands it to me.
“What do you do at the sweatshop?” he asks.
“I’m a seamstress.”
His gaze drops to my blouse. “Did you make that?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t notice a sewing machine in your apartment.”
“I use the machines at work.”
“Doesn’t the manager have a problem with that?”
“The supervisor lets us use them after hours.”
He brings the cup to his lips. “Is that what you always wanted to do?”
“It’s a steppingstone.”
“To designing.”
I nod. He saw the books on my bookshelf.
“Honey?” He pushes the pot toward me.
“No.” I take sugar, but I don’t say so.
“You’re talented.”
I shrug.
The conversation continues in this manner until he asks for the bill. He pays with a stack of cash that would’ve covered my rent for a couple of months. He asks if I need to use the bathroom and waits outside the door until I’m done.