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)
But not like this.
My thoughts are sick. They make me sick.
Disgusted, I grab my testicles and squeeze until my eyes water. The pain is good. It grounds me. I deserved that.
I arrange her like a princess on the bed and cover her with the duvet. Then I sink down into the armchair with my head in my hands, watching, thinking. When I’ve decided, I get up. I’d like to watch her all night, but there’s plenty to do.
It takes a lot of work to make a person disappear.
Chapter 4
Zoe
I wake up groggy. My throat is dry, and my eyes burn. I’m lying in a big bed, covered by a soft blanket, instead of on the lumpy mattress of my single bed. Memories from yesterday return, of a man with big hands and a winter’s day eyes. I shoot upright.
Blinking, I look around the room, but it’s not the hotel room from last night. Wait. What happened before I passed out? The last I recall was feeling sick. Maxime took me to the bedroom and gave me a T-shirt. After that, my mind is a blank.
I glance down at the hotel robe I’m wearing. No T-shirt. I don’t remember putting it on or going to bed. My panic escalates as I survey the room with the Renaissance furniture and golden brocade curtains I don’t remember.
Where am I?
Jumping from the bed, I rush to the window and yank the curtains open. The view makes me stumble a step back, gasping as I take in the dome roofs and towers over the canal.
My heart beats furiously as I turn back to the room for clues. My bare feet are quiet on the thick carpet as I run to the adjoining room and peer inside. It’s a bathroom. I’m desperate, so I lock the door and use the facilities before washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face to clear my head.
The bathroom is even bigger than the one of last night. The shower has twin nozzles. A spa bath window overlooks more sandstone buildings and cobblestone streets. I run to the window and check for a handle, but there isn’t one. It doesn’t open. Light streams into the room, the sun still high. It’s sometime in the morning, maybe around ten.
I go back into the room and open the closet. It’s empty. I check the nightstand for stationary or a complimentary pen, any clue, but there’s nothing. I have a terrible suspicion, one so unreal it’s absurd to even think it. I hurry to the other door and push the handle down. It opens onto a lounge as luxuriously decorated as the bedroom. Maxime sits in an armchair, a cup of espresso on the coffee table. He stands when I enter. Dressed in a dark suit and silver tie, he’s as impeccably groomed as yesterday.
“Where am I?” I cry out, going to the lounge window. The view over the square is strangely familiar, yet I know this isn’t home. This isn’t South Africa.
“Calm down, Zoe. Come have breakfast, and I’ll explain.”
I spin around. “I don’t want breakfast.”
He walks to a table and lifts the silver lid from one of the dishes. A waft of pancakes fills the air. He points at the chair. “Please.”
The word is a command. Not hungry in the least, I pad over cautiously and lower myself into the seat. He adjusts my chair and serves two pancakes on the plate in front of me before reaching for a bowl of cream.
I can’t stand it. I have to know. “Did you touch me?”
His hand stills on the serving spoon. It’s minute, but I notice. He drops a dollop on each pancake. “No.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but he definitely didn’t rape me. I would’ve felt the difference in my body, wouldn’t I? “What’s going on? Please tell me where we are.”
Offering me a bowl of strawberries, he waits with an outstretched arm. It’s clear he’s not going to budge until I serve myself. I take a strawberry without paying attention to what I’m doing. I’m too focused on his face, looking for answers.
He pours tea that smells like roses into a porcelain cup and puts it next to my plate before taking the seat opposite me. “We’re in Venice.”
The strawberry drops from my fingers. It rolls over the carpet under the table. I can feel the blood drain from my face as he gives me the verbal confirmation of what I suspected.
“Why?” I whisper.
“I thought you wanted to come here.”
He saw the books in my apartment. I clench my jaw. He stole me. That’s terrifying, but somehow this, the fact that he invaded my dreams, feels so much worse.
“Eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”
I grab the knife. The shaft shakes in my hand. Am I capable of stabbing him? Can I drive the blunt end into his black, devious heart? “How did I get here?”