But I’ve chosen to act like it never happened.
Because letting another Castellane man into my heart, my bed, and my life would be like signing up for a second one-way trip to the Land of Pain and Heartbreak.
I won’t do that again. Not for anyone.
I finish slicing the last apple, hand the bowl to Stéphanie, and scrub the stickiness off my fingers at the sink. Stéphanie mumbles a quick thanks, laser focused on her pastry dough. Claudia’s behind her, moving like a woman on a mission.
The kitchen’s alive with activity and excitement, but my part’s done. I slip out and head upstairs to my room.
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a moment, inhaling the scents of waxed wood and lavender.
All right, Eva, the break is over.It’s time to get dressed for the dinner with the royals.
In the wardrobe, I sift through my dresses. The pale blue? Too summery. The wine-red? Too clingy. I settle on the forest green silk—dignified but understated.
Now the necklace.
I pull out the velvet box from the drawer. The necklace glints in the light. Its diamonds, arranged like drops of frozen light, are cold to the touch. My fingers hesitate before I pick it up. It pairs perfectly with the cut of the dress. The clasp slides open with a soft click.
There.It wasn’t so hard to wear Geoffroy’s gift again, was it?
I guess not.
Except… it sends me tumbling down the rabbit hole of my past.
I was eighteen. He liked me best at that age—still soft, eager to please.Grateful.
I’d grown up in a home where love meant control. Silence was obedience. Disobedience was pain. My mother believed in harsh discipline. My father believed in her. Locked doors,kneeling on grains of rice, the belt. I learned early that privacy was not a right, and affection was conditional.
Then came Geoffroy, a Castellane, the Duke of Rohinn. He was sophisticated. He was charismatic and powerful.And, boy, he was handsome!
The forty-five-year-old widower—his first wife had passed two years prior—was, it was whispered, ready to marry again. He danced with me three times that night at the debutante ball in Pombrio. My mother said it was too many to be a whim. I was breathless and flattered. When he called the next day, I felt chosen.
When he proposed six months into our whirlwind romance, I said yes without thinking. I would’ve married him even if my father had forbidden it. Which he hadn’t. My parents were pleased with the match.
Geoffroy was everything I’d hoped for at first. He was kind and lavished me with attention. Oh, and so gallant. He’d gaze at me and tell me I was beautiful, graceful, perfect in every way. Everything he needed. I’d reply he was my knight in shining armor, and I’d thank him for rescuing me. I adored him. I thought I was safe.
And for a while, I was.
We had Millie. And then things changed.
No. Not changed.Slipped. One tiny degree at a time, like in that famous boiling frog experiment. The one where the frog never realizes it’s being cooked alive, and never tries to jump out, because the heat creeps up so slowly.
Geoffroy’s compliments turned into instructions. The affection cooled. Then came the demands. Sex became theater. His theater. I became the costume and the prop.
The first time he used the whip, he cried with me afterward. He said he didn’t know what came over him. He kissed themarks, swore he loved me, and that he’d never hurt me again. I believed him.
The next time he hurt me, he didn’t cry.
Six or seven years in, I realized I hadn’t been kissed in over a year unless I wore something obscene. Unless it was part of the performance.
That night—the night of the necklace—he’d made me wear a red latex outfit with holes in all the wrong places. I remember itching. I remember the sweat running down my spine. I remember pretending it was OK.
He handed me this necklace afterward like a prize. He didn’t say why he’d bought it. He just fastened it around my neck and walked out. No kiss. No warmth. Just the glint of diamonds and the sound of the door clicking shut.
I stare at the necklace in the mirror. The craftsmanship is flawless. The large stones are cut to perfection. They’re meant to dazzle, and they do. I’d never asked, and Geoffroy never told me, but this necklace must’ve cost a small fortune just like my engagement ring. I slipped that off my finger yesterday, along with the wedding band. I hadn’t meant to do it so soon. But I’d just gotten rid of the X-rated undies, padded handcuffs, gags, plugs, and other contraptions in the lockable drawer, and I was riled.
Brigitte gave me a betrayed look this morning, when she noticed I was no longer wearing my rings. I don’t care. Geoffroy is dead, and I’m not keeping the symbols of a life that looked perfect from the outside and gutted me from the inside. The rings, sex toys, and lingerie weren’t tokens of love. They were markers of his total control over me.
