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)
The shadows are creeping up on me fast. Soon, it will be completely dark. I look around while I can still make out shapes in the dusk. A bench is pushed up against the wall. Other than that, there’s nothing.
A sense of abandonment washes over me. I feel lost and alone, but that’s nothing compared to the betrayal that burns in my stomach.
Panic.
I have to get out of here. The only hole in this godforsaken place is the ventilation gap, and that’s not big enough for a cat to squeeze through, not that I’ll ever reach that high, not even standing on the bench.
I go still, taking in the quiet.
Think, Zoe. Think.
It’s not completely quiet. The silence I registered after the absence of human voices—Maxime’s and my own—is in fact, now that I listen, permeated with the lap of water and the distant hum of a motorboat.
Maybe if I make enough noise someone will hear me. I grab the idea like a life buoy, kicking the walls with the heels and toes of my boots until my feet hurt. When that doesn’t work, I kick over the bench and drive it repeatedly into the wall with my feet, but I’m under the water level, and the stone walls must be thick. No one will hear me through the massive door.
The hopelessness of the situation drives me to my knees. I hit the wet, cold, hard floor with my hands handcuffed behind my back, staring up at the hole that goes black as the night sets in.
Despite my coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, I’m cold. I force myself back onto my feet, struggling to do so with my hands tied, but I eventually manage by using the wall as a support. I trace the diameter of the room, turning in circles to create heat and stay warm, but the space is too small for the exercise to work effectively. I jump up and down for as long as I can, but eventually I tire too much.
I turn the bench back over with a foot and sit down. The only way I’m getting out of here is if someone lets me. Maybe nobody will. Maybe that’s why Maxime left me here.
To die.
I start crying shamefully as the notion takes form like a living, breathing monster in my chest. A squeaky noise stills me. Something scurries over my hands. Screaming behind the duct tape, I jump up. More squeaking sounds.
Rats.
My teeth start to chatter. I huddle in a corner just like I used to when I was a child. Only, my fairytales can’t save me any longer. This is a nightmare, and it’s real.
Is Maxime coming back?
He has my letter and the photos. He has my phone. He can send the photos to Damian and my friends, showing them what a great time I’m having. Everyone who knows me even a little knows I’ve always wanted to come to Venice. Everyone knows I’ve stupidly been waiting for love to find me, for the right man to save me. Eloping with a stranger is such a me thing to do. No one is going to come looking for me. I’ll vanish off the face of the earth. My bones will rot in this burial chamber under the canals of Venice, the city of my dreams.
I can’t help but laugh hysterically through my tears. What a stupid idiot I’ve been. So naïve.
Sniffing, I wipe my cheek on my shoulder. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to help. It’s not the fear of dying that hits me hardest in the gut. It’s the regret. It’s not paying closer attention when Maxime said it wouldn’t always be like this. His meaning was obvious, yet my mind rejected it, choosing not to see it. It’s not heeding Maxime’s words when he told me to make the best of the day, most probably the last day of my life.
Chapter 6
Maxime
Back at the hotel, I dismiss my guards and have a long, warm shower. Then I order room service, put on a classical music collection, and arrange the roses in the vase while I wait for my food to be delivered.
It arrives promptly, a steak the way I like—rare—with garlic and parsley potatoes on the side and a bottle of their best red. The cutlery is silver and the glass crystal. The candle on the table is scented. It smells of lavender. Tomorrow, I’ll ask them to get some rose-scented ones.
I eat everything, enjoying the warmth of my suite and the view over the square. When I’m done, I pour four fingers of cognac from the wet bar and walk to the window to stare at the canal. It’s pretty at night with lanterns hanging over the bridges. So romantic. Such an illusion. Under the beautiful streets where tourists eat, laugh, and shop, lies my buried treasure. Somewhere down there under the dirty water is a little flower, a yellow daisy that will wilt and die without sunlight or water.