Page 48 of To Hell

“She will come around,” I move closer to Zoe, and she is already fidgeting with the lapel Valerie gave her. “Zoe?” I stop before I make her any more nervous.

I fucking hate that she reacts this way when I’m around her.

The last thing I want is to evoke fear in her.

“Yes,” she stands, hitting her knees against the edge of the table but sucking in the pain, and goes over to the table I had set up for her, one that is a little away from the others so she can have some privacy when working.

“What do I have to do to make you stop doing that?” I point at her even though her back is to me.

“Doing what?” She feigns nonchalance but her voice is so faint I’m straining to hear her. I hear her clattering teeth more than I can hear the sound of her voice.

“You know what I’m talking about, Zoe,” my voice drawls deeply, partly from vexation that she might be ignoring me even though I know I’ve been acting like a jerk over and over again.

I get that she thinks she is my personal servant, but she is human. And I know she is used to being hit, but I guess the kind of blows I deliver are worse than the physical blows she had to endure.

Mine are emotional. I can always feel her confusion and devastation every time I leave her hanging.

“Look at me,” I clip, the thread of my patience almost snapping.

She inhales deeply, then tilts on the stool before the table to look at me, finding a magazine to clutch in her hands as if it is a lifeline.

“What do I have to do to make you stop being afraid of me?” I go closer, pulling a stool with me until I’m in front of her. “Tell me,” I sit, and she whimpers, drawing her legs close and shuddering with each breath.

I lean back, studying her.

“Zoe,” I drag my stool so close to her that our knees meet, and she tries to pull away. It reminds me of the one time she tried avoiding me in high school after she found drugs in my bag.

She wasn’t judgmental, but she was pissed I didn’t tell her much about my life, whereas I was constantly peaking in the door of her life trying to get entry.

If time hadn’t watered the beauty of the memory, I would smile right now. But even looking at her, I want to punch something. I want to hurt myself or anyone else for everything that has broken that girl I used to know.

I still love the woman in front of me. I would die for the woman in front of me. But I fucking wish the girl had been allowed to grow into the woman she wanted to be instead of being forced into slavery.

“You don’t like me,” I nod, “got it.”

“I didn’t say that,” she hugs the magazine. “I can never say that.” She is blinking anxiously.

“You sure?” I crook an eyebrow as she lifts her eyes to stare at me.

She nods eagerly. “Never”

“And why is that?”

“You are…”

“If you say I’m your master, I will throw myself out the window.”

I thought that was funny but the horrified expression on her face tells me otherwise. I clear my throat, straighten up, and decide here and now that I should leave comedy for the likes of Cesare.

“I just want to help out.”

“I can handle the suits, but…” She stretches, reaching out for a container with trembling hands. “You are welcome to help with the stones.” She shakes the container, and the shuffling sound of stones breaks out.

My eyebrow stays up. “Stones?” She is not being serious now, is she?

“That’s the only thing you can do here to help. I can’t let you skip from level one to ten. You don’t know how to sew.”

I clear my throat, mimicking her posture of leaning my elbows on my knees. “God forbid I go anywhere near your art.” It used to be an inside joke between us, a lifetime ago, and her eyes catch it before she blinks it off. “I want to offer you a bargain concerning the Met Gala.”

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