Page 21 of Madam Alana

Once he sees my scars, he’ll know I’m damaged goods.

If he finds out that I was a sex worker, he’ll neverwant to touch me again.

When he realizes that I’m nothing but an abandonedwhorewith no family, no home, and nothing to call my own,he’ll change.

The monster will come out… It always does.

The slight knock on the door at my back broke me out of mydark, twisted thoughts.

“Alana, are you okay? Is there something I did wrong? If so,I’d like to discuss it.” Christophe spoke smoothly, his words and tone soundingconcerned.

I wiped away the tears sliding down my cheeks with myfingers and the snot pouring from my nose with the back of my hand.

“Um, I’m okay. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” I cleared mythroat, trying to sweep aside the clogged emotions.

“Okay, take your time,cheri.I’m ordering dinner in. We can attempt to call Darren and Celine. They haven’treturned the message I left but I’m happy to try again for you.”

I’d been excited to call her after breakfast, but whenChristophe rang his associate, he’d had to leave a message. It had only beenhalf a day. I couldn’t expect a businessman who was technically on hishoneymoon with my best friend to return a call so quickly. But I greatlyappreciated my husband’s willingness to reach out a second time. Again, hisconsideration seemed to know no bounds. That would change when he knew thetruth about his new wife.

“Thank you. I’ll be out soon.” I spoke with resignation as Istood and approached the sink.

I methodically washed my face, brushed my teeth, and gotmyself back together. My skin was still blotchy and the tip of my nosereddened, but I couldn’t change those things. He’d have to accept me as I wasor send me back to Angus.

Lord, please don’t let him send me back.

With a deep breath, I opened the door to find the roomempty. I heard the lilting sound of music coming from the living space. Ifollowed the pretty melody of classical music until I was in the dining room,watching Christophe sketching something on a large piece of paper about twofeet by two feet in size.

His hand moved at a speed far quicker than I imagined waspossible for most individuals. It was as if his mind was turning so fast, hehad to draw the image out in a hurryso as tonot missthe ideas as they came.

I approached him from behind, silent on my bare feet, andpeered at the sketch.

It was the Grand Canyon.

He’d already formed the skyline and the deep crevice in thelandscape, making the image look so real, I believed if I touched it, my handwould go through the picture and into the canyon itself. His sketch had so muchdepth and he’d only started it upon our return.

“You’re a genius,” I breathed. “A savant.”

He turned around, a beautiful smile spreading across hisfull lips when he laid eyes on me. “You are not the first to say such a thing,but you are certainly the most important.”

I clasped my hand over my chest. “Why would you say that? Iknow nothing of the art world, just that I see true talent before me. You’revery gifted.”

He reached out and took my hand, pressing his face to mypalm as though seeking comfort. “Oui, but when such kind words comefrom my wife’s lips, they mean more.”

I shook my head, the ugliness creeping back in, boiling straightover his thoughtfulness and obliterating it into nothing. “You know not whatyou say. My opinion shouldn’t mean anything at all. You don’t know me,Christophe.”

“Then tell me,moncoeur. What do I need to knowinorder tomeet the real you?” His expression was so compassionate, Icrumbled where I stood, covering my face with my hands. Misery slid along myskin, making me shake.

Immediately the tears were back. I didn’t want him to knowthe dark side of my history. I wanted him to keep looking at me the way he hadat the canyon today. As though I carried the very sun within me, enough to warmus both through the coldest of days. But that wasn’t reality. Not mine, anyway.

I slumped into a seat and pulled my legs toward my chest,wrapping my arms around them and resting my chin on my knees. I kept my faceforward, staring at a blank spot on the wall across the room.

“I was born in South Korea to a sex worker. It was theheight of the war and she’d fallen for aGerman-Irishsolider. I don’t even know his name. Mother never talked about him. When Iasked about him, she’d tell me the bare minimum. It seemed painful for her tospeak of such things, so I left it alone. Then when timesgottoo hard for her, she told me we were going on a walk. That walk ended with mebeing left at a girls’ orphanage. There I had to eat whatever scraps weretossed our way and sleep in a bed infested with bugs. I had swollen, itchybumps all over my skin for months.”

My mouth watered as a sour taste hit my tongue, the memory ofthat place trying to take over.

A glass of water appeared before me, Christophe nodding atit. I drank until I felt the need to vomit subside.

“Thank you.” I set the cup on the table.

---