Simon called me repeatedly, asking for a meeting, but I ignored him. Then, he called again, his voice loud and insistent, “Zara, let’s meet.”
I refused. “Open the window,” he demanded, “I’m downstairs.”
I didn’t expect him to actually be outside, but there he was, standing under the dim streetlight with an impatient look on his face. Reluctantly, I went downstairs, wearing only a thin sweater in my haste.
Simon smiled when he saw me as he said, “Zara, happy release from prison.” The sight of him made me feel sick. Keeping my distance, I said, “You know I didn’t have to go to prison. Cut the bullshit.”
His smile faltered, cracking like a mask. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. Why are you wearing so little? Aren’t you cold?” I stared at him, expressionless. “Without money transactions between us, I don’t see the point in talking to you.”
Simon dropped the act. “I promised I’d marry you after you got out… I’ll give you what you deserve.”
“Is it really always about money?” I asked.
Simon’s smile was genuine this time when he said, “Zara, you saw what money could do three years ago.” I was silent for a long time, amazed at his shamelessness, his tone full of self-satisfaction.