Chapter 22

I watch the throngs of tourists walking on 5 th Avenue from my office at Fleur. They look like clusters of ants, eagerly heading to their destinations, whether it be the large expanse of greenery that is Central Park, the luxury shops in the likes of Louis Vuitton and Bergdorf Goodman, or the impressive facade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The humid summer heat doesn't appear to faze them, and I can practically feel the teeming energy radiating seventy stories up from street level.

I wish I could feel an iota of excitement. Instead, unease slithers inside me like a phantom itch.

My fingers fiddle with the pendant around my neck, smoothing over the cool edges, then the indentations of the gem-studded key within the lock, and a weathered memory edges to the forefront.

"This is your grandparents' lock and key pendant," Mom said when I asked her about the necklace always affixed around her neck. "Let me show you its secret."

I leaned forward, my eyes widening. I loved secrets and as a first grader, adults would often say things like, "When you're older, we'll tell you," whenever I asked questions they didn't want to answer.

Never Mom though. She always treated us as though we could handle the information.

Mom fiddled with the pendant, and with a flick of her fingers, slowly detached the key embedded within the lock.

I gasped in wonder. I thought it was one necklace all along, but apparently it was really two pieces!

She whispered, "See? This is a pair that can be worn as one necklace or broken apart into two necklaces. You're supposed to give the key to the person you love. It symbolizes eternal love."

"Like forever?"

Mom laughed and pulled me toward her soft waist. I buried my face against her scent of roses. She made me feel like anything was possible. "Yes, my sweet boy. Forever."

"Yuck. I don't want to love girls. I only love you, Mom."

She chuckled and pressed a kiss on my forehead. "Someday, you'll want to give your heart to someone else. That's what love is, you know? To have your heart live outside of you. It's scary…but beautiful."

That didn't sound very good to me. Frowning, I stared at her. "Then why do you have both the lock and the key then? Shouldn't Dad have one of them?"

Mommy stiffened, the corners of her eyes drooping slightly. She looked sad. Why was she sad? She rubbed my back, and I snuggled back into her arms, listening to her reassuring heartbeat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. "It's only for true love, honey. One day, you'll understand."

When she died the following year, Dad gave me her necklace.

He was wearing it around his neck then.

True love. I've always scoffed at the phrase. There's no damn way I'll put my heart in someone else's hands. There's no fucking way I'll infect another person with my darkness, have them give up all of their dreams, and drag them into my gilded cage with me. It looks like half of this necklace won't ever find its owner.

But then, an image of her appears in my mind. So fucking tempting. My heart skips a beat.

It's physical, that's all. That's all there is to it.

Knock. Knock.

The sound at the door pulls me back to the present. I tuck the pendant back inside my pin-striped shirt and fix my sage-green tie. I walk over to the bookshelf next to the windows and peruse the volumes.

"Come in."

Maxwell strides in, his quiet presence somewhat calming. He stands next to me and stares out the windows, at the world at our feet, the city our family wields considerate influence over. "You look troubled."

"You think too much."

"You really need to come up with something better. You say that whenever I'm right about something and you don't want to admit it."

He peers at me, the identical charcoal eyes contemplative. "Is this about the IPO? Or something else?" Maxwell steps back and muses, "Or someone else?"

Fucker. Damn twin-sense.

I don't look at him, my eyes now surveying the glass fortress next door, The Orchid, our haven, the establishment opened by our great-great-great-grandfather when he emigrated from England because he missed the gentlemen's clubs like White's over there. It blossomed and grew from the moment the doors were opened.

"I think it's a woman. You've done well under pressure before, so this can't be work," Maxwell comments and chuckles softly under his breath. "I never thought I'd see the day when my twin is troubled by love."

"There's no one. Stop it." There can't be anyone. For way too many reasons. The IPO, our pristine reputation, my academic tenure, her dreams, and her future.

"Why? You're the second-born. You don't have the fucking curse hanging over your head. Why can't you fall in love? Live because you can do so when others can't." His normally calm voice takes on a chilly edge and my eyes dart to his face, finding his eyes darkened, his features glacial.

A vein throbs on his forehead. "Why are you wasting your life, Ryland?" The life I wish I had. The words are unsaid but heard, nonetheless.

A swift burn churns through me, a tempest out of clear skies. "You don't know anything, Maxwell. You don't know how much I gave up for the family. You don't know—"

"Well, tell me then! Because, for fuck's sake, I don't understand why you've become more and more of an unemotional rock in the last few years. This is the most emotion I've seen from you in two years! Two fucking years! You think I don't notice how you go through the motions at family dinners, at meetings? Your smile as fake as shit?"

He steps closer, his eyes ablaze with a rarely seen passion. "You don't go out. You barely step foot into The Orchid other than your damn apartment and I'm pretty sure you haven't had a fuck in years. You think the others don't notice? Even Steven texted me the other day, asking what the hell was wrong with you. Even he noticed and he just went through his own crazy shit storm when he got together with Grace. You were that obvious. We're your fucking family. Tell us so we can help!"

A frustrated growl tears out of my throat, and I swipe a few books off the bookshelf, the burst of violence loud in the room. The heavy volumes lay in a heap on the floor.

I'm fucking unraveling.

"I can't breathe, Your Majesty! Okay? Is that what you want to hear?" I'm not allowed to have what I want in life. If I do, you and the people I love will lose everything. I'm trapped, lifeless, like the boar I killed in the past. This fucking guilt is snuffing the life out of me. "For fuck's sake. Leave me the hell alone. Stop reading my mind. I'm already trying to live for both of us, dammit. I don't owe you anything!"

I don't owe you anything.

The words echo in the large office, and I'm thankful the walls are double insulated, which I hope means no one else outside of this room can hear my outburst. Maxwell staggers back, his dark eyes wounded, his jaw clenching.

Anguish slices through me. I owe him everything. I owe it to him, to my family, to wear my responsibilities with pride instead of suffocating resentment. Fleur is my life, my blood, my future, the Anderson legacy. My family always comes first.

Always.

Despite the twist of the knife in my gut and the coiling of the rope around my lungs. Loop, loop, loop, the binds getting tighter over the years.

He rakes his hand over his dark hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. "I can't deal with you like this, Your Royal fucking Highness." He sneers, tossing my nickname back at me. "I came to ask you if you had reviewed the draft S-1 filing for the IPO yet."

I huff out a frustrated breath. What the hell is wrong with me today? "What filing?"

Silence fills the room.

"The fucking registration document that gets filed with the SEC. One of the most important regulatory filings for the IPO. I've looked over it, and so has Ethan. Where the hell are your comments? They were due last week. You never forget this stuff."

Shit. Fuck this shit. I bend down, gather the books on the floor, and slowly stack them back on the shelf, one by one, sorted by topic.

How could I forget? Why did I forget?

You know why. Your mind is filled with useless, inappropriate thoughts of the one woman you shouldn't think about.

She's the one person who gets you tied up in knots like this, and you aren't even in a relationship. Imagine if you were in one, how she'd have the power to destroy you.

Maxwell walks toward the door, pausing before he twists open the doorknob. "I don't know what the hell is going on with you, but get your shit together, Ryland."

He slams the door shut behind him and I grit my teeth. I stare at the leather bracelet around my wrist as guilt threatens to suffocate me. I still clearly remember the day when Maxwell gave it to me during our trip to Dublin after high school graduation.

He made a huge and uncharacteristic showing of sentimentality and sat me down on a bench in St. Stephen's Green, Ireland's answer to Central Park, after a day of sightseeing and drinking too much Guinness. He shoved a package at me wrapped in parchment paper and tied with twine. Sweat rolled down my forehead from the summer heat as I stared at him quizzically, and he grinned and motioned to the gift.

I untied it and held up a sturdily braided leather bracelet, the deep brown almost black in some areas. It had a rectangular silver clasp on one end and, on the other, an intricate knot—one of those infinity knots I'd seen before.

"It's a Celtic sailor's knot. There's no beginning or end. Supposed to symbolize protection and eternal love and friendship. It was said the sailors gave it to their loved ones before they went to sea," Maxwell said as he pulled up the hem of his blue T-shirt and wiped the sweat rolling down his forehead.

A heavy punch of guilt threatened to unmoor me when I saw the large gashes on his torso, now fully healed, but the ugly, winding scars still marred his otherwise unblemished, muscular body. He spent three months in the hospital to heal from his injuries from the boar attack and endured multiple surgeries. It was touch and go for a while there. Lacerated internal organs, severe hemorrhaging, months of utter terror for the entire family.

I was this close to losing my twin and best friend, the only person on this planet who seemed to understand me without me having to say anything.

A lump formed in my throat as I turned the bracelet over and smoothed my fingers over the sturdy leather. A small inscription decorated the silver clasp:

"Let all that you do be done in love."

- 1 Corinthians 13:4

A burning sensation appeared behind my eyes. I locked my jaw before whispering, "What's this?"

"I got one too." He held up his wrist with an identical bracelet dangling from it. "This is a present for your sorry ass and to tell you, I forgive you for your stupidity, even though you never believed me when I told you before. Don't think I didn't notice your sulking and performative groveling this past year. I miss my jackass of a brother, the one who gives me no bullshit. You would've done the same thing for me if you were in my shoes. So quit it and forgive yourself. You're fucking annoying me."

I gnawed my bottom lip, my skin suddenly feeling warm for another reason outside of the blistering heat.

"Love you too, bro," I muttered, hiding a grin, before slipping the bracelet on my wrist. I shoved him in the ribs, on his good side, of course.

I shouldn't have yelled at him. He nearly gave up his life for me.

The thoughts echo in my mind, drawing me back to the present. I press my forehead against the window in the quiet office, wishing I were anywhere but here—running in the large fields, surrounded by towering trees, watching colorful birds soaring in the skies, feeling the wind whipping on my face.

Anywhere but here.

The three sheets of paper weigh heavily in my hand.

The students each take a packet and pass the stack to the next person to repeat the cycle. The chairs are arranged in a circle today for our first JEAP committee meeting. We'll be going over the cases to be reviewed this year prior to funneling our recommendations to the NYUC Ethics Committee for their official disciplinary ruling.

One case is like the stories Mom read to me when I was little—the parables and warnings of the consequences of poor decisions made by weak humans.

Weak humans like me.

Millie sits across from me, but I can still smell the scent of her vanilla and jasmine lingering in the space between us. I can practically feel the heat radiating from her, which has nothing to do with the scorching heatwave going on outside.

She's a picture of radiance again, her thick hair tied in a loose knot on top of her head, with a few wispy tendrils framing her pinkened face, which is blooming like the most beautiful of roses. She's gnawing on her full lip before soothing each bite with a quick swipe of tongue.

I shouldn't look at her. Shouldn't stare at her. Shouldn't notice how perfect the pink of her tongue is.

What's documented in the paper is clearly a warning for me from the fates.

The students flip through the flimsy pages, and I wait for her to get to the third case on the last page.

I know precisely when she reaches it.

Her eyes dart up, her lips parting. She swallows, her gaze flickering back to the black text on white pages—there are really no shades of gray—before returning to me again.

"Tell me, class, what case interests you the most?" I ask, my eyes not leaving hers. I watch the blues darken and a flush creeps up her smooth skin.

"The third case. Professor student affair. I mean, it's wrong, but it's so juicy," someone volunteers, and the rest of the class laughs.

Millie's face pales and I grip my set of case summaries tightly, feeling the thin edges slicing my palms, most likely giving me a paper cut, but I barely notice.

"These are actual cases the Ethics Committee will rule on this year. I must remind you, all of you signed nondisclosure agreements before beginning the quarter. The repercussions will be severe if anyone violates these regulations. It's a privilege to offer our insights and we must not take this responsibility lightly." I tear my eyes away from my biggest temptation and sweep them over the circle of students.

"If anyone at any time feels uncomfortable, you may recuse yourself from the cases and instead, will be given an independent assignment for completion." I swallow, a rope slowly cinching around my lungs. "This is a safe space."

You fucking hypocrite. Maxwell's words during our phone call on my hunting trip almost two years ago ring loud in my ear. Of course he knows me.

My eyes meet hers again, finding her forehead crinkling, those damn perceptive eyes of hers all too seeing. She cocks her head to the side as if reading every thought in my mind.

How I'm the worst possible person to be on this case.

How my mind has already crossed into the realm of the forbidden, erasing every fucking ethical guideline the day a sopping wet water nymph crashed into my class and turned my life upside down.

How, if she didn't cheat and if I didn't have the IPO emergency, which involved switching underwriting banks and boring shit, there was no chance on earth I could've stayed away from her, no way I could've stopped myself from eventually succumbing to this burgeoning need, this ache inside me to touch her, to kiss her, to bury myself deep inside her and purge my darkness with her light, to find out every morsel of every moment in her life.

"Chloe, can you read the case background for the group? The names are pseudonyms." I look at her friend sitting next to her.

She nods. "A complaint has been lodged by Professor Kohl regarding strange noises emanating from Professor Archer's office, which sounded like," she flushes, "the throes of lovemaking. Professor Kohl knocked on Professor Archer's door and after a few minutes, the door opens to reveal Professor Archer with his student, a sophomore named Tammy, in relative dishevelment, defined as messy hair, sweaty face, and flushed skin. Professor Kohl distinctly remembers seeing a red mark, resembling lipstick, on the collar of Professor Archer's shirt. Upon confrontation, both the professor and student denied allegations of inappropriate behavior, claiming they were in a heated debate over a classroom assignment instead. Professor Kohl submitted a complaint to the department chair. The case was submitted to the ethics committee for investigation and review."

My mind drifts back to my office at ULA. When I touched her for the first time and felt the warmth of her skin, the wetness of her tears. When she slid her palms down my chest after she tied my bow tie. When I leaned down, my mind rendered into a useless mush, this close to kissing those pouty lips.

This Professor Archer is damn guilty alright.

But we have to undergo the process, the fact finding, before we conclude on the case.

It's only the right thing to do.

I sneak another glance at Millie, finding her staring intently at her paper, her pulse feathering her neck. She swallows and blows out a deep breath. Then another. Her eyes dart up once more.

Two magnets drawn to each other.

Kindred spirits.

The blond friend of hers, Fred Carias, leans toward her, whispering something in her ear, his other arm slung casually over her chair. Heat churns inside me as I witness this tête-à-tête.

Does she like him? Find him attractive with his golden all-American looks? He probably fucks in gentle, missionary style and not like my rough, caveman ways.

Images of them tangled in the sheets have me seeing blood and violence. Heat climbs up my neck and face. I want to tug loose the tie around my neck.

"Ms. Callahan and Mr. Carias, do you have any insight you wish to share with the class?" I bark, my eyes pinning on the fucker with a hard-on for her.

I bet my life he sees what I see.

"We were just discussing how this case may not be as black and white as this summary implies," Millie replies, her jaws locking.

"We don't have all the evidence yet," Fred adds, "and Professor Kohl only suspected something was going on. Strange noises and sweaty faces don't equate to unethical behavior."

"Not to mention, all parties are above the age of consent and no laws were broken." Millie arches her brow.

"But if something nefarious were to have gone on, they'd have broken the university's regulations over inappropriate faculty-student relationships. Their reputations would be ruined, not to mention other potential repercussions. It's unethical, given the power imbalance, the undue influence one party may have over the other." I tap my fingers on the desk, my blood simmering inside me. Tell yourself that, you idiot.

"Well, maybe these regulations need to be reassessed. They are both adults and if the relationship was consensual and if there's no favoritism, then there's no harm. Why should we view this as black and white? Who defined those colors and guidelines? Shouldn't the assessment be case by case? Shouldn't there be exceptions to the rule?" She raises her voice, her face flushed, her blue eyes blazing like the hottest fire, and I can't help but marvel at her. She's repeating her argument from when I saw her last in LA, when she defended her cheating.

Exceptions to the rule.

And deep down, I know I'm hanging onto the cheating like it's my last shield, my last defense against her when she is nothing like Sydney.

Nothing at all.

She's a fucking storm wrapped in a cloak of serenity. A tornado amidst clear-blue skies.

My undoing.