Chapter 52

Matt

Ms. Callahan is doing well this week. Nothing unusual to note. The paparazzi calmed down after she gave an exclusive interview with CBC.

I stare at the weekly update Matt Barnes provides me as part of his security surveillance of Millie to ensure she's safe. He also attached a link of Millie's interview with Maggie. This set up has all the markings of Lana's handiwork on it.

Jitters flow through my veins and I press play.

"Thank you for being here today, Millie. Do you mind if I call you Millie?" Maggie asked, her hands curled around a ceramic cup.

"No, I don't mind," Millie responded.

Her blue eyes snared me through the screen, her luscious locks curled and arranged over one shoulder. Her hands were on top of the table, her fingers twisting and pulling at each other.

She was nervous, but from the way she sat with her shoulders straight, she tried to appear brave. She also looked tired, like she hadn't slept well in ages. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

A sharp stab of guilt scores through my insides and Maxwell's words hurl themselves against my consciousness.

I left her to deal with this alone. I did this to her.

What the fuck was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid?

I thought I was doing right by her by staying away, but in retrospect, the right choice shouldn't leave everyone feeling miserable.

I should've felt relief and not this constant pressure on my chest, this relentless yearning for her which has only grown in time. In the last few weeks, I realized my desire to teach, to escape my prison, all faded to the background compared to my need for her.

She's my other half, and I threw her away because I didn't trust her enough to respect her decisions. I didn't respect her enough to work through our problems together.

I didn't fight for us.

My hands clench into fists as regret flows through my veins. Fuck, I don't deserve her. Maxwell was right.

Be a fucking man.

I'm going to get back up and win her back. I don't know how I'm going to do it yet, but if she is brave enough to face the world with her head held high, then I'm strong enough to do the same and ask for her forgiveness.

And if she refuses, then that's what I deserve.

A loud whirring noise disrupts the quiet of the cabin. The unmistakable sound of a helicopter. After a few minutes, the ruckus abruptly cuts off.

Knock. Knock.

Pausing the video, I look toward the door and frown. There shouldn't be anyone out here in my cabin in Bitterwater Valley, California. I'm not expecting any visitors.

Rolling up the sleeves of my gray Henley, I walk to the door and look through the peephole.

Quickly, I swing open the door.

"Maxwell and Steven," I murmur, stepping aside to let them in.

A third man strides into view. Dark hair, almost black. Sky-blue eyes. Chilly features. Animosity dripping from his gaze.

Adrian Scott, The Shark. I've met him a few times in the past and consider us casual friends. He has even infused some capital into our business, but now, I wonder if the friendship has come to an end.

Probably, Ryland. You'd do the same if someone broke Lana's heart like what you did with Millie.

Wordlessly, he enters the cabin and I close the door behind me.

"You look better, at least. Shaved your beard, made an effort to wear decent clothes," Maxwell comments from the leather sofa in the middle of the room by the stone fireplace.

Steven helps himself to a drink from the wet bar and offers the others refreshments. After a few minutes, the four of us sit in the large rustic living room, the silence sounding louder than thunder.

My laptop pings from the dining table off to the side and Maxwell's eyes dart to it before he furrows his brows at me.

"I'm replying to some overdue emails. Getting back into the swing of things. It's time for me to get my shit together," I reply.

He nods, clearly satisfied with my response.

"What the hell are you planning to do with my sister?" Adrian stands up abruptly and hauls me to my feet, his hand fisting the collar of my shirt. A vein pulses in his forehead and his lips twitch into a snarl.

"Millie asked me to leave you alone, but fuck it, I'll be damned if I don't find out your intentions myself."

He tightens his hold on me and gets in front of my face. "Do you love her? Or have you been playing games with her all this time?"

I must have a death wish because I snort and reply, "What? Are you going to call me out at dawn? A duel? Pistols or swords?" Ryland, why are you being an idiot? I can hear Millie whispering at me.

"Fuck, Ryland. Stop with your bullshit. I want to know too. Millie is a sweetheart and is like a sister to me as well," Steven says, his voice impatient.

Adrian's grip tightens and the collar of my shirt digs into my neck. My lungs fight for air, but I refuse to look away, refuse to back down and cower before him. If I get to wish one thing on those stupid shooting stars Steven prattles on about—something he got from Grace—I wish I could be with Millie, reputation and everything be damned.

I won't have Adrian doubting my feelings for her.

"I fucked up. I thought I was doing the best by her, but I was wrong." My answer comes out in a choked gasp and Adrian growls.

"Before you two kill each other, I want to let you know there's a way out of your dilemma…well, part of your dilemma," Maxwell murmurs from the sofa.

Adrian and I stare at each other for a beat. He abruptly lets go and stalks off to stand by the fireplace, his glower firmly attached to his face.

I heave in the much-needed oxygen and sit back down. "What?"

Maxwell cocks his brow. "If you weren't hiding out here, you'd have found out sooner."

"I was working, getting back on the horse, getting my shit together like you said." And trying to figure out a way to atone for the colossal mistake I made.

"I was hoping you'd be getting your shit back together closer to home."

"Does it matter where I am and what's this news you're talking about?"

"Millie graduated in December and because you and her are practically family courtesy of Steven's relationship with Grace," Maxwell motions to Steven, who has the audacity to look as smug as shit, "you spent time together in holiday gatherings and naturally, you two grew closer then. That's what those rumors are all about."

He takes a sip of his drink and continues, "Millie, being someone who loves to learn even after she graduated, decided to audit your class for the last two quarters for her own intellectual curiosity. No professor student regulations were broken because she had graduated before your relationship grew close and because no violations occurred, your honorary PhD and tenure track plans are still intact."

My mind spins. What in the ever-loving bullshit is this?

"What the fuck are you talking about?" My heart leaps to my throat and I pinch my wrist to see if this is some sort of crazy dream. A sharp but fleeting pain spears me.

Still hurts.

"And to think, last year, you changed the name of our chat group to ‘Save Steven from Himself.' Well, I say it should be ‘Save Ryland from Himself' this year." Steven chortles in the background.

Maxwell fills me in on the events from the last few weeks—Millie holding her ground with the dean to protect my reputation, Lana, him, and Elias meeting up with her, Elias's intervention behind my back with the dean, something I'm immensely grateful for even if I'll never tell him that or else his ego will grow bigger.

I stare unblinkingly at my brother, who is conveying problems and solutions like he's reciting the number of digits in pi, completely unruffled and the opposite of the livid guy who gave me a beating that night at the airfield.

"What about this trust issue I heard about?" Adrian asks, his eyes narrowed at me.

I blow out a breath. "Aside from catching up on work here, I've also been in contact with our lawyers, and they're researching solutions to unravel the trust as we speak."

Staring at him, I murmur, "I messed up. Big time. And I don't know if Millie will ever forgive me. But I figure I'll start by looking into the trust because it's about time I do something for myself and for her, if she'll ever take me back."

Adrian's eyes soften. "And you think you can unravel this shit?"

"They think it's possible, but it'll take hours of research and we'll need to work with Steven and Pietra Capital to move the trust assets around. But they're optimistic."

Maxwell leans forward, his voice thickening with emotions. "Don't you see what I've been trying to tell you all along? We're the Andersons and we look out for each other. You never had to go about it alone. I have faith in you figuring out the trust. And now, with the school situation settled, you can teach and do whatever you wanted to do all along."

Steven murmurs, "And if you choose to quit Fleur and the company needs a COO, I'm more than happy to step in. I've been at Pietra long enough. It's time for a change in scenery. Plus," he smirks, the arrogant King of Wall Street in full force, "I'm going to be family soon."

Maxwell lifts his wrist, the leather bracelet flashing under the daylight shining in through the windows.

"Let all that you do be done in love," he murmurs, reciting the inscription I've long since memorized.

"Maxwell. Steven." My throat tightens and my vision blurs.

This is what he said all along.

This is also what Millie said long ago as well.

I was too stubborn and set in my ways to see. Until now. And God, I hope it's not too late.

A shadow appears in front of me, and Maxwell hauls me to my feet. He pulls me in for a hug and slaps his hand on my back.

"You would've done the same thing for me," he whispers.

These are the same words he said when he was lying on the ground bleeding after he threw himself in front of the boar on the fateful day forever emblazoned in my mind.

Blinking rapidly, I clasp my twin tightly in my arms, my heart heavy and full at the same time.

After a few moments, he lets me go, gives me a wink, and saunters back to his seat.

"So, what are you going to do about Millie?" Adrian asks, his countenance much calmer than before. He rakes his hand through his hair, disheveling it, and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"I have one sister, and I've failed her too many times already. But I love her so much. She deserves the world."

He stares at me, his eyes narrowing. "She deserves to have a man willing to risk everything for her. A man who puts her first. Can you be that man?"

I look at him, my chest heavy with regret. "I want to be that man. If she'll ever forgive me for my stupidity."

Steven reaches behind him and retrieves a manila folder. "Grace got this from Millie. Millie wanted you to have it. Read the contents. Maybe they'll help you win her back."

He stands up and the other two men follow suit. The impromptu intervention is over. Steven opens the door and walks out into the sunlight toward the helicopter sitting a few feet away.

Adrian pauses when he reaches me. "Don't disappoint me, Ryland. Or else you'll feel the wrath of The Shark for the rest of your life."

I nod, giving my friend a squeeze on his shoulder. His eyes soften and he steps outside to join Steven.

Maxwell lingers behind and slaps me on my shoulder.

"Maxwell, the other night at the race, I'm sorry for being a disappointment—"

"Not all of us can be smart one hundred percent of the time. I may be cursed, but I clearly am the brains of the family." He grins. "Don't worry about it. Let bygones be bygones. I have your back…always."

After the guys leave, I carry the manila envelope to the wooden lounge chair on the porch. Taking a seat, I quickly unravel the fastening and reach inside to pull out a stack of letters bound with a binder clip.

The feminine swirls and beautiful penmanship. My breath lodges in my throat as I realize Millie has handed over pieces of her soul in these carefully written letters.

While my heart lives outside of me, residing next to hers now, she's returning the favor.

My pendant over her heart, her letters in my hand.

Dear Mom,

The skies are crying today and perhaps it's because I'm near you again, I feel its tears most intently. I don't think there's a timeline for grief or a way to fill the hole in my chest.

My eyes greedily absorb her words, my chest wrenching at the pain and heartache in those heavy presses of her pen, the depth of emotions in her sentences.

I flip to another letter.

Dear Mom,

I think he's the special someone for me, the man I told you before whose gaze sets me on fire. He's someone I feel an undeniable connection to. Someone worthy of the word "whirlwind." I think he hides his tattered heart behind a suit of armor, but he's hurting, just like me. And for the first time in my life, I want to heal him, because I think I understand him.

He sees me. The real me.

The words blur together and a burning sensation appears behind my nose.

She has seen my heart, scars and all, since the beginning.

Then, there are the letters she wrote to me.

Dear Ryland,

It seems fitting the first letter I write to you, one you'll never read because I'll never send it out, is on a stormy night.

The passion in her writing, the steadfastness in the black ink on white paper, no shades of gray to be seen.

I know you're pushing me away because you think that's what I need and I'm here to tell you one word: No.

A resounding no.

What I need is you. The rest is just noise.

Yours, Millie

I never heard her. I never listened. The rest is just noise. I allowed the noise to overtake the righteous beating of my heart, the surety and peace I felt in my soul whenever I was with her.

I flip through the letters like a madman, reading every single one of them, all the tears, the pain, the happiness, all little fragments of her laid bare at my feet. My little lark. My fighter in the skies.

Then I reread them again. And again. And again.

The woman I don't deserve and yet love with every cell in my body until my last breath on this earth.

A small flash of yellow flutters in my peripheral vision, and my attention snares on the unmistakable bright chest—the color of the daffodils she loves—with a stripe of black feathers in the middle.

The western meadowlark perches on the railing and scrutinizes me, much like that day long ago before everything began. It opens its beak and sings a beautiful, heartrending melody, one that snakes its way into the newly beating organ inside my chest.

His name is Ryland…and I think…he's my whirlwind.

This time, I'm the fighter, and I'll fight for us.

An hour later, I trek on the grass, my rifle slung over my shoulder as torrents of thoughts muddle my mind.

Regret is such a useless emotion.

Sweat drips down my forehead from exertion and I follow the set of tracks before me, belonging to the beast I know very well and have tried to conquer time and time again. I've found clarity when I hunted in the past, and I hope to do the same once more.

How can I make myself deserving of her again?

A twig snaps in the distance and leaves gently rustle in the breeze, which carries the fragrant scent of wildflowers blooming in spring. Clusters of orange poppies dot the grasses, swaying to the wind like dancers twirling on stage. In the distance, I see shadows sifting through the trees, most likely deer and other wildlife scattering away as they sense me in the midst.

The tracks on the ground are deeper and fresher now, and I slow my strides and crouch low, sensing the animal nearby. A rustle of the bushes pierces the calm, and for a moment, everything falls eerily silent.

Seconds later, an animal darts out into the open.

I freeze, my muscles coiled in tension, and time slows to a crawl when I see the imposing black shape of the beast.

The wild boar.

I slide the rifle down my shoulder and take aim.

For a brief millisecond, time freezes, the seconds suspended in an alternate dimension, and my heart seizes, my breath lodging in my throat as goosebumps prickle my forearms.

My finger perches on the trigger, but for some reason, I hesitate.

The boar munches on something on the ground before he stills, as if aware his life is hanging precariously by a thread. He shifts his legs and charges toward me before stopping a few feet away, his beady, black eyes staring into the barrel of my rifle.

And so, the hunter and prey square off once more, but this time, when I look into his eyes, I realize one thing with startling clarity.

The need to conquer the boar isn't there anymore. It belongs in the past…to a past version of me, someone who was much too hard on himself.

My heart slams itself against my rib cage, the prey inside me struggling to break free. My shoulders tighten before I expel the breath trapped in my throat, my rifle shaking in my unsteady hands.

As I stare at the boar mere feet away from me, a reflection of myself, I realize one thing.

It's time to let go. Let bygones be bygones.

The hammering of my pulse roars in my ears and slowly, I lower my rifle to the ground.

The boar kicks and digs its foreleg into the grass. It emits a loud grunt, then turns around and darts back into the thick bushes, disappearing from view.

I slowly stand up, my vision finally clearing, my surroundings coming into sharp focus. I finally feel the warmth of the sunlight hitting my skin, the comforting breeze wrapping me in a gentle embrace. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, letting the air seep into the deepest crevices in my lungs.

The smell of true freedom.

To conquer or be conquered.

This time, I know, not only am I still standing, I'm also free.

And I know what to do next.