Chapter 11

I take a few deep breaths, a last-ditch attempt at calming my nerves before I meet with my fiancé at The Menagerie, a small cocktail lounge on the second floor inside The Orchid.

I’m going to do it.

Marry Maxwell Anderson.

After mulling it over the last two and a half weeks, I realize I need to be logical about this. My three biggest dreams: a thriving career in my family’s company, creating a haven for unwanted animals, having children of my very own, all could be solved by saying yes.

All these dreams require capital, and with having children when your fertility clock is quickly running out, I need a man, a donor with good genes. I’ve thought about my friend, Cole, but considering how he has feelings for me, asking him for the favor of sperm donation would be too cruel. Plus, I don’t have money for IVF right now.

And so, I will proceed with my parents’ plan, including their stipulations.

“Don’t tell Maxwell about your condition,” Mom warns.

“But isn’t this lying? If he wants an heir, shouldn’t he know I may encounter fertility issues?”

Mom grips my hand tightly. “You don’t have issues yet, just fewer follicles than other people. Don’t let him know. We don’t want him to back out of the deal.”

My conversation with Mom last night echoes in my mind and a slither of shame creeps inside me. The way Mom spoke of me as if I’m broken, but I’m not. I refuse to believe it .

But deep down inside, I wonder if perhaps I am.

Broken.

I shake myself—these thoughts aren’t helpful, and I put on my brave face as I step into the lounge fifteen minutes before our meeting.

In a terse email exchange, Maxwell asked me to meet him here to discuss terms for the marriage. We also shared health check results with each other—all clear on both sides. We haven’t spoken on the phone before, but I figure it doesn’t matter since I’m going to see him in person, anyway.

My eyes widen at the intricate and tasteful decor, from the pale pink sunken plush seating, the low-hanging pendant lights in the shape of tree branches, to the hand-painted gold vines and foliage on top of the blue-green wallpaper.

“Favorite color?” His deep voice is laced with amusement.

“If I had to choose one, I’d say it’s atrovirens.”

Atrovirens.

The wallpaper is atrovirens.

A sadness weighs on my chest as snippets of my conversation with Silas float to the surface. It’s been almost two months since the night of the street race and if it weren’t for the leather jacket hanging in the back of my closet at the apartment, I’d think that evening was a figment of my imagination.

If the fates allow, after I divorce from Maxwell, perhaps I’d bump into him again, the only man I’d ever felt a deep stirring for in my heartstrings—an inexplicable connection far transcending the short time we spent together.

Maybe we’d greet each other with smiles on our faces and he’d ask me to go with him to Nellie’s to share a simple pastrami and rye.

Maybe I’d bump into him at the Met, watching one of Puccini’s operas, and he’d ask the man next to me to switch seats.

Or maybe…just maybe I’d see him in the distance, his fingers intertwined with those of a beautiful woman, two little kids in tow.

He’d be living his dream life, and I’d be alone .

My heart clenches at the bittersweet images. A few of many that have sifted through my mind ever since I met him, a stranger who left an indelible imprint in my heart after only a few magical hours spent together.

“Ms. Law-McKenzie?” a blonde in a crisp gray sheath dress addresses me.

I nod.

“Mr. Anderson is in the room in the far corner. Do you want me to lead you to him?”

“I’m sure I can manage.” I look around the empty lounge and ask, “Is it always this quiet here?”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Anderson secured the entire lounge for your meeting. He said he didn’t want any disruptions or distractions,” she explains.

My pulse is thready as I stare at the frosted glass room with the door ajar.

My fiancé is sitting in there.

I’ve tried searching for him on the internet at home but his photos from the press conference have been removed. There are gossip sites saying the Anderson family has paid sizeable sums to media outlets and IT firms to scrub his images off the internet. The photos are rumored to be unflattering due to his very public panic attack.

I could’ve asked the girls for photos or information on him, but that’d require me to tell them what I was planning to do.

And to be honest, until this moment, I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to do it, to agree to marry a man I’d never met before. I didn’t want to worry them and I was sure they’d have strong opinions about our match, since they knew Maxwell and loved him dearly. Plus, they’d want me to marry for love. After all, I’d want the same for them.

Blowing out a deep breath, I walk toward the room. Let’s get the show on the road.

The opening notes of Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” sounding from the speakers stop me in my tracks .

My heart hammers a staccato rhythm and suddenly, tears threaten my eyes as I remember listening to this aria in Silas’s car.

The world of what-ifs and what could-bes.

The tenor’s voice strains at the high notes, the chorus and orchestra melding into an unforgettable melody and I square my shoulders and walk into the room, my feet coming to an abrupt halt when I see the man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned toward me.

The bright sunlight renders his shape into a dark silhouette, but something about him causes my pulse to flutter wildly in my veins.

Everything about him screams power and prestige. He stands tall, his long legs spread a foot apart, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He’s wearing a black suit that seems to be tailor-made for him, the fabric stretching over his lean muscles as he hums under his breath, too softly for me to make out his voice.

His head sways gently to the music, and as the tenor sings the pinnacle of the aria, Maxwell’s head stills, his deep, smooth voice raising in volume as he hums louder to the climax of the song that has graced cinema multiple times in the last century.

The hairs on my forearms rise.

That voice. The unmistakable deep voice that sends shivers down my spine.

It can’t be.

“Silas?” The name escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

He stops humming, his entire being freezing at my voice.

The tenor belts out the ending lyrics when Calaf proclaims his impending victory at winning over his beloved Princess Turandot.

My hand flies to my mouth as Maxwell slowly turns around.

It’s him.

Silas. My Silas.

Heady warmth rushes inside me, happiness flooding my body, leaving me disoriented .

His intense slate-gray eyes widen in shock, a muscle twitches in his jaw, and he slowly takes out his hands from his pockets.

“Silas, is it you?”

I can’t help but ask for confirmation, because this man, this billionaire standing tall in front of me, his dark hair carefully swept back, his imposing figure filled with restrained power, doesn’t resemble the soulful bad boy from that night, the one who teased me and held my hand when I was terrified as he sped down the near empty streets of Manhattan.

He steps toward me but halts midway, his hands balling into fists by his sides. A few deep, mirthless chuckles slip from his mouth, the sounds full of incredulity threaded with ridicule.

He shakes his head, his eyes roving over me in disbelief before hardening into a cold glint. He extends his hand.

“Maxwell Angus Silas Anderson, at your service, Ms. Anna belle Law-McKenzie.”

I flinch at the icy expression on his face.

Where is the warm, charming man from that night?