Chapter 23

I swallow my gasp as I stare at the man, dressed in all black except for a crisp white shirt and an expertly tied cravat of a similar shade.

He has the same dark hair and striking eyes I’ve seen with each generation of Anderson, but his eyes are more familiar. He stands next to his wife, his hands clasped in front of him, his thumb rubbing a silver jeweled ring.

His piercing gaze smolders with so much anguish and sadness.

It’s a gut feeling, something I can’t shake. He has experienced something terrible in his life, I’m sure of it .

The floor suddenly swirls around me and I place my hand on the wall for support, my body growing clammy. I may be coming down with something.

“Are you okay, Belle?” Melody asks.

“I’m fine. Give me a second.” I breathe in and out a few times, and things slowly come back into focus and I stare at the painting once more.

My heart is still rattling in my chest. I can’t tear my gaze away from him, this man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the frigid king in my life.

“Who is he?” I whisper.

“My great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Ashford Williams Anderson the Third. This painting used to be hung next to the grand staircase.” Maxwell’s deep voice rumbles in my ear, and I startle, finding him standing right behind me.

He looks at Melody and murmurs, “I got it from here. ”

She nods and turns to me. “Belle,” I’m thankful she doesn’t call me Ms. Belle like everyone else in the household, “I’ll have the detailed gala plans for you to review next week.”

Quietly, she exits the room and closes the door.

Maxwell stands next to me and regards the painting of his ancestor, his face solemn.

He’s wearing a navy three-piece suit today, the frigid billionaire back in full force. A quiet intensity hums from his frame.

“You look like him.” I turn my attention back to the painting, trying my best to ignore the fluttering of the butterflies in my stomach.

“And so I’ve been told. I was named after him, the first duke who settled in America a few years before the Civil War started. He donated a lot to the side of the Union during the war, much to everyone’s surprise. Because of his wealthy heritage, people expected him to side with the South, but his father and grandfather were abolitionists in the British Empire in the 1830s.”

“Do you know why he left England? I’d assume he had a lot of power with being a duke and all that.”

“From what he wrote in his journal, it’s because he wanted adventure and freedom. To break away from the shackles of peerage. To make something for himself.” Maxwell stares at the portrait and shakes his head. “I don’t think he got what he wanted, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t a happy man—at least that’s what I gathered from his letters and journals. He and his wife were estranged, but that wasn’t very unusual for the wealthy people back then. Divorce wasn’t common.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. I figured it must’ve been one of those loveless high-society arranged marriages.” He snorts, glancing at me. “Not much has changed since then, don’t you think? Our family is still steeped in tradition and I don’t think you’re ever truly free after escaping from a lifetime in a prison…unless you have amnesia. ”

A few more mirthless chuckles escape his lips, and I want to throw my arms around him and give him some warmth.

Maybe people call him the frigid king because he always looks so lonely, shouldering an insurmountable weight for his family.

Living in his prison.

“He looks so sad in the painting.”

Maxwell sighs. “It’s interesting how you feel the same way because whenever I asked my dad or my grandfather in the past, they’d say men back then always wore severe expressions on their faces. But maybe it’s the artist in me, because I always thought he looked sad.”

Turning away, he leads me out of the gallery. I guess story time is over. As we walk down the dark corridor, lit only by one sconce, he surprises me by opening the door to the art gallery.

“His journals are stored in the library, but we’re missing a volume. If I were to guess, something happened in the 1860s, because afterward, his entries were angrier whereas the ones before were more hopeful.”

My inner history buff makes a note to find his journals in the library later on.

As we step into the art gallery, my eyes widen at the carefully preserved art pieces from the great masters of the past. Fashion design is intricately linked to art and I’ve always enjoyed visiting museums.

I spot a few gorgeous paintings of lilies by Monet, a few portraits I recognize as the work of Rembrandt.

“No way!” Gasping, I run toward a painting of people lounging at a park.

Maxwell laughs behind me as he follows.

“You have a Seurat too?” I marvel at the thousands of tiny little dots that make up the painting—pointillism, a technique pioneered by George Seurat—something I’ve always thought is amazing because the art up close appears to be haphazard tiny little dots but from afar becomes a breathtaking masterpiece of something else altogether.

Broken pieces forming a beautiful whole .

“My family is a patron of the arts…including opera.” He gives me a droll look and I snicker, thinking of our conversation in his car the night I met him.

“The Frida Kahlos in your room are from this gallery too,” he murmurs, a half-smile on his face.

For a moment, the cold billionaire is gone and my heart flips.

“I never thanked you for that.”

“You don’t need to. What’s art for if not to be loved and admired?” There’s a thread of wistfulness in his voice. A deep longing.

“I’m glad you enjoy them,” he adds, his half-smile turns into a full-on grin.

Heat unfurls from my chest and spreads to my extremities.

My eyes catch on a rough sketch—a silhouette of a woman, very much like the one in my locket. But this one has faded features on it—like the artist attempted to draw the face over and over again but left only the outline intact.

“What’s this?” I frown, walking to the framed sketch. It looks old and doesn’t seem to be in a style I recognize.

There’s an aged parchment with masculine script on it inside the frame:

Your image dwells eternally in my mind. Though I could spend the rest of my life attempting to capture your likeness on canvas, nothing will ever compare, for my skills can never do you justice.

Yet I vow, one day, when we are reunited in another life, when my heart is made whole, I shall attempt to portray you once more, my love. Perhaps then, I will finally be able to capture your essence .

A sharp pain pierces my chest, my breath catching in my throat. The heartbreak in the words. The love in the sentences.

“It’s from Grandfather Silas,” Maxwell says quietly. “The one whose portrait we just discussed. I’ve always wondered who he was trying to draw. It’s obvious it’s not his wife.”

My heart rattles behind my rib cage as I stare at the letter and the painting, suddenly overcome with a sadness I can’t shake.

“I hope he got to finish his drawing of her,” I whisper.

Somehow, I don’t think he did. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I step back.

There’s so much history in this house, with his family. It’s so unlike my childhood, where I was taught the newer, flashier thing was better, where I saw my parents always striving to be in the forefront of the latest trends.

Perhaps it’s part of being in the fashion industry, to stay on top of things, to be a trendsetter. But it has always felt empty to me. Soulless.

And shouldn’t art, including fashion, have a soul?

“I love everything here. In the estate. I feel like I’m part of something and am about to write my story to add to the history books.”

Closing my eyes, I spin around and inhale the comforting scents of oil paints and canvas.

“I wonder what will be written in my pages.” I smile, thinking about my year of yeses mindset and how much I’ve already learned by making decisions for myself.

After a few beats of silence, I open my eyes, finding Maxwell staring at me, seemingly transfixed. His nostrils flare and he swallows, the muscles rippling in his corded throat.

“How do you see the positive in everything?” he rasps.

“I didn’t use to be this way,” I murmur, my voice shaky at the yearning I’m seeing on his face. “Until I started my year of yeses, I was complacent, always thinking about how I must follow the path my parents set out for me. But I realize, maybe I can’t choose everything in life, but there are still many things I have control over. ”

I spin around once more, my chest feeling lighter. Being in the room with grand masterpieces of the past has given me some ideas for my impossible collection.

“What’s the alternative, Maxwell? We have to live life one way or the other.”

Grinning, I walk toward him, wondering if I should ask him a question that has been nagging me ever since the day when I went shopping for the wedding with my girlfriends.

“Maxwell, can I ask you a question?”

He grunts in the affirmative, his gaze unfocused and turned toward the sketch. He’s clearly deep in thought.

“Do you believe the curse to be real?”

He whips his head in my direction, his gray eyes sharpening. “Who told you about it?”

“My friends, before we got married. It’s interesting how you didn’t tell me about it, the soon to be wife of the eldest son.”

“If I told you, would you have believed me?”

I shake my head. “I still don’t believe it. It’s the twenty-first century and for a family as large as yours who can trace their lineage to the dawn of time, there are bound to be some unfortunate deaths.”

We continue strolling around the gallery. “My family was in the lower middle class until Grandpa turned it all around with McKenzie Atelier. We lost touch with pretty much everyone other than Grandpa’s younger sister and her family. I’m sure if I could trace my lineage, we’d probably have similar sad stories as yours.”

“So why are you asking me the question then?”

“I’m curious.” I stop and face him and take a fortifying breath. “I wonder where the Silas I met at the race went, and why the Maxwell in front of me is so different—opposite, like night and day.”

Why do you pull away when you clearly want me? When I still feel this pulsing chemistry between us that has only grown stronger over time?

Why are you hiding from me?

Stepping closer, I watch the Adam’s apple in his throat bob, the dark stubble dotting his jawline adding to a rugged appeal.

His breath hitches and a thought occurs to me.

“Are you trying to save me from the curse?” I ask. “Is this why you’re telling me not to fall in love with you?”

“Nothing will ever happen to you, Belle. Nothing. ” His eyes flash with determination, as if it’s unfathomable for me to become another victim in the family curse.

He stalks away, a dark cloud looming over his head, and I hasten my steps to follow him.

“That’s why, isn’t it? You believe in the curse so you’re acting like a mercurial asshole to me. The curse can’t be real, Maxwell! It’s not scientific!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I want to, because this marriage has two people in it. This affects me!”

He spins around, his face mottled. “This marriage is only an arrangement for us to get what we both want. Nothing more, nothing less. You should remember that.”

He stalks toward the door as I reel from his words.

“Well, I can’t exactly give you an heir if we don’t even share the same bed!” The words escape my mouth before I can stop them.

I don’t know what we are doing, this marriage we agreed to. He saved my family’s company and asked for nothing in return.

“Why did you marry me, Maxwell? Tell me the truth!”

What is he getting out of this? Didn’t my friends say he’s doing this to get an heir and circumvent the curse? But why won’t he touch me? I can’t help but be hurt by his rejection over and over again.

Maxwell pauses by the door and keeps his back toward me. “Fine. You want to start trying? That desperate to get rid of me?” he growls. “Be careful what you wish for.”

With that ominous threat, he walks out the door.