Chapter 28

Turning my attention away from the rough sketches of my fall/winter collection—a collection I’m calling “The Disaster” because everything I’m drawing looks like trash; I look outside the windows of the Elysium. It was supposed to be a slice of paradise for me in the mansion, a place where my creative juices could flow and I could show everyone how wrong they were for doubting my abilities.

But instead, I’m hitting a designer’s block. I sigh and stare at the dreary skies and the thin layer of snow outside. Murky fog has invaded the premises, swallowing all the life and light, leaving nothing untouched. Winter came early this year, and this November feels exceptionally cold, the kind of chill that burrows deep inside your bones.

A few black crows swoop down from the skies, their squawking adding to the desolate atmosphere as I turn back to the charcoal drawings in my hand—simple silhouettes of sleeveless turtlenecks and long trousers—beautiful, understated, and infinitely boring .

How am I going to save McKenzie Atelier? Maxwell’s investment will keep things afloat for a little while, but if the elite and celebrities don’t come back into the fold, we’ll eventually end up back where we were.

Rubbing the fading bruise on my arm, I wince at the lingering soreness from my accident two weeks ago. My tyrant of a husband insisted I stay at the hospital for an entire week to make sure I didn’t have a secret concussion or some other hidden ailment. He moved me into a luxury suite and made sure I got around the clock care, even though I told him I was fine .

I remember how worried he was when he first saw me in the hospital.

The doctor had just left the room after telling me he thought I was fine from the fall. He mentioned as an aside, I wasn’t pregnant based on the standard blood tests they ran on me.

I was reeling from the crushing disappointment when Maxwell stormed into the room like a madman. I still remember his fevered eyes, his hair in disarray, like he spent the entire car ride tugging it, and how he barged past my friends and took my hand by my bedside.

Like I was the most precious person to him.

Like he couldn’t live without me.

My heart twists inside my chest. I wish my thoughts were true, that somehow, my cold, mercurial husband was secretly in love with me the way I’m slowly falling for him.

Maybe one day this arrangement of ours would become a real marriage.

He came over to the hospital every day at dinnertime and would bring Mora’s meals in a container. We’d sit in silence and eat side by side, but his attentions appeared to be preoccupied.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked one night as he packed up Mora’s containers into a bag.

His throat worked but didn’t answer me. Disappointment filled me. He was keeping me at a distance…again.

I sighed. “Why are you here if you’re going to be silent?”

“So you don’t have to be alone.” His piercing gaze snared on mine and for a moment, and I could’ve sworn he meant more than what he was saying, that he knew how lonely I was all my life, growing up locked away in my castle.

I bit back a smile.

His eyes flickered away, and I reached out for him but winced from the soreness in my body.

His nostrils flared, his eyes alert. “Are you okay? Do I need to call the doctor? ”

I would’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

“Never . I’ll find the bastards responsible.” Violence seeped into his voice.

“You told me you wouldn’t do anything to the shelter!”

He looked away. “I promised nothing. No one hurts what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours,” I muttered, but my heart skipped a beat.

He gripped my hand, forcing me to look at him. “For the duration of this arrangement, you’re mine. Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Don’t you forget it.”

Heat unfurled inside me, and my lips parted. My body couldn’t help responding to the dominance in his voice.

I want to be his.

His eyes flared and snagged on my mouth, but then he dropped my hand and looked away.

Not wanting this distance between us, I whispered, “Should we practice your speech for the gala?”

Maxwell gave me a curt nod, and I smiled encouragingly at him. “You can do this. It’s just you and me. Let’s start from the beginning.”

He took a deep breath and rolled out his muscles. Clearing his throat, he began, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to the ball.”

It’d be a repeating cycle each night. He’d sit next to me and silently eat, then we’d practice his speech. He’d wait until I fell asleep before he’d disappear.

What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours, Maxwell?

I walk back to my writing desk and set my drawings and pencil down, ignoring the rattling of the tree branches against the building, the creepy creaking of the bones of the house, like it’s restless, just like me.

Taking a seat at the chair, I close my eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily on my eyelids as I listen to the howling sounds of nature.

Moments pass by before I open my eyes. The skies are pitch black. I must’ve fallen asleep without realizing .

Stretching, I stare at the desk in front of me—it’s my favorite furniture in the room. It’s obviously an antique, well preserved and made of rosewood with gold hardware. I trail my fingers on the smooth surface, tracing the thin lines betraying the years of use before moving to the intricate scrollwork carving on the legs of the table and the drawers.

Judging by the items I found on the trays on the desk before, Maxwell’s grandmother was probably the last person to use this space before the room was forgotten.

My elbow accidentally knocks into my drawings, and my pencil clatters to the ground in the gap behind the desk and the wall.

Squatting down, I move the chair out of the way and maneuver myself into the tight space under the desk. Pressing one hand to the inner surface of the furniture, my other hand moves around the floor to reach for the pencil.

“Almost there,” I huff as I lean in, trying to grab it.

Click .

I freeze, my pulse quickening. Did I just hear that? Frowning, I crawl back out and look around, searching for the source of the sound.

A small drawer pops out from the side of the desk, previously hidden by the intricate carvings in the wood.

My eyes widen. A hidden drawer! I’ve heard about these contraptions in vintage furniture. The howling of the wind ratchets up, the clashing of the foliage outside more thunderous, but nothing can dim the excitement rushing through me.

Quickly, I look inside the compartment, finding one crinkled envelope, yellowed with age, the red wax seal of the Anderson lion already broken.

I carefully take it out, my fingers gingerly smoothing over the elegant script that says:

My Beloved Emma.

My breathing catches and a desperate ache gnaws inside my chest as I open the envelope and take out the letter. The paper is wrinkled, like someone balled it up before, and the penmanship is beautiful.

My Beloved Emma,

In the next few days, you will see me behave like the role I was born into, a coldhearted duke. But let me reassure you, the man you love is still here, still very much in love with you with all of his heart.

Louisa found out about our affair and confronted me about it. As your belly became swollen with our child, she grew suspicious, because she knew you didn’t cavort with the men on our staff and you rarely go out, since you’d much prefer spending your free time painting or reading.

She asked the servants and under coercion, one of them told her about us. While our marriage isn’t a love match, she has her pride, and I’m afraid she won’t let this go and will hurt you. I’m afraid she’ll thwart my plans of leaving her.

To protect you and our babe, I have to cut you off as would any man of my station do in such circumstances.

But fear not. After I settle my affairs here and hand over my duties to my brother, I’ll find you.

We will escape and start a new life together. We will be free. While I won’t have my wealth and influence, I know my life will be far richer because we’ll be together. Bear with me and forgive me for the hurt I’m about to cause you.

I love you most ardently and fervently.

Wait for me.

Yours forever, this lifetime and all the lifetimes thereafter,

Silas

29th of September, 1860

The letter slides from my grip and flutters to the desk.

Noises travel in from the entryway and my heart thuds in a rapid rhythm.

“Silas! Please—”

“She’s gone because of you!” A loud bellow and I jump in place. “She never saw it, did she? Because you took it! Louisa, you—”

Suddenly, the light from the lamp flickers off, plunging the room into darkness and I shriek.

I jolt awake, my eyes snapping open, my breathing coming out in quick pants. My face is drenched in sweat. The wind rattles the windows, but the room is bathed in afternoon light.

What on earth? Wasn’t it nighttime? I blink a few times. Still daytime. That must’ve been a dream. But it felt so real!

I take a few deep breaths to calm my rioting pulse. Another strange dream, just like the others I’ve had. The tall man in the rose garden I’ve still not step foot in, how he has his back turned toward me, but his silhouette is infinitely familiar, like my imposing husband.

Blowing out a deep exhale, I wipe my face, finding my cheeks wet with tears.

My chest hurts from deep within, the swell of emotions leaving me mysteriously unmoored. My eyes burn with the urge to cry some more. Why am I feeling so sad?

Silas . 1860. The penmanship is still so vivid in my mind. It’s so hauntingly real. My thoughts travel back to the voices I heard. Silas. Louisa. The duke and the duchess? I think about the portrait of the somber man, the one with the anguish in his eyes.

The man who looks so much like Maxwell.

The dream is about a letter from Maxwell’s great-great-great-grandfather to a woman he clearly loved who was not his wife.

Did she get it? No, she mustn’t have, based on what I heard. Where did she go? Why didn’t they run off together? Seeing as Silas’s portrait is hung in the gallery and there’s no mention of him being a missing duke, I know they didn’t get their happy ending.

And the thought, somehow, is unbearable.

Don’t be so silly. It’s a dream. It can’t be real. That’d make no sense. But it feels so real—the love, the heartbreak, the stirring in my soul.

Unease swirls inside me and a thought occurs to me, one that has my lungs gasping for air.

What if ?

I can’t even bring myself to ask the question aloud as I kneel on the ground, my hand trembling, sliding to that spot underneath the desk, the one I remember from my dream.

Click.

My blood turns to ice and the room swirls around me. It can’t be. That’s impossible.

Getting back up, I look at the side of the desk. This can’t be happening.

A small, hidden compartment is popped open. A compartment I wasn’t aware was there before.

Inside lies an envelope, the same envelope I saw in my dreams.

My Beloved Emma.

Shaking, I fall into my chair, a chill settling into my bones. Quickly, I open the envelope, my mind swirling with thoughts, none of which makes sense.

Nothing is inside.

What on earth is going on?