Chapter 2

Excited murmurs travel in through the double doors separating the staff corridor and the largest conference room inside the Kensington Hotel, one of the hotels under our Fleur Entertainment umbrella.

I’m standing with my phone to my ear, half-hidden in the shadows in the corridor. The public is waiting for their first glimpse of the frigid king, as they like to call me. The overhead lights dim and flicker, a signal from the staff that the crowd of reporters outside is growing impatient.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache forms at the base of my skull. The sharp pain stabs me repeatedly, and I wince. I try to focus on the conversation on the phone.

“You sure you got this, Maxwell? You don’t need to force yourself if you aren’t ready yet,” Ryland, my fraternal twin, asks, his voice sounding faint over the phone.

“It’s time. With rumors of you stepping down from the COO position, the public needs stability from us. For Fleur. They need to see the CEO.” Not to mention, the stock price has been volatile. One wrong move and it’ll plummet.

“But your privacy. Heck, that’s why you don’t let anyone photograph you at events or even at The Orchid,” Ryland murmurs, referring to the exclusive establishment for the rich and the elite, the crowning jewel of our family’s international conglomerate, Fleur Entertainment Holdings. “If you step out there, your privacy will be gone. You can’t go back. And what about your anxiety? Aren’t you worried—”

“Well, what do you expect me to do, dammit! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t— fuck! ”

I stop myself, but it’s too late. The poisonous sentiment is out.

Silence fills the line and I hear heavy breathing on his side.

“I…I’m sorry, Maxwell, for putting you in this position. If I hadn’t left—”

“Ignore me. It’s the fucking nerves talking. You know I’ve always supported you leaving Fleur to pursue your dreams of being a professor. And look at how it turned out. You’re happy; you’re smiling again.”

For the past decade, with Ryland as the chief operating officer, he took on all the public duties of the Anderson family and Fleur Entertainment Holdings. Nicknamed “the Prince of the USA,” he diverted the media attention away from me and faced the pressures of being in the primary focus of the media. We’d convene either at the estate or in the offices for strategy, decision making, day-to-day management of the company, but the press and the public relied on him for information.

As his twin, I sensed his discontent in recent years, saw his forced smile whenever we’d meet up with friends at the gentlemen’s club within The Orchid, but he’d brush it off. Until recently, when I found out the depths of his misery and how he almost gave up the woman he loved to be chained to the job and abide by the rules of a ridiculous family trust, which we thankfully unraveled recently.

That has to stop now.

I take off my simple family insignia ring, an ornately carved band with a black agate stone on it, the ring passed down for generations to the firstborn son of the family.

The son impacted by the curse.

The son with the most responsibilities to uphold. The generations of illustrious Andersons. The legacy.

Taking a deep breath, I slide it back on my ring finger. I came to terms with this a long time ago. I’m at peace. I’m as calm as the waters on the lake.

The frigid air and gloomy skies at Lake Superior last month seemed so long ago. A lifetime away. My fingers twitch, every muscle inside me tense and ready to bolt back to the estate, where I can wield my paints and brushes and cast out the turmoil rioting in my mind.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I accept myself.

The words from my childhood therapist ring in my ears. He died a long time ago, and I haven’t seen anyone else since. Maybe you should.

I pinch myself, concentrating on the present.

They are just people. Focus on the speech, the words. Don’t focus on them.

More affirmations tumble around my mind, phrases I’ve repeated to myself before I need to meet new people. They used to offer me a modicum of confidence, of the calm I so treasured, but now they are as useless as a simple fire extinguisher to a blazing wildfire.

“Maybe Steven can step in. He’s no stranger to the press with his previous dealings at Pietra. Or even Rex. The press loves him.”

I shake my head. Steven Kingsley, our good friend and soon to be brother-in-law, as he’s engaged to my half sister, Grace Peyton, has announced his departure from his high-ranking position at Pietra Capital. He’s planning to take over Ryland’s position at Fleur.

“You know that isn’t enough. Steven’s plans to join Fleur aren’t public yet. And Rex? He’s the life of the party. A great chief marketing officer, but not what the press is looking for. They want the head of the company to tell them everything is fine at Fleur.”

I stare at my dim reflection in the mirror by the doors, placed there for the staff and others to check their appearance before stepping onto the stage. I tug the navy tie around my neck in frustration. The damn tie is crooked. The pinstripes blur in my vision as I fix the offending article of clothing.

My dark brown, almost black, hair is carefully swept up, my face cleanly shaven, the gray suit carefully pressed and immaculate on my six-foot-four frame. I look like the powerful CEO the public believes me to be.

The calm, collected CEO who can make a fucking speech without throwing up .

But my gray eyes hold the panic I’m desperately trying to rein in.

“Ethan can do it too. Nothing like a serious CFO to calm the waters.”

“Fuck, I’m sure Lana can do it better than me!” I shout into the receiver, referring to my sister, the youngest of the five Anderson siblings, our resident PR guru. “I won’t repeat history again—having my younger siblings shoulder a responsibility that should’ve been mine in the first place. You did it for years for me, Ryland, and you were miserable. It’s time for me to step into the spotlight and do the right thing. I can’t hide anymore.”

“I just don’t want you to regret it later. It isn’t worth it.”

“I won’t. It’s time.” I won’t let three measly words define me anymore.

Severe social anxiety.

So severe I get auditory and visual hallucinations, which are extremely rare for the condition.

I was diagnosed after Mom passed away when Ryland and I were seven. I’m fine with people I know, well or in controlled environments where the spotlight isn’t shining on me, but in situations such as this, I’d rather take a dive in Lake Superior in December than brave the crowds.

But it’s been twenty-nine fucking years since I got the diagnosis. I’m done hiding.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I accept myself.

I can do this.

“I have to go, Ryland.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, push open the doors, and step into the glaring light, my mind spinning a thousand rotations a minute.

The sizeable crowd of grays and blacks rises abruptly, their shapes quickly blurring. Their voices morph into a terrifying roar in my ears. My heart throws itself against my rib cage and the tie cinches my neck in a chokehold .

My feet stumble, but I quickly recover and stride up the steps of the stage to the daunting podium with a solo spotlight shining on it. Sweat drips down my forehead as my fingers dig into the edge of the stand.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I can do this. The words are swept away by the tornado obliterating my focus, my resolve. I stare into the crowd, unable to see the faces, my mind imagining a venomous monster, rising from the ashes of the dead, jowls opened wide, fangs bared, murder in its eyes.

White spots dot my vision. Flashes of lights from cameras. That must be what they are.

But my mind can’t compute as I lean on the solid oak podium, clinging onto it for dear life, a captain sinking with his boat, lost at treacherous seas.

My vision is washed in more brightness, more white lights, and I feel myself swaying. Acid makes its way from my stomach to my esophagus, and I want to dry heave onto the desk. My fingers fiddle with my insignia ring, a last-ditch effort to cling on to rationality.

It’s imaginary. It’s all in your mind, Maxwell. Snap out of it.

I hear laughter and screeches. Chaos, more chaos.

“Look at him,” my classmates jeer and point to me as I stand in front of the altar at the church. “He can’t even make a speech for his mom.”

“He’s stupid. That’s what Dad told me. A broken Anderson.”

My legs tremble as I remain frozen in place, feeling the spotlight above me melting away my skin and muscles.

They are wrong. I want to tell them how much I’m hurting right now, how there are no words to describe what I feel when I think about how Mommy will never sit with us in the gardens again, watching me paint and reading books with Ryland. How no one will play songs on the old phonograph in the sitting room again. How our large, gloomy mansion will no longer have music or singing.

But I can’t speak. I’m frozen.

The people blur in front of me. Scary shapes of black. Their fingers pointing, their mouths moving, whispering behind their hands or their opened fans. I’m melting onto the floor, my skin and bones a disgusting mess in front of them.

Maybe it’s better that way. If I die, I get to be with Mommy.

After all, I’m cursed. I overheard Daddy and Grandpa talking about it. Mommy died because of the curse.

Tears gather in my eyes and I look at Mommy, lying in the casket with a cold, unfamiliar painted smile on her face.

I can’t even tell the world how much I love and miss her.

I’m a failure.

Subtle laughter and loud shouts wrench me away from my memory and back to the present.

“G-Good evening. I’m Maxw-well Anderson.”

More screeches and shouts, more flashes of blinding light.

The world swirls as more sweat gathers on my upper lip. I clutch my ring, letting the sharp edges of the gem dig and slice into my hands. I feel wetness but no pain.

Nothing can save me from this madness.

Blurred sounds echo in my ears, but they are muffled, like I’m underwater.

A dark shadow looms before me—the monster has me in its grasps. My veins turn to ice as my breathing quickens. It clasps me on the shoulder and I fist my hand and turn, ready to swing at it.

“That’s it. Mr. Anderson is feeling unwell today. I’ll answer your questions about the recent changes to the company.”

Another firm hand blocks my swing and pins my arm to the side of my body. He leans in and mutters in my ear, “Come, Maxwell. Your brother’s got this.”

The words are a gong to my panic, icy rain onto the blistering inferno, and I glance up, noticing the familiar blond hair and light eyes. My good friend, Charles Vaughn.

What the fuck happened?

My eyes widen as reality slowly shifts into focus and I finally take in the horde of reporters standing up, their cameras and microphones pointed in our direction, their eyes widening in shock, mouths agape, their pens flying across the notepads. They’re no doubt jotting down the top headline for the next month. How the illustrious eldest son of the Anderson family, the mysterious frigid king, turns out to be a quack, not right in the head.

My hand clenches in pain as the late sensations from my ring carving into my palm finally make an appearance. A warm, wet stickiness draws my attention to the wound.

Tiny streams of red seep out from the gaps between my fingers.

Blood.

I sliced my palm with my ring and didn’t feel a thing until now.

The bile that has receded makes its way back up my throat and Charles squeezes my arm in reassurance as he walks me down the steps of the stage.

I straighten and disentangle myself from my friend, clinging to the last shreds of my dignity, and turn back, finding the worried eyes of my youngest brother, Ethan, from where he stands behind the podium. He gives me a terse nod before turning to the crowd.

“Now, I’m sure you have questions…”

Charles and I walk through the double doors, the chaos rioting behind me.

Shit. Shit. Shit. What have I done?