Chapter 30

“If these are your concept drawings, then I might as well look for a new job now because McKenzie’s will be brought down by you, Belle!” Gordon tossed my initial sketches of The Disaster into the trash can and sneered at me, contempt dripping from his beady black eyes.

Gritting my teeth, I fought every urge to give him a right hook because getting arrested for assault wouldn’t do the company’s image any favors. “You’ve given me an impossible task, Gordon.”

He scoffed. “It’s impossible because you aren’t qualified to be here. You’re only here because of your family, fucking nepo baby, and the elite have caught on. They aren’t buying what you’re selling and to think, your parents want you to lead the company one day.”

Gordon pointed to the papers in the trash can. “Complete trash. Uninspiring trash that isn’t even worthy to be in my trash can.”

Fuck you, Gordon, I’ll show you.

I blow out a frustrated exhale as I turn on the electric lamp I placed in the secret passageway a few weeks ago. Memories of yesterday’s horrendous exchange with Gordon at work flood my mind. He purposely left his office door cracked open as he ripped me a new one because he wanted to undermine me in front of everyone at every opportunity.

I know it’s because he’s pissed his last name isn’t Law-McKenzie and he won’t ever get the chance to run the company.

Dammit. This is just what I need on top of dealing with my maddening husband. The frigid king has made no effort to find me since our hate sex encounter two weeks ago, and I’ve gone out of my way to avoid him as well .

But I have fired the bodyguard—after giving him a nice bonus for his troubles, of course. I told Maxwell I would move out if he insisted on assigning me a shadow.

I guess I should be pleased he backed off, since that meant he wanted me living with him more than he wanted to get his way.

These bastards in my life.

My footsteps echo in the narrow corridor and the familiar haunted howls of the draft keep me company as I make my way toward the Elysium.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I have a few hours to spare before I’m to find Melody and Mora in the kitchens to finalize the menu for the charity gala next month. The annoying wave of dizziness hits me again and I place my hands on the stone wall for support, waiting for the spell to pass.

Clutching the vintage locket around my neck, my fingers trail over each intricate petal and gemstone on the jewelry, a familiar melancholic hollow filling my chest.

I visited Dr. Chen last week for my strange symptoms, and she performed a checkup and ran some bloodwork, but everything came back normal. Perhaps it was stress, she said.

Normal. Not pregnant. Stress.

The dizzy spell passes, but the chasm widens inside me and my eyes prickle with tears. I swallow the lump in my throat.

What am I doing? Married to a man who enthralls me and infuriates me, a man who’s determined not to love me and is downright cruel at times. I’m not pregnant, not saving any animals or even volunteering at the shelter because that bastard took that away too. And now, I’m failing at saving Grandpa’s legacy.

A sob wrenches from my throat as I clutch the locket tighter in my hand.

Wiping my tears on my sleeve, I continue down the passageway and push open the secret door to the Elysium but the soft light in the room stops me in my tracks .

The antique desk lamp is turned on.

I freeze. I’m sure I turned it off before I left the room yesterday afternoon.

I must have, right?

It’s then I notice the heavy drapes are drawn shut, the sounds of the wind moaning outside more muted than usual.

Someone has been in here.

My pulse quickens as I slowly approach the desk, wondering if I’m going crazy from the stress or if it’s the house driving me insane.

Then I see the drawings.

Someone has modified them.

I started a new batch of designs yesterday after my meeting with Gordon—a collection of shawls and scarves to be made with biodegradable non-wool fabrics such as hemp, bamboo fibers, and organic cotton. I had a list of all the random, illogical “rules” Gordon gave me for this project—no wool, no long sleeves, and other idiotic restrictions—next to my drafts.

But now, instead of my original sketches, someone has merged my original and new designs together in an artistic rendition of a stunning tank top with a wraparound shawl that functions as sleeves without being actual sleeves.

Then I notice the masculine scribbles on the side of the drawing.

I’m not a designer, but I think this would fit the rules and be quite unique, don’t you think?

A sweet warmth sweeps into my chest, chasing away the chills from earlier, and my lips twitch up into a smile. Damn him.

Maxwell. He was here, working on my drawings, my disaster . Somehow, he knew I was stuck.

Gingerly, I pick up the sketch and trace my fingers over the clean lines of the drawing, obviously rendered by someone who’s an artist but isn’t familiar with clothing design. But the concept is there .

It’s brilliant.

All along, I was trying to color inside the lines, to follow Gordon’s pathetic rules to a T when I should be bending them. If I want to be the head designer of McKenzie’s one day and follow Grandpa’s footsteps in creating innovative clothing the public can’t get enough of, I need to break the mold.

Feeling invigorated, new ideas spark in my mind and I head to the bookshelf to pull out volumes on vintage fashion I found earlier.

Smiling, I return to the desk with a stack of three leather books. I flip through the pages to find what I’m looking for and begin jotting down ideas on a new sheet of paper.

I don’t even bother opening the drapes or turning on more lights, opting to dive straight into work, the rattling of the windows from the elements outside and the creaking of the floorboards no longer bothering me.

The hours fly by as I work tirelessly at my designs, rendering sketch after sketch, ordering fabric swatches online, my mind brimming with new ideas and more questions. It’s like I’ve finally smashed through an invisible barrier and can see the finish line ahead.

Riiiing.

The loud ringtone of my phone startles me and I drop my pencil before snatching up the offending piece of technology.

Bronx Shelter for Unwanted Animals.

I really hate this name.

Frowning, I stare at the ringing phone, wondering why the shelter is calling me after I “resigned.”

Pressing a button, I answer, “Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Annabelle Law-McKenzie Anderson?” an unfamiliar woman’s voice sounds across the line. I startle at my new last name—despite being married for a while, I haven’t had anyone call me an Anderson until now. Then I remember what a bastard my husband is and I scowl .

“Yes, this is she. Who is this?”

“Hi! I’m Dr. Naomi Wong from BSUA. You don’t know me because I just started last week, but I want to personally call you and thank you.” Her voice is excited—a warm, audible hug.

“You’re welcome? Um… What is this about?”

“Your generous donation! This is the largest donation the shelter has ever received since it opened its doors sixty years ago. We have enough funding to last us for the next five years and also to complete some much need renovations here.”

“Donation?” My mouth drops open and I stare at the phone in bewilderment.

“Thank you so much for your generosity. As per your terms, we are now a no-kill shelter, and any animals with us can stay permanently even if we can’t find their forever homes. The board has hired me on as the director to revamp this place. I assure you, I have plenty of experience working with animals and shelters as I’m a veterinarian at…”

Shock sears me and I barely pay attention as she chatters about how Bob has mysteriously left his position. She walks me through her resume, which includes working at some of the largest animal rights organizations and shelters in the world, and about the plans she has to shine more awareness to the cause. Her goal is to eradicate kill shelters too.

My heart sprints around my rib cage, her words echoing in my ears, and all I manage to do is to utter “you’re welcome,” and “of course” when she invites me to a luncheon next week.

“Thank you again, Belle, for your generosity and kind heart. We’ll talk soon,” she says and we hang up.

My pulse rings in my ears as I sit there, stupefied, wondering what just happened and who could’ve done this when my eyes snag on the masculine scribbles on my drawing again.

Maxwell.

He must have done this .

My heart jolts into a sprint, running toward an unknown destination, and I stand up, a sizzling current rushing through my body.

I need to see him, to ask him if this is all him.

Laughing under my breath from all the good news, my mood climbing back to an all-time high on this insane rollercoaster ride I find myself on, I run through the passageway, pass the mistress’s bedroom, then out on to the quiet corridors of the house.

Morris strolls by with Agnes. His eyebrow is cocked high, and I grin at him but don’t slow down. Agnes shakes her head as she mutters something under her breath, but I don’t pay her any attention.

Exhilaration floods my body—no one can ruin my day now.

Dashing to his study, I heave out a breath before throwing open the door, but the room is empty. He must be in his studio then. Running past the staircase, I make a turn at the end of the corridor, barely noticing that Silas isn’t around to bark after me as he usually does when he sees me sprinting down the halls, no doubt thinking I want to play with him.

I slow my footsteps as I approach the studio, my breaths sawing in and out of my lungs in rapid pants. Act cool, Belle. Act cool. Wetting my lips, I wipe my damp hands on my pants and knock on the door.

No one answers, but I hear the beautiful strains of “Nessun Dorma” streaming in from inside and I smile.

Our song. The music that’ll forever remind me of him.

Turning the doorknob, I gently push open the door and swallow a gasp.

Maxwell is laughing, his deep chuckles sounding more beautiful than the tenor’s voice, a paintbrush tucked behind his ear. He’s kneeling in front of an easel, his fingers scratching Silas’s belly.

Silas lets out a happy howl, his tail beating loudly against the floor.

“You like this spot, don’t you, you little terror,” Maxwell says, still not having noticed me, as he tends to a sensitive spot under Silas’s collar.

Silas barks and stretches his body on the floor, giving Maxwell more access .

“You’re insatiable. Give you a scratch and you want more. And more. And more, until I can’t get any work done and you take over my time and my life…just like your mistress,” Maxwell murmurs, his lips curving into a smile, his voice infused with warmth.

My heart stutters to a stop and restarts before careening past the finish line, and I fall, head over heels, madly into something I never want to admit to with this man.

This infuriating, frustrating, overbearing man.

This passionate, kindhearted, beautiful man.

Butterfly wings flap in my stomach and wetness mists my eyes. The gasp I was holding in finally comes tumbling out.

Maxwell startles and freezes, his muscles bunching up under his cream-colored turtleneck sweater. He slowly lifts his head, his warm eyes snagging mine.

For a few seconds, all we can do is to stare at each other, the ethereal music wrapping us in a tender embrace, the world slowly fading away until all that remains is a man and a woman, two kindred souls with too many secrets and unsaid sentiments.

Maxwell and Belle, an artist and his little muse.

“Belle,” he whispers, awe-infusing his voice as his gaze rakes over me.

Slowly, he stands up, and I notice the vein in his neck pulsing, his throat rippling as if he wants to say something but can’t find the words.

I know how you feel.

Blinking the wetness away from my eyes, I fly toward him, and he opens his arms wide.

“Thank you, Maxwell,” I sob into his shoulder as he wraps me in his warm embrace. “Thank you so, so much!”

“Belle, I’m sorry,” he whispers into my ear. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

His arms bind me tightly to him, his heat a fiery brand against my body, his scent of sandalwood and amber searing itself into my brain.

I shake in his arms, too overcome with emotions to say anything else.

I’m home .

It’s an instinct, a gut feeling, a belief that transcends time or logic.

I’m home…and stupid curse or not, I never want to leave.