Chapter 33

The next hour passes by in a blur as everyone takes their seats at the assigned tables. My parents have arrived and are sitting with Linus and some executives from McKenzie Atelier. Dinner is served by an army of staff members decked out in crisp black tuxes and dresses.

Mora outdid herself with the pan-seared foie gras , caviar with crème fra?che served on thin butter crackers, truffle deviled eggs, canard à la presse —a perfectly roasted duck breast with the creamiest bread pudding, and a swordfish dish that’s perfectly tender and flavorful.

But I barely touch my meal, my mind on Maxwell, who still hasn’t shown up yet. A flash of light temporarily blinds me and I see a press photographer discreetly taking a photo. Security is as tight tonight as it would’ve been at the Christmas Ball at The Orchid. While the press may send one photographer and reporter per major news outlet, the usual antics of the paparazzi are strictly prohibited unless they want to be blacklisted by the Andersons—an industry death sentence.

I put on the fake society smile I’ve spent years perfecting, fighting the urge to go and find my husband, who must be sweating bullets because of his upcoming speech.

“Is he coming down soon?” Taylor asks to my right, clearly thinking about the same thing.

“I think so. The speech is in twenty minutes. We’ve rehearsed it and I think he’s ready, but the pressure is getting to him. What he needs is alone time and not us hovering over him, so I’m going to do that.”

The answer is more for myself than for her because I want nothing more than to run up to his studio, where he’s most likely holed up, and give him a big hug for support.

Since I found out he secretly invested in BSUA, fired Bob, and converted the shelter into a no-kill shelter, our relationship has thawed somewhat. I still don’t appreciate his overbearing, domineering personality, but at least he knows he’s in the wrong for resigning from BSUA on my behalf without consulting me beforehand.

But he still doesn’t kiss me or undress me whenever he comes into my room once a week to fulfill his “husbandly duties.” He still has me pressed face down on the bed, the room cloaked in darkness like he can’t bear to see what we’re doing even as he delivers the most efficient orgasm to me and slakes his lust inside my body.

And I’m still not pregnant. It’s like adding salt to the wound.

My chest aches every time these thoughts cross my mind. I wish I could break down this thick wall between us.

I wish I could have my Silas back.

The sound of a chair scraping on the parquet floor and the whiff of sandalwood and amber alerts me to his presence as he takes a seat next to me.

“Belle,” he murmurs. “The gala is going well. You’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

The bargain. The pressure in my chest increases. I have to remember that’s all there is to it. Only an arranged marriage that has turned into a marriage of convenience.

Swallowing, I brace myself and turn toward him.

My breath freezes in my throat as I take in his appearance, which reminds me of the first time I met Maxwell Anderson, the billionaire, at The Menagerie. He’s certainly not gentle, soulful Silas from the race.

The candlelight dances on his features, the shadows caressing his face. His expression is severe, his gray eyes the color of a swirling tempest, his dark hair carefully combed and swept up, and jaw cleanly shaven. He looks so good in his tux, a design I recognize as McKenzie’s, and I release a sigh even as I hurt deep inside. He’s doing his part in promoting my family’s business.

Because what we have is an arrangement. A contract.

I reply, “Thank you. Here, eat something before your speech. How are you feeling?”

I try not to be disappointed by the way he refuses to look me in the eye, or the fact he didn’t even comment on my dress this evening—a crimson silk ball gown of my own design with a sweetheart neckline, tapering at the waist, and flaring at the hips in a dramatic fashion, inspired by the gowns in the Victorian era.

He’s just nervous about the speech. Don’t overthink this. Heck, don’t think at all.

“Fine. Let’s just get this shit show over with.” He flags a staff member carrying a tray of champagne, grabs one, and downs the drink in one gulp.

It’s not personal, Belle. Don’t take it personally.

Maxwell Anderson is a Seurat painting—made up of millions of tiny little dots and actions, forming a breathtaking whole. He’s a study of stark contrasts, the icy chill and blazing warmth, the indifference and quiet passion, the masculine beauty and thick scars, the infuriating asshole and…the man who claims not to know how to love, but secretly loves the strongest of them all.

His loyalty to his family, how he almost lost his life to save his brother, the way he silently takes care of me. He’s the definition of actions speaking louder than words.

Another flash brightens our table and I try not to let the growing heartache dim my smile. We’re on a public stage, and I know every little thing I do will be magnified and discussed tomorrow in the newspapers around the world.

Maxwell doesn’t touch his food as he turns to Ryland, who’s sitting next to him, and the two fall into a deep discussion. Despite being in a room full of people, surrounded by my closest friends, I’ve never felt more alone than now .

My gaze sweeps around the table and lands on Millie, who looks stunning in the silver gown I gave her from my personal design collection. She flashes me a sad smile, her eyes brimming with sympathy as if she knows how I’m feeling.

I look away, unable to withstand her penetrative gaze which seems to see through this farce of a marriage I find myself in, a whiplash rollercoaster ride I can’t seem to bring myself to disembark, even if that means I’m dizzy and nauseous the entire time.

“And now, let’s welcome Mr. Maxwell Anderson to the stage,” the emcee announces.

Loud applause rings through the ballroom and I see Maxwell fisting his pants before smoothing out the wrinkles and standing up. A dark flush creeps up his neck. He nods to the crowd, lips flattened, jaw clenched, and strides up onto the stage.

He doesn’t look at or acknowledge me.

Despite the pain of his rejection, my pulse can’t help but ratchet up as I stare at my husband, who’s about to attempt something so terrifying for him, he’s opted to spend most of his thirty-six years in the quiet background.

The microphone emits a sharp piercing sound as he adjusts it. He stares at the podium and the room quiets as the spotlight focuses on him.

We wait with bated breath for the king to address his subjects, but he just stands there, as stiff as the gargoyles guarding the estate.

The seconds bleed into minutes, the awkward tension thickening. I see his throat working, the flush from his face minutes ago long disappeared and instead, his skin is leached of color. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare as he grips the podium for dear life.

Oh no. I can almost see the monster he once described to me as his anxiety lurking inside him, wrapping its tendrils around his neck, suffocating him in front of everyone. The image claws at my heart and makes me want to cry .

Low murmurs and hushed whispers rise from the crowd and the photographers furiously snap photo after photo, reporters quickly typing notes out on their phones.

A chair squeaks beside me and I turn toward the noise, finding Ryland and Charles frowning, clearly concerned for him.

It’s then I make a decision.

The monster will not murder my husband, not if I can help it.

Pushing out of my chair, I slowly stand up, ignoring the whispers and furtive glances as the crowd’s attention shifts to me.

I fiddle with the locket he gave me, and his fevered eyes snag on mine as I slowly make my way toward him.

Smiling, I whisper, “You can do this. It’s just you and me,” knowing full well he can’t hear me but also feeling, deep in my gut, he can understand me.

Like he always has.

He shifts and straightens, his intense gray eyes pinned on me, tracking my movements as I stride between the tables toward him.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen , I mouth, prompting him. He swallows, his eyes holding mine.

“G-Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to the b-ball.” His voice is deep and thick, sounding unused, a thread of uncertainty woven throughout his words.

The flashes from the photographers intensify as the crowd settles into an eerie quiet, clearly riveted by him.

But he’s only looking at me, like he’s speaking directly to me.

My heart skips several beats and I wet my lips, pausing at the bottom of the stage.

“My family has been f-firm proponents of giving back to the community, of philanthropy, b-because we recognize the immense p-privilege of being an Anderson,” he begins, a vein pulsing on his forehead.

Immense privilege, but also a curse, it seems.

He stares at me, his face unsmiling but his gaze burning hot as he says, “Our m-motto is, ‘Valor and virtue, with honor, we stand,’ and perhaps you may question the valor with me s-standing before you tonight, the inarticulate orator,” the crowd chuckles at his rough attempt at humor, “but I strongly b-believe in the virtue and honor we hold ourselves to.”

Maxwell pauses, the color slowly coming back to his complexion, but his face still shines with sweat. “A-Anxiety and depression are global mental health crises, invisible illnesses plaguing millions of people. Our family believes in philanthropy, in d-doing our part to shine a light on these two invisible afflictions that p-plague the lives of millions of people in the world. And we h-have the p-privilege…”

He trembles and lets out a shuddering exhale. And another. The connection between us breaks as his gaze darts around the room, his chest heaving rapidly. “W-We h-have the p-privilege…”

He bows his head down, the muscles bunching in his shoulder.

“Fuck.” A soft whisper, barely audible from the microphone, but I hear him from where I stand.

He looks so terrified.

I blink away the tears gathering in my eyes.

Quickly, I climb the steps and stand next to him. The bright spotlight temporarily blinds me. “Easy there with the spotlight. I think I may get a heatstroke from it. No wonder Maxwell is sweating bullets up here in his tux. Can we dim it a little bit, please?”

The audience laughs, and a staff member dims the lighting. I can finally see the faces of the crowd—the rich and the elite sitting with amused expressions, folks whispering furtively to each other, their eyes darting to Maxwell. Charles and Ryland standing up, their faces stern, like they are seconds away from storming up the stage and rescuing us. Taylor is uncharacteristically grabbing Charles’s forearm and Grace and Millie are standing next to her, concern brimming in their gazes.

Slowly, I take Maxwell’s clammy hand in mine, twining our fingers together.

His breath hitches as he holds on tightly, his grip borderline painful.

I’ll be his source of strength, his partner… his wife .

“ Our family ,” I squeeze Maxwell’s hand and recite the speech from memory, “believes in philanthropy, in doing our part to shine a light on these two invisible afflictions that plague the lives of millions of people in the world. And we have the privilege and platform to do so. In lieu of the Christmas Ball at The Orchid this year, we want to invite you all to join us and open your hearts, your minds, and your wallets , to the conditions that can affect people in all stages of life and from all backgrounds.”

Turning toward Maxwell, I find his lips parted, his gaze firmly affixed on me. His eyes darken with so much intensity, passion, and what I can only describe as awe, I can’t help but be swept up in the turbulent pools.

“It’s a cause near and dear to my husband’s heart,” I murmur. This isn’t part of the official speech.

His eyes flare at the words “my husband,” and I feel him tugging me closer, his fingers disentangling from mine before he curls his arm possessively around my waist.

Heat rushes through me and I wet my lips, watching his gaze dip to the movement before raking down the rest of my gown.

I shiver and turn back to the crowd. “Thank you for being here tonight, for the cause, for my family, and for my husband. We are eternally grateful and we wish you all a very Merry Christmas.”

Applause rings out in the ballroom as I grab Maxwell’s hand and lead him down the stage where my friends and his family have gathered.

“You were a badass,” Taylor says, and I grin.

Grace nods enthusiastically and Millie blinks, moisture clinging to her eyelashes. I smile at her and she nods—the invisible kinship of loving Anderson men.

Loving? My heart races in my chest. No, I don’t love him. I can’t. That’ll just set me up for heartbreak because he won’t love me back.

Ryland clasps his brother on the shoulder, the twins exchanging silent sentiments before he turns to me.

He pulls me to him and whispers in my ear, “Thank you, Belle. Thank you for being there for him. He needs you. ”

I look back at Maxwell, finding him standing quietly to the side, his gaze inscrutable, a vein pulsing on his forehead.

Does he need me? And is that enough?

“I will never, ever be in love with you.”

His words all those nights ago echo loudly in my mind.

My heart twists as he meets my stare head on, unflinching, and I know…

This can’t be enough.