Chapter 38

“You have an eye for design,” Belle says, her head dipped over her desk.

I look away from my canvas—a blank canvas I’m sure will be my greatest work yet. Because it’s a portrait of her. My muse. The person I wanted to draw for the longest time but couldn’t bring myself to.

She’s staring at the notes I made on her newest sketches. She had questions on color combinations, silhouettes, sustainable natural fabric options, and while I’m no expert on fashion, I know art and composition.

“You have an eye for colors,” I comment.

She used the smallest bit of paint yesterday to transform the painting of the scene I witnessed at Lake Superior, when I was standing alone on the rocky shores.

I was restless then, a dark hole in my chest, my muse long disappeared.

Belle blushes and smiles. She looks so happy here. With me.

A warm heat floods my insides, and I rub the spot over my heart.

I no longer feel that dark hole.

And damn if that scares me, because I tell myself it doesn’t mean what it means.

I vow to myself I’ll never love her.

I know she’s trying to convince me the curse isn’t real, but she hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. Mom lying in the coffin, her skin ice cold. Sydney’s limbs twisted on the sand, her fingers rigid as if she fought until her last breath .

So, I can’t love her. I can only give her pleasure in my bed, save her family’s business, buy out animal shelters she has her eye on, and fulfill her adventures one by one.

A clawing desperation boils me up from inside, panic taking root.

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

I repeat the mantra ten times, twenty times, but my pulse doesn’t settle. My mind is flooded with Belle’s smiles, her soft touches, her sweet kisses, only for the memories to be chased away by images of Sydney and Mom, Dad sobbing at the cemetery, Grandfather’s eyes glazed over as he finally smiled before taking his last breath because he said he was going to be with Grandma again.

The images swirl and shift into the snippets of my dark dreams at night—this time, it’s Belle in the rose garden laughing, telling me she wants to go to Venice one day. Then there are the visions of me cradling her broken body on the ground, the rain falling around us. Dreams that feel so real, I question my sanity.

I can’t love her. I can’t. I can’t love her.

My breathing grows shallow and I walk to the windows and look outside at the thick snow and trees, still barren skeletons of black and brown.

Lifeless.

“Maxwell? Maxwell! Are you okay?”

Releasing a calming breath, I turn around, faking a smile.

Belle frowns, her pencil perched behind her ear.

Shaking my head, I answer, “I’m fine. Just thinking about work. I fucked things up last week at the gala, didn’t I?”

“You were defending me. I think everyone saw that.”

“That’s what Lana told me. I owe her a box of chocolates because she worked the past few days to put out press releases.”

After we emerged from my bedroom yesterday morning, I finally saw the text messages from my siblings. They’d ironically changed the name of our text group to: “Where is His Majesty? ”

It’s almost a routine for them now. Last year, it was “Save Ryland from Himself,” and the year before was “Save Steven from Himself.” Now the idiots have their attentions set on me.

Ryland

If I didn’t see Belle going after you and Morris telling me you are otherwise “occupied,” I’d be worried.

Rex

What’s better than a quick fuck? A sex marathon. Ha! Old man Morris is probably traumatized by you two being so “occupied” with each other.

Ethan

Seriously, C. Some things belong inside your mind. You don’t actually have to say everything you’re thinking.

Charles

Can someone tell me why I’m in this group chat? I’m not even an Anderson.

Rex

But you have your eyes on an Anderson. I see you, bro.

Ryland

Who? Charles, who the fuck are you interested in?

Rex

I’m thinking of a certain ballerina who is the grumpy to our golden boy’s sunshine.

Maxwell

Guys, I’m here. Don’t comment on my sex life if you want to live. And Charles, I’ll be watching you.

Charles

You need to get your eyesight checked, Mr. C. There’s no way I’m interested in that goth brat. No offense.

Taylor

Fuck you. I’m here too, you POS. If you were the last man on earth, I’d rather die alone than be with you, Vaughn.

Charles

I don’t recall asking.

Lana

I swear, you guys put a lid on it. Maxwell, I got the press covered. Right now, they’re spinning the story of an angry husband protecting his wife from her drunk boss. Gordon Flair has been canned. Will let you know if we need you.

Lana

Go enjoy your “honeymoon.” Muahahaha. But seriously, take Belle on a real honeymoon.

“Lana did a good job when Ryland and Millie had their scandal,” Belle murmurs as she stands next to me. “If she says everything is fine, then it is.”

“I’m not sure this will hold for long. The press still hasn’t seen me acting normal before.” I thump my fist against the window and press my forehead against the cool glass. “Fuck. So fucking useless. ”

Belle rubs my back. “What’s normal, anyway? We all have our own issues to deal with.” She turns toward me and frowns at what she sees on my face. “But you look miserable. Have you thought about seeing a professional again?”

I bow over, my head knocking against the window in frustration.

I’m angry.

At the world. At myself. At the curse. At my life. At being the firstborn.

Belle lays her head against my back as she wraps her arms around my waist. “It’s okay, Maxwell. We’ll get through this.”

She doesn’t pressure me, doesn’t shame me. Belle understands.

“Dad took me to a therapist soon after Mom’s funeral. I was already an outcast at school. A loner with the fanciest clothes and an important last name. But I always had issues talking to new people. They said I was introverted, and I was fine with that. I liked playing by myself and reading or painting. Ryland was the sunshine between the two of us and I was happy being the quiet older brother.”

I let out a sigh. “But at Mom’s funeral, something inside me broke. I wanted to be brave and tell the world how much I loved Mom. My father said I didn’t need to, but I wanted to do it for her. I guess I thought maybe if I could make that speech, that, if Mom was there watching over me, she’d see how brave I was and wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore. But I couldn’t face the crowds. I froze until someone rescued me. Then the jeering happened at school. The kids said I was useless. How my mom would be so disappointed I couldn’t even say a few nice words about her.”

“Those awful brats!” Belle seethes. “I know I’m not supposed to say mean things about little kids, but those are some crappy, shitty little humans who probably shouldn’t have been born. I should feel bad for saying this, but I don’t.”

She huffs and I bite back a smile, a small ray of her sunshine brightening the trip down the dark memory lane .

“I became more withdrawn, and it got to a point where Dad took me to a therapist. Dr. Chandler helped me a lot. Taught me to express myself through art. Sometimes I couldn’t find the words, but I could paint them out. Anything I couldn’t say, I could sketch. It was therapeutic, and I felt connected to Mom because she loved art so much. But Dr. Chandler died when I was twelve and the sessions stopped.”

Lifting my head up, I stare into the gray overcast skies, watching a raven spread its dark wings and soar, its silhouette lonely.

“By then, I had my small social circle. I was comfortable. Then, we dove into high school and college prep. Time passed by and I could cope by working in the shadows. I could tolerate minimal small talk. I thought Ryland was happy being the public face of the company. I thought I had things handled.”

She wraps her arms tighter around me.

“I thought, ‘Yes, Maxwell, you have anxiety, but who isn’t anxious from time to time?’ It had been years since I had severe panic attacks. Dr. Chandler used to tell Dad they weren’t true hallucinations but were my overactive imagination at work.”

I scoff and shake my head. “You’re going to think I’m pathetic. I’m thirty-six years old, and I couldn’t even make a speech without breaking into a sweat and panicking. You’re twelve years younger than me and you have to save me. My brothers had to save me. I couldn’t save myself, I couldn’t—”

Save anyone. Mom. Sydney. And now Belle’s getting hurt—her week in the hospital still haunts me to this day.

Belle wedges herself between me and the window. The cool daylight bathes her skin in flawless ivory, tears framing the lushest lashes I’ve ever seen.

Tears for me.

She cups my cheek and whispers, “You’re not pathetic. You’re not a freak. You are so strong, fighting this battle alone for so long.”

Her lips tremble. “I’m here now. I’ll fight alongside you. You’ll never be alone again. And if you want to consider finding a therapist…I’ll be there with you too. They helped my grandpa…I know they can help you. And finding help doesn’t mean you’re weak—it just tells me how strong you are to fight against the current.”

She slowly lifts my sweater, her fingers tracing the raised scars and mottled skin. Ugly patches of purplish red. Her lips rain kisses over my flaws and my rough edges, just like she did that night in the kitchen.

But now she knows. She knows everything, and she isn’t running away.

“Your scars…inside and out, are so beautiful,” she kisses the biggest one from my abdominal surgery, “you’re enough. Just as you are.”

Growling, I haul her up, slam my lips on hers, and she melts in my arms.

My beautiful muse with her beast.

My heart tumbles and swells, every thump the most beautiful music to her aria. She’s the flowers in the spring and I’m the soil underneath, quietly nurturing her, protecting her, giving her my all so she can bloom brightly for the world to see.

A lone tear slips out of my eye as I angle her face to the side so I can kiss her deeper, so I can steal any piece of her for myself.

I vow to never love her. I vow to never love her. I vow to never love her.

The words don’t stick.

What a fucking liar.