Chapter 44

The next morning, I wake up to wetness in my underwear and cramping in my stomach, followed by crushing sadness in my heart because I know what this means.

My period is here.

We’ve been married for half a year now, and he has never worn a condom when we have sex, which has been regularly even during our hate sex phase and now, it’s almost daily, and sometimes even multiple times a day.

But I still haven’t gotten pregnant.

My strange dizzy spells and cold sweats have never resulted in a positive pregnancy test—the ones I take secretly because I wish a miracle would happen and two little lines would show up.

Rubbing my aching abdomen, a sob chokes in my throat, and I turn on the faucet in the bathroom, not wanting to wake Maxwell up, who’s still asleep.

Images flutter through me—one or two little children, maybe more, dark-haired, gray eyes like his, or perhaps tawny eyes like mine. The girl would have my thick black hair and pale skin and the boy would have his tall build and dimples. These dreams have become more real and precious now that Maxwell and I are together, even if he won’t say those three words to me.

But I know he loves me, deep inside.

He’s just afraid .

I wipe the tears from my face, my heart pinching as I flush the bloody water down the toilet. I wish my body can grant me this wish, to have a child with this man I desperately love with all my heart.

He still doesn’t know. I haven’t told him about my condition because I’m afraid he’ll think I’m broken, just like my parents do.

Deep down inside, there’s a kernel of shame threatening to spark, disdain at myself for not being normal like other women my age, for not being able to easily do what we were put on earth to do.

Why me? Why?

It’s irrational, and I know I’m much more than a fertile womb, but anger and sadness don’t care about logic and reason. These emotions are my constant companion when I lay awake at night, my stomach burning and cramping, my body telling me yet again, not this month.

It doesn’t matter. I look at my face in the mirror and wipe away my tears. There are options. You aren’t broken, Belle. You’re worthy of your dreams, even if they may end up different from what you’d imagine. Someday, you’ll look back and be proud of how far you’ve come.

The words feel empty, tiny specks of dust trying to fill a cavernous hole, but I persist. Because I know everyone is dealt with different cards in life, and these happen to be mine.

Once I feel my emotions settle, I venture to the kitchen, eager to find something to distract myself. I think back to the slumbering man in the bedroom, how he gave me so many adventures, some I didn’t even ask for but ended up needing, how he saved my life two days ago, and I make a decision.

I’m going to cook for him. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, or so I’m told.

He should be honored because I rarely cook for anyone…including myself.

Rummaging through the fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, I pull out the things I think I need, my earlier sadness temporarily chased away by a frisson of panic as I realize I have no idea what I’m doing .

Fifteen minutes later, I’m chopping vegetables for my Asian-inspired spaghetti, since they don’t have vermicelli noodles here.

Maxwell’s soft chuckles fill the air as I feel his heated presence behind me.

“You’re a bad influence,” I say.

Not bothering to turn around, I bite back a smile as I huddle over the cutting board, trying my best to cut the bell peppers without taking off one of my fingers.

“Why?”

“I’m over here, frolicking with you instead of working on my deadline.”

“Frolicking?” He snorts. “Not showing up to work is your idea of breaking the rules? God, you’re so cute.” He snakes his arms around my waist and presses his warm body against mine.

“I called in sick! But I’m not sick!” I whisper, which feels silly because there’s only two of us here. “And I still have a deadline to make the pieces for the collection before the fashion show. Gordon may be gone, but I have a new boss and the other designers are watching. I really want to prove to them I’m there because of talent, not because of my last name.”

Twisting around, I look up, finding his gray eyes crinkling at the corners, a thick lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “I can’t just drop everything and play house with you, Mr. Bad News.”

Maxwell chuckles, the light in his eyes reminding me so much of the day I met him. “It’s only for a weekend…for our honeymoon.”

“This better not be the official honeymoon, mister. I want at least two weeks off, preferably three, with advanced notice next time. I may be nice and easygoing, but not that nice.”

“Fine, Your Majesty,” he says. At my cocked brow, he adds, “You married the frigid king. You think you aren’t going to have a fancy title?”

I snort.

“Where would you want to go?” he whispers .

There’s really only one answer. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to go with the person I love. So much I’ve resisted going by myself because I want to save that experience for when I meet the one .

“Venice.”

His breath catches. A flash of something crosses his face.

“What? You don’t like Venice?”

“No, it’s not that.” He swallows, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “It’s just…I had a dream…” He shakes himself and strains a smile. “Ignore me. I’m not fully awake yet.”

Hm. That was odd. But we all have our moments.

“I think it’s so romantic to go to there with your partner and listen to beautiful songs while sitting on a gondola.” I grab his arm. “Maybe we can even listen to ‘Nessun Dorma’…live.” I waggle my brows and he chuckles.

“Anything you want, Belle. Anything you want.”

He peers over my shoulder at the cutting board, and his lips twitch. I see him fighting against an impulse to say something.

I narrow my eyes. “What?” I ask flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Your face isn’t nothing. You forget, I can read you like an art critic can appreciate a Monet. Spill.”

He wets his lips, his shoulders shaking…from laughter?

“Hey! Why are you laughing at me?”

Loud laughter escapes his lips as he bowls over and presses his head against my waist. The beautiful sound of his happiness would’ve sent my heart soaring if it weren’t for the fact that his happiness is at my expense.

“Oh fuck…so there is something my little muse is absolute shit at.” He stops shaking and straightens, his hand caressing my cheek, his eyes shining with tears.

The damn idiot is crying because he’s laughing so hard.

“Belle, what on earth are you trying to make, you serial killer of vegetables?” His smile freezes briefly as if something nagged at him, but that swiftly disappears and he smirks at me .

My mouth drops open. Serial killer, my ass. I turn around and stare at the mess I made. Sliced onions and carrots, mashed garlic, and chopped bell peppers.

I mean, it kind of looks like a Picasso, but it’s edible. The vegetables have been sacrificed at the altar for greater good.

“If Picasso decided to make his paintings into real life, it’d be your knife skills. Half your vegetables are on the floor, and the other half that made it under your knife has sizes ranging from microscopic to gigantic. And are those seeds in your bell peppers? You didn’t take out the seeds? Please tell me you washed them beforehand.”

“Argh!” I scowl and cross my arms over my chest. “You do it then. I was trying to make Singapore style vermicelli because it’s a comfort food I enjoy. It’s the only thing Mom cooks well and her favorite dish to eat growing up in Hong Kong.”

I sigh, thinking back to the rare occasions when I was younger when Mom would fix us some vermicelli noodles as a random special treat. Those were happy times. “Anyway, they didn’t have vermicelli noodles here, so I had to use spaghetti. And apparently, His Majesty isn’t happy with my efforts.”

Maxwell bites his lip, looking infuriating sexy as he nudges me aside. “Thank God we aren’t doing this at home. Mora would have a heart attack. Step aside and let me save your ass.”

I cock a brow and make room for him.

“Go, Belle…stop staring at me while I work.” He shoos me away and gets to work.

Rolling my eyes, I saunter to the living room and walk to the tall, arched windows. I look at the dense forest of towering pine trees, blanketed with snow. A mist is rolling in, the distant peaks of the Tyrolean Alps shrouded in a ghostly fog.

It’s beautiful and haunting, isolating yet comforting. It reminds me of the man in the kitchen who prefers the shadows and is cold under the spotlight, but has the sweetest, warmest personality he only shows to a select few who are lucky enough to see it .

Turning around, I spot a small rosewood table where a gold phonograph sits, and I smile, remembering how Maxwell likes to play his music on a similar one at home.

I turn on the phonograph and watch the needle glide over the record, and the familiar strains of Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro” sounds from the bell-shaped horn.

The wistful violins lead way to the beautiful voice of the soprano pleading with her character’s father to let her be with the boy she loves. Humming under my breath, I walk back to the kitchen to check on Maxwell.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder and is twirling a knife before he starts chopping. He sways to the music as he moves around the kitchen.

My mouth drops open when I see him slicing and dicing the ingredients like he’s one with the knife. He takes out a pan from a cabinet, fires it up, prepares the eggs, and sets it aside. Then he preps the onions and garlic, then the rest of the vegetables, and finally the chicken and sliced pork.

He moves in practiced motions, tossing the ingredients in the air, his brows furrowed in concentration as I see the flames engulf the pan briefly, just like the cooking shows on TV, and he finally adds in the spaghetti and sauce.

My man can cook. I’m thrown back to that night in the kitchen when he made me the pastrami and rye. My pulse ratchets up and I clench my core—seeing him move about in the kitchen like he owns the space makes me want to jump his bones.

He puts a lid on the pan, steps back, and tosses the towel onto the counter.

Smiling, I launch myself at his back, and he staggers a few steps. His hands grab my ass as I curl my legs around his waist.

He spins me around and sets me on my tiptoes, my feet on top of his, before he wraps one arm firmly around my waist, the other clutching my hand. He chuckles as we sway to the strains of the music, his sandalwood and amber scent wrapping me in a bubble of happiness.

I place my head on his chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat before looking at him.

“All we’re missing are two kids and Silas running around,” I murmur, referring to what he told me at the pier the first night we met when he described his dream of having a loving wife, happy kids, and maybe a pet or two.

My heart clenches at his vision, the same one I had this morning, and I bury my face in his chest so he doesn’t see my sadness.

His breath catches. “You remember.”

“I remember you thought it wasn’t possible, and I remember feeling sad because I didn’t know why you felt that way. I asked myself why didn’t this beautiful man have any hope for his future? For something so simple?”

“And now you know,” he murmurs.

“And now I do.”

The lush aria fades in to silence but we keep dancing. He releases a deep exhale and says, “You’ll make a wonderful mom, Belle.”

His words prick a raw nerve, and unable to hold it back, a sob escapes my mouth.

Maxwell stops swaying and tilts my face up toward him. He frowns and wipes his thumb under my teary eyes. “Belle? What’s wrong?”

I rake in a ragged inhale before releasing it. I need to tell him the truth. Even though he’s fine with us using fertility treatments after a year, we are partners in this marriage and he shouldn’t be left in the dark.

Year of yeses and doing things that are uncomfortable. I’ll be brave.

“There’s something I never told you before,” I whisper and hold his gaze, fighting the urge to look away.

He stills as a pulse flickers on his forehead.

Taking his silence as a sign to continue, I push out the next words, “I have a condition called diminished ovarian reserve. It means I have fewer follicles than other women my age and I’ll enter menopause early. It also means the chances of me getting pregnant naturally are lower. Much lower.”

The house is silent except for the sizzling of the noodles in the pan, and he reaches back to turn off the stove, not taking his eyes off me.

His face is inscrutable, the same mysterious intensity boring into me, and I want to cry, to ask him what he’s thinking, to ask him…

If he regrets choosing me as his wife, since his goal for this marriage is to have heirs.

My face crumbles and I blurt, “I know I shouldn’t have withheld this information. Before we agreed to the arrangement, my parents didn’t want me to tell you because they were worried you wouldn’t want me then. And with our financial situation, I didn’t have money for fertility treatments and I needed our arranged marriage to save Grandpa’s company.”

He stands before me, his hands twitching at his sides, and remains silent. I feel like I’m standing in front of my executioner as panic and fear swirl inside me.

“And when we got married, we always fought and frankly, there were days when I was wondering what on earth we were doing and it didn’t feel like the right time to tell you. But now, I don’t want to hide anymore. It’s not right. I’m sorry for not telling you, Maxwell.”

Wiping my tears away, I sniffle. “If you want to divorce because of this, I’d understand.” My heart twists in a vise and I dip my head down.

Maxwell doesn’t speak as he stalks forward, and soon, I see his feet in my vision. His hands cup my face and tilt my head up.

“Maxwell,” I whisper, not looking at him. Fear tears through me because I’m afraid of what I’ll see in his eyes. Pity? Anger? Resentment?

“Look at me.” His voice is rough and commanding, leaving no room for disobeying.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slowly meet his eyes.

A wet sheen glimmers in his eyes as his nostrils flare. His chest moves up and down rapidly from his heavy breathing .

He crushes me to him, wrapping me tightly in his arms like he wants to meld our bodies together. I feel his heart pulsing, beating rapidly against mine, and the rumble in his voice when he starts speaking.

“My beautiful Belle. You’re my muse, the person who brought back light into my empty mansion, who brought back joy into my life.”

Slowly, he pulls up his sweater, baring his deep scars in the bright daylight.

“You told me my scars were beautiful…art on canvas. And I’m telling you, Belle, you’re beautiful. Glorious. Shining from within. The fact that you’re facing challenges in life with a smile on your face makes you all the more breathtaking to me.”

His voice grows stronger, more ardent. “You will be a mom, Belle. Even if it’s not from natural conception. We can use treatments, see doctors, or adopt.”

I clasp my trembling hand over my lips, unable to stop the choking sounds from escaping.

He looks similarly emotional as a flush creeps up his neck. He pries my hand off my lips and presses a kiss at the center of my palm. “We can grow old together, just you and me, if that’s what you want. We can adopt a few more dogs and cats, even though they’ll destroy the mansion and drive Morris crazy. We can spend the rest of our years painting and sketching side by side, listening to music, and I can be the old man who scares his wife by taking her on joyrides.”

“But the heir? Isn’t that what you need for the curse?” When he first told me his reasons for needing an heir, I didn’t believe him, but now, with everything going on, I’m starting to doubt my convictions.

If we have a child together, will I be dooming him? I can’t think this way. There has to be a way out of this mess, if there even is a curse to begin with. And I can’t imagine having a child with anyone other than him.

“We’ll figure something out, I don’t know what.” He pulls me tightly against him, a frenetic energy threading his voice. “Everything I’ve learned about the curse is passed down through the generations. No one ever said the heir needs to be biologically related to me, or maybe we can use a surrogate. We’ll figure something out.”

He smooths his hand down my trembling back. “I’m here, little muse. I’ll always be here for you. You’re not broken. You’re perfect in my eyes.”

His words and his touch are bandages on my bleeding wounds, sutures to my broken heart.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond but holds me tightly in his arms. I try not to let his silence cut into my bleeding heart, but I realize even if I’ll never hear him say those words to me, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Because I’m hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with him.