Chapter 4

“Son, it’s time.”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around the crystal tumbler as icy foreboding slithers inside my veins. The silence would’ve been deafening in the study were it not for the loud pounding of my heart.

Turning away from my father, the great Linus Anderson, on the screen of my laptop for our weekly conference call, I toss back the remnants of my whiskey, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it washes down my throat. It’s the best of the best from the MacGregor’s Whiskey Library at The Orchid, but it’s tasteless on my tongue.

If only I could get drunk easily, I could pretend I didn’t know what he meant.

But unfortunately, I’m as sober as a foot soldier on the battlefield, and after my fiasco at the press conference last week, I have no excuses to put my father off any longer.

My horrendous, pathetic press conference. Having a full-blown anxiety attack in front of everyone. The headlines are still going strong: “Nervous Wreck Debut—Investors Jumping Ship from Fleur Entertainment,” “The Frigid King Should Be The Mad King,” “Anxiety Attack or Other Mental Illness—The Case of Maxwell Anderson.”

Grimacing, I pour myself more whiskey from the decanter before striding to the towering bay windows behind my antique oak desk. I stare into the dark gardens far below, barely illuminated by a starless night.

Sinister shadows loom in the gardens, and tree branches bend to the wind. The dim lighting offered by the lone desk lamp flickers as the howling gale creeps in through an open window .

“Do you have a candidate in mind?” I don’t bother turning around.

“I do. I’ve already spoken with her parents. I think our families are well suited. They’re in an industry we aren’t part of and they can use our funding and influence. Their daughter is well educated, no scandals or gossip to her name, and—”

“Fine. Set it up, Dad.”

A few seconds pass by, the atmosphere heavy with tension I can almost taste.

“You know this was the plan from the beginning, Maxwell. As the eldest Anderson son, we don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s our job to continue the bloodline, and if you don’t get married and have heirs, the curse will fall on Ryland. That’s what happened to Uncle Nathaniel because Father wanted to cheat the curse.”

I bite back a snort. Having heirs so I can give the curse to my son instead of my brother—a lose-lose situation. What a clusterfuck.

“I said fine . I know my duty.”

I toss back my whiskey. The burn from the alcohol is relentless this time, churning in my gut, and each breath of air seems to fan the flames into a fire I can’t contain.

Gritting my teeth, I turn around, faking a smile for my father. “I don’t need to know anything about the woman. I trust your judgment. Just let me know when and where to show up for contract negotiations, and I’ll be there.”

My father’s eyes soften with apparent sympathy. After all, arranged marriages for the eldest son have been a tradition for our family for generations. When our forefathers were in England, as part of the aristocracy, this was the way things were done amongst the haute ton . But after the curse, this was done from necessity.

It’s the fate of the oldest son to be in a loveless marriage. Even when we have an heir, as eldest sons, we still aren’t allowed to fall in love with our wives, because we will endanger their lives.

Simply put, she will die .

The rules of the curse have been passed down by word of mouth for generations, but Grandpa and Dad have put them down in writing in a handwritten letter tucked away in the safe. We try to add to it based on what we learn over time, so that future generations will have a guide to this mess.

These rules have been hammered inside me since I learned of the curse in second grade.

First, death only happens to the woman the eldest son loves if they are married and confess their love to each other. Ergo, we shouldn’t fall in love and arranged marriages are the way to go.

Second, should we ignore the first rule, there will be a series of unfortunate incidents or accidents happening to the woman in question—warnings, if you will.

Third, should we ignore these warnings, something will happen to the woman, and she will die, usually within one year of the couple confessing their love to each other. Before then, a branch will shatter a window in the estate, serving as a final omen.

Fourth, should the eldest son not marry and have an heir, the curse will pass onto the next eldest son in the family, and we Andersons have always been blessed with an abundance of male heirs.

I fought hard against believing it until I couldn’t, until I experienced the touch of death myself. Mom died when she ultimately fell in love with Dad after almost a decade of cordial marriage. So did grandmother, whose death my grandfather never forgot, the sorrow clear in his eyes until the day he passed away, lonely in bed in this very estate. So did all the women the firstborn sons loved in the generations before.

So did Sydney.

My mind flickers to the beguiling green eyes that twinkled in laughter, the silky blonde tresses fluttering in the wind. Our heated argument—our last conversation together.

Her lifeless body washing up on the shore.

I remember the guilt in my grandfather’s eyes when he told me about his role in his brother’s death while lying on his deathbed. He wanted to challenge the curse by staying single, but the deaths occurred anyway when his sister-in-law and two adorable children died in a horrific accident. Grand Uncle Nathaniel, overcome with grief, killed himself a few years later. It was the curse, and those deaths were punishment for Grandfather not following its rules.

He never forgave himself.

Our family is well educated, but after so many deaths, we were forced to face the ugly truth. Denial is useless. Our only hope is someday, one of us will find a way to break the curse.

Knock, knock.

“Come in,” I holler.

Morris Coventry, our butler, slowly walks in with a tray of food. I glance at the grandfather clock by the fireplace. Eight p.m. I apparently forgot about dinner again.

The elderly butler, the closest thing I have to a grandparent after Grandfather passed away, smiles, his kind blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Sir, your dinner. Eat it while it’s hot.” He sets the tray on my desk and nods at my father on the screen. Stifling a groan, he straightens and rubs his lower back and right leg.

“Thank you, Morris.” I quirk a grin. “Can I convince you to retire yet?” I motion to his leg. “That old wound has been acting up more and more lately. Let me hire help and you can rest and enjoy your retirement here.”

He harrumphs and shakes his head. “Nonsense. I’ll work until my last breath.” He ambles out of the study and quietly closes the door.

Dad chuckles in the background. “Old Morris will never change. He’s been exactly the same for as long as I can remember.”

I smile before sitting down on my leather chair and facing my father.

Dad sighs as he redirects our conversation back to the topic at hand.

“An arranged marriage isn’t as hopeless as you think it is, Maxwell.”

He leans back in his armchair in our house in the Hamptons, where he has moved to recently. The estate seems more silent in his absence. “ Your mom and I had nine wonderful years together before she passed. She was a good friend, my closest confidant. She was e-everything.”

His voice cracks as he looks away, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Just don’t fall in love. Don’t do what I did, what your grandfather did. You know the risks. You understand what happened with Sydney—”

“I don’t need you to remind me how my wife died!”

Dad’s eyes sharpen as he takes in my uncharacteristic outburst, and I close my eyes. I am calm. I am at peace. I accept myself.

I repeat the mantras. Ten times, twenty times, until I feel my heartbeat calming.

Dad’s patient. After all, he understands the lonely path in front of me.

“You can do it, son. If there’s anyone in the family who can abide by the rules of the curse, it is you.”

I know that to be true. After all, I’ve had the shadow of death hanging over my head my entire life, and I’ve suffered its cruel consequences. It has to be me to bear it. What if I detract from the path, give the middle finger I’ve always wanted to give to the ancestor who started it all and say, screw you and your need for heirs, and this curse falls on Ryland? There’s no way I’d risk Ryland’s happiness and safety.

And you’re going to have heirs and doom your son, you asshole. Guilt nags at me, but I shake myself. I’ll teach him how to thrive and live, despite the curse. He’ll be fine.

The thought isn’t comforting.

“And a side benefit,” Dad begins, “having a wife and, later on, children by your side, will show stability to the press. It’s archaic and ridiculous, but it symbolizes you are mentally healthy enough to have a family. It’ll put any rumors to rest and the stock will recover.”

Our stock plummeted thirty percent the day after the disastrous press conference. It’s holding steady now, but complaints from the investors are loud and clear. They aren’t happy with me.

They think something is wrong with the CEO .

How interesting they’ve conveniently forgotten the ten percent growth per year I’ve brought them since I took on the role when Dad retired.

Pathetic idiots.

“I understand. I’ll fix this. I’ll bring Fleur’s stock price back up, Dad. I’ll get married and beget heirs and all that shit. You have no complaints from me.”

I hang up the phone and stride into the empty hallway, ignoring the creaking and groaning of the place—it’s just the house settling in for the night. A lone sconce is lit, giving just enough visibility for me. Despite the paisley runner on the dark wood floors, my footfalls echo like phantom companions in the dark.

It’s eerie and quiet. In another life, perhaps the mansion would be ablaze with light, with little kids like the ones I saw at the lake running around, laughing and squealing, music blaring from the speakers. A woman I love would embrace me as I crossed the threshold to the living room and whisk me into a dance.

There’d be life.

My chest clenches, the abyss threatening to swallow me whole. It’s a dream that can only come true in my mind.

In another life.

But in this one, I’ll fix everything I broke—the stock price, the press. I won’t fail this time.

I’m not broken.