Chapter 51

The whispers of the crowd mingle with the haunting strains of the violin and cello from a live performance by a string quartet at the McKenzie Atelier fashion show, which will showcase our upcoming fall and winter collection. The space is dim, the dark ambiance stirring the excitement from the audience in the much-anticipated event of the season.

I shiver from the air conditioning, purposely set to a frigid forty-five degrees to simulate a late fall, early winter evening in a garden. A sense of dread snakes up my spine—the same restlessness growing inside me since three days ago, when I woke up in the middle of the night, my body bathed in sweat.

It was the same dark dream, but this time, the details were clearer and more vivid—me running in the rose garden, a place I still couldn’t bring myself to visit, a place which seemed to be walled in with grief. He was there, the tall, dark-haired man dressed in the attire of a bygone era. The moon was high in the skies, the pale beam bathing him in an ethereal glow.

He hovered over an easel, a paintbrush in his hand, as sobs wracked his body.

I wanted to see what he was painting, what had him so devastated. A desperate need clawed inside me to comfort him. To tell him I was there and everything would be okay.

He whispered, “I miss you so much, my love. Why can’t I paint you so I can keep your image with me always?”

My chest spasmed in pain and I broke into a run. But the distance between us seemed insurmountable. The faster I ran, the farther he was, the rose garden stretching endlessly, the thorns of the bushes prickling my skin. I screamed but nothing came out of my mouth, and I was helpless in my Sisyphean task, watching the blood prickling my arms, each scratch a dagger to my heart.

Normally, I’d wake up then. Breathless, heartache piercing my chest.

But this time, I didn’t.

I was still trying to run to the man, to save him because I knew he was very important to me. As if sensing my presence, the man turned around, his face illuminated by the eerie moonlight and the breath wrenched from my lungs.

It was Silas, the duke, dressed in his finest attire, like the one I saw in the portrait gallery. But he looked like Maxwell—the same glittering dark eyes, the soulful eyes that seemed ageless.

Tears streamed down his face, and I gasped, seeing a pool of blood spreading on his white shirt, the tendrils withering, curling its way up his body, but he didn’t seem to notice as he sobbed into his hands.

Behind him was a portrait—a beautiful woman in a gray dress, her face blurry.

My heart splintered and the dream shattered.

It felt so real, unsettling, a ghostly memory or a vivid imagination.

“Belle? Hey, Belle!”

Grace’s voice jolts me from my thoughts, and I rub my arms, trying to warm myself up.

“Sorry, I’m just nervous about the show.”

“You’ll do great. Didn’t your boss say the pieces came out awesome? It’s a huge accomplishment, having three pieces in the fashion show.”

I strain a smile, my mind still reeling from the dream or nightmare that felt so devastatingly real.

“Fingers crossed the public likes it. It’ll prove my talent as a designer…that I’m much more than my last name,” I murmur, staring at the dark runway .

“You’ve won me over already, if your designs are anything like the vibe I’m getting here. Very gothic and dark, but romantic at the same time.” Taylor crosses her arms, her black nails flashing under the dim lighting.

I won’t be backstage for this fashion show, as Fiona and her senior designers have that covered. But if the show goes well and my pieces are well received, I may have a place on the go team next season.

“I wonder if he’ll show up.” I pinch myself. Dammit. I’m moving on from him, my husband. Don’t think about him.

But I still can’t bring myself to sign the divorce papers.

However, that doesn’t mean I’m finished being angry at him. If he wants to be brave and face the so-called curse together, he can come find me. And even then, I’ll have my reservations about him.

Millie nudges Taylor on the side and Taylor frowns before tugging on Grace’s sleeve. The three are doing their silent communication thing again, and it’s getting on my nerves. Heck, I’m still technically married and an Anderson.

“What are you guys keeping from me now?” I mutter.

Taylor grimaces. “Sorry. There’s something you don’t know—”

“Tay! He told us not to tell her!” Grace shoves her sister on the side.

“Ow!” Taylor nudges Grace back. “Look, girl code over bro code, even if the bro in question is related to us. And I never agreed with him. She should know!”

Alarm rings through me as the dread comes rearing back. “What happened? It’s Maxwell, isn’t it? Something happened to him? Tell me!”

Taylor grabs my hand, which is alarming in and of itself since the woman doesn’t like to be touched. “Okay, don’t freak out. Maxwell got into a bad accident a few nights ago. He was driving, but the roads were slick and he slammed into a guardrail.”

My heart plummets to the ground and I get up, suddenly forgetting I’m angry at him, not caring the fashion show is about to start.

I need to see him, to see if he’s fine.

To see if he has blood on his chest like that horrible dream .

That was a dream, Belle. A dream.

“He’s fine,” Millie whispers urgently. “He got really lucky. The car is totaled, but he left with some bruised ribs and cuts. He has been a mess since he left you, Belle.”

Tears spring into my eyes, and I fan myself with my hand. I want to be by his side right now.

“He has to be the brave one this time. He needs to understand even if he’s afraid, we’re in a relationship and we need to make decisions together.”

“He’s just afraid for your life,” Grace murmurs, throwing her arm around me.

“I know. That’s why I don’t hate him for it. I know he did it from a place of love.” I look at my friends, my vision blurry with tears. “But I won’t live my life in fear. Fear of accidents, curses, what-ifs. Year of yeses, right?”

Taylor nods and pats my leg. “Damn straight. Fearless badass bitch over here. Let him come to you.”

The lights flicker off and the room plunges into darkness. The music increases in volume—an opera singer sings an eerie melody. The wrought iron chandeliers—relics in this historical building on the Upper East Side—turn on, the dim light casting serpentine shadows to the arched ceilings.

White smoke, backlit by strategic spotlights, blanket the runway, lending to an otherworldly atmosphere. Models pass through the gothic archway at the entrance of the stage, which is adorned in faux ivy and dark roses, all a nod to the theme tonight—Eternal Reverie.

Fiona told me this was to underscore the timeless beauty of McKenzie Atelier with an emphasis on sustainability. The outfits are all in a range of deep blues, forest greens, and dark burgundy with elements of nature woven in the designs.

The crowd gasps as model after model struts down the runway, gliding over the smoke as if they’re ghosts moving in the ether, the luxurious fabrics glinting under the dark, romantic lighting .

I hear the frantic scribbles on notepads, see cell phones held up in the air as I watch with bated breath, waiting for my designs to show up, to see if the crowd will react to them.

The music transitions to a modern take of “Nessun Dorma” and my eyes immediately tear up as I think of him, the man who makes me feel too much of every emotion—love, anger, lust, sadness—someone who feels like home since the moment I laid eyes on him at the race.

The tenor sings the evocative aria and a lone spotlight falls on the next model gliding onto the runway. Shocked whispers erupt from the crowd as the model showcases the first of my designs—the shawl sweater lined with fleece. I’ve requested a special holographic thread to be woven into the organza that is part of the sweater. The end product is iridescent, the sweater glowing and changing between shades of navy and purple as the model moves effortlessly—a fallen angel owning the runway.

A quiet hush settles in the room as the tenor sings the high notes, his voice portraying the longing for his unrequited love, and another model steps into the spotlight wearing my coat, the light organza train fluttering behind her, rendering her into a ghostly apparition.

Shivers travel up my spine and Taylor murmurs, “Holy shit, Belle. This is amazing.”

The crowd seems to agree as my third piece is shown and I hear a smattering of applause. My heart pulses in my chest, my eyes watering as I feel the ghost of my grandpa next to me, and I’m reminded of the kind man who braved his anxiety and created breathless wonders for the world—the man who taught me everything.

Grandpa, this is for you.

I wish he could be here to see me, to see my creations, to see me fighting for his legacy.

My thoughts drift back to the other man I wish were here. Maxwell. Regardless of my future at the company, whether Fiona lets me join her senior team, tonight feels like a pinnacle.

It’s a success Maxwell took part in.

He calls me his little muse, but little does he know, he is my muse. He’s the only person who truly understands me. He sees me as beautiful, not broken or flawed.

Perfect, just the way I am.

Swiping the tears off my cheeks, I’m suddenly overcome with emotions, a tidal wave of sadness for the men I’ve lost, one to the great beyond and one to a crippling fear of death.

Millie pulls me to her side. “Shh… I got you. I know how it feels,” she whispers, her voice thick. She has had her share of losses in her life and I’m grateful she’s here.

More models strut down the runway, the designs slowly shifting from fall to winter as the lighting on the stage slowly warms to highlight the lush green foliage on the runway that was hidden by the smoke before.

Hope within the stark winter. The ray of light shining behind the clouds on a dreary day at Lake Superior.

The fashion show ends with Fiona and her team walking down the runway to a standing ovation. Her eyes find mine as she beams at the crowd. She gives me the barest of nods—a public acknowledgment.

I dip my head in response, my smile tinged with grief—happiness amid grief. Life is strange this way, and I find myself oscillating between opposing emotions—love and hate, anger and calmness.

Fiona and her team stride back to the backstage and the room brightens, signaling the end of the event. Suddenly, a murmuring travels through the crowd, camera flashes aimed toward the entrance of the room.

And I see him.