Chapter 57

“We’ve packed up the rest of his things, Mrs. Anderson. The only item left is his art in the living room. Your housekeeper is en route with a carrying case for it.”

I nod to the tall brunette, one of the staff members for the private suites here in The Orchid, and she closes the door softly behind her.

My chest is heavy as I amble into the living room of the suite Maxwell was staying in after he moved out of the estate. The drapes are drawn shut and only a sliver of daylight shows through from the gap.

Tears prickle my eyes when I see his leather jacket on the couch—the same one I kept from that night at the race, and brought back to the mansion when I moved in. With trembling hands, I bring it up to my nose and take a sniff of his scent.

“Maxwell,” I whisper, burying my face into the jacket before clutching it to my chest.

I wish he were here with me, that he would wrap his arms around me and spin me around to the strains of Puccini’s arias. Then, I’d cook for him, knowing he’d make fun of me before nudging me out of the way to whip up something far more delicious than the meals at fancy restaurants, because he made it with love.

I’d gladly spend my days hiding away with him in the estate, painting, sketching, reading, and they’d be the happiest days of my life because he’d be there with me, and I’d get to be the luckiest woman alive to love him.

I have a feeling I’ve loved him for a long, long time, and will continue to love him for the years to come .

He’s been in a coma for the past week and the doctors don’t know if he’ll wake up. They said he not only suffered damage to his internal organs from the gunshot wound but also lost a lot of blood, and his brain was deprived of oxygen for too long when he coded in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

I wouldn’t have left his side if it weren’t for the staff here contacting me, asking me if I’d like to keep his things here or move them back to the estate. I wanted to see where he lived these last days before the incident, to breathe the air he breathed, to touch the surfaces his fingers grazed.

A sob lodges in my throat as I drape his jacket over my shoulders, needing to surround myself with him as my soul feels bereft and lonely, the empty chasm inside me glaringly apparent.

But I won’t give up on him. On us. Not when I’ve finally found him again.

My dreams have been a myriad of strange visions, echoes of what feel like memories that are so vivid, so true. I feel splintering heartache in my chest when I wake up. Some dreams are of Silas, the duke, his face brimming with joy, dimples flashing, as he twirls me around in the gardens at night before hauling me close and pressing kisses on my skin.

Kisses that felt like my Maxwell.

Other dreams are scattered memories from happier days when Maxwell was painting in his studio.

His brows furrowed as if displeased at his work, until his concentration broke and he looked up, seeing me staring at him. His grim face brightened, his brow cocking up arrogantly as he smirked.

The dimple on his cheek, identical to the one on his ancestor’s face, the one I’d seen in my dreams even though I’d never seen it rendered in any of the paintings in the house.

Maxwell would beckon me to him and pat on his lap. “Sit, little muse. Maybe all I need is some inspiration to get through this artistic block.”

He dipped his nose to my neck and sniffed and I giggled, the ticklish sensations sending heat to my core .

“Maxwell!” I swatted him away.

“Hmm?” He kissed a tender spot under my ear, his hand inching underneath my sweater before closing over my breast and tweaking the hard nipple. “Yes, little muse? I’m feeling rather inspired right now.”

“Maxwell,” I moaned, my head lulling to the side as he bit the tendered flesh of my neck before carrying me back to the bedroom, all work and art forgotten.

We were so happy. The clandestine moments in the Elysium, the whispered words of love and fleeting touches as we passed each other in the halls long before he said he loved me, because he later told me he didn’t want the curse to hear us.

Perhaps Morris was the villain who set everything in motion. Perhaps there was a more nefarious force behind his actions, the mysterious curse that had tortured this family for generations.

It doesn’t matter anymore. The result is still the same.

We’re still torn apart, two souls standing on opposite sides of the abyss, hovering between life and death.

“You’ll come back to me,” I whisper to the darkness and clutch his leather jacket closer, taking another whiff of his fading scent.

I’ll never give up on you. I’ll be strong enough for both of us.

My fingers skim the plush couch as I walk past the Tiffany floor lamp toward the easel facing the windows. A dried-up paint palate lies on a side table, dirty brushes strewn on top of it, clearly in haste when he dashed out the door after Elias found him.

Slowly, I draw open the drapes and approach the canvas, the mysterious project I’d seen him working on but he’d never shown me when I’d asked before.

My breath catches at what I see, and a fresh wave of agony pierces my chest.

It’s a portrait of me, with the rose garden as the backdrop. Unlike his painting of Lake Superior, with its harsh strokes and passionate sweeps of dark and moody colors, befitting of the turmoil and hopelessness he felt when he was there, this painting is imbued with light and hope.

I’m smiling, my eyes crinkling in the corners, the tawny greens vibrant like fresh blooms in spring. My face is tipped up toward the sun, the warmth of the golden rays seeming so real, I can almost feel them on my skin. He’s captured every part of me in meticulous detail, including the mole under my eye. My black hair billows in the wind, full of life, and I appear to be laughing, smiling at the artist…at him, the roses in full bloom behind me.

Every tender stroke whispers of his abiding love. The brush marks a tender caress on my skin, like he’s pouring his happiness and adoration into this canvas.

It’s his love letter to me in his own language.

A language only I can understand. A language only I can feel. His answer to the question posed in his austere painting of Lake Superior, the painting that was missing a soul…missing hope. This one speaks of joy, of hope for the future, because we are together.

My eyes burn as my fingers hover over the art, careful not to touch it because I don’t want to rub away any traces of him from the canvas.

“Maxwell, please come back to me,” I whisper.

Ping.

I take out my phone from my pocket, noticing a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number

This is Liam Crenshaw, attorney for Cole Whelan. He’s recovering in the hospital from his wound and I’m passing along a message from him.

A photo comes through—hastily scrawled writing on a slip of paper.

Belle,

I’m so sorry for hurting you, for lying to you, for the role I played in what happened to you and Maxwell. There are no excuses for what I did, and I know nothing I say or do will make any difference.

But I just want to let you know I’m sorry. I hope Maxwell gets better and I wish you both nothing but happiness in the future.

Always,

Cole

Closing my eyes, I click off the phone, exhaustion weighing heavily on me. I don’t have it in me to be angry at him or to hate him anymore. He was obviously led astray by Morris, who took advantage of Sydney’s death and how it impacted Cole’s family. I know he tried to right his wrong once he realized Morris was up to no good. He tried to take me away from the mansion—to save me multiple times without implicating himself. Regardless, his fate rests with the courts now.

Taking a deep breath, I swipe to my messages and type out my reply.

Belle

Please tell him I forgive him and I hope the answers have brought him and his family some closure. I don’t want to talk to him or hear from him again, but I wish him peace.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” I holler, and in strides Agnes, carrying a large black canvas case, followed by Taylor and Millie.

Agnes stands at the threshold, looking uncertain. Her fingers tightly clutch the handle of the case .

Maxwell and I’ve never finished our assessment of her performance in her probation period after he warned her about her attitude. And frankly, with everything that has gone on, I haven’t given a crap about her.

Taylor and Millie stand next to me, their foreheads crinkled, clearly wondering the reason for this strange, silent standoff.

Finally, Agnes clears her throat. “I-I’m sorry, Ms. Belle.”

“For?” I won’t make this easy on her.

She swallows. “I’ve been unprofessional toward you and you didn’t deserve my attitude. It was wrong of me…I see that now.”

“How do I know you mean what you’re saying when you’ve been anything but welcoming toward me? To be honest, I don’t really want to talk about this with you right now.” Not with everything going on. Not with Maxwell still in the hospital.

“Please!” she pleads. “It was misguided! I wanted to save you!”

My blood turns cold. Please don’t tell me she had anything to do with what happened. Taylor stiffens next to me, clearly thinking the same thing.

“Were you a part of it, Agnes? Were you? Is this some ploy to get the inheritance? Because I swear if you were, I’ll make you regret it and I—”

Agnes’s eyes widen and she shakes her head vehemently. “No! Of course not! You might not see this, but I love the family. I watched Sir Maxwell and his siblings grow up.”

Her voice chokes as her eyes glisten. “Ms. Juliana was one of my best friends when she was alive. She never treated me like staff. She never looked down at me for refusing to leave my gambler of a husband because I wasn’t ready. She brought life to the estate…just like you.”

My chest pinches at the sadness on her face, something that can’t be faked.

She continues, “We all knew about the curse—the tree branch, the signs, the accidents—but Ms. Julianna didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t say I blamed her,” she looks up, her eyes pleading with me to understand, “by then she had fallen in love with her husband, who treated her like a queen.”

Agnes shakes her head sadly. “But when she died, I lost a piece of me too—my best friend. And I blamed myself for not warning her, for not believing the curse and the signs. Of course, none of us suspected Morris was behind everything.”

She steps forward, her fingers white-knuckled around the handle of the case. “Don’t you see? When you arrived, I was hit with the strongest sense of déjà vu. I knew Sir Maxwell had feelings for you. I watched him grow up. That little boy didn’t like to smile. He always seemed like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But he smiled so much more these months, even when you two were fighting. There was a fire in his eyes I’d never seen before.”

Her hand swipes the moisture pooling in her eyes. “I knew it was going to happen again. I was sure of it. And this time, I vowed to myself I wouldn’t let anything happen. Not to Sir Maxwell. Not to you.”

My heart pounds rapidly, listening to her ardent explanation. She was trying to save me. In her own twisted way?

“I now see that it was wrong of me to warn you away from the house. I thought—why would you listen to me, a stranger? Ms. Julianna and I were the best of friends, and she didn’t listen to me. I knew I had to do something drastic this time—be cold toward you and chase you away. I was hoping you’d leave on your own and we wouldn’t have to go through another tragedy. But I guess it didn’t work.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe it was Morris…all these years, working side by side, I didn’t know a thing.”

A sob tears from my mouth, and I turn away. Millie hushes me, smoothing her hand over my back as I shake my head.

It’s my fault. If I hadn’t insisted Maxwell love me back, if I didn’t ask him to fight for me, for us, would Morris have let us go? Would things still have turned out this way ?

Agnes whispers, “Don’t blame yourself, Ms. Belle. Perhaps everything is fated and we’re all merely players in a game pre-planned for us. Sir Maxwell wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. He loves you so much.”

“Maxwell,” I whisper, the hole in my chest feeling bigger than ever before.

Agnes sniffles. “Regardless of my intentions, I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. Even if you don’t keep me on, I just want to tell you the truth.”

We stare at each other, united in the heaviness of sadness and slowly, I give her a nod, motioning to the canvas by the window.

A piece of him left for me.

“Please be careful,” I whisper to her as her eyes widen in shock before she hustles over, getting to work and carefully wrapping up Maxwell’s artwork.

My lips tremble and I turn to Millie, whose face crumbles as she wraps me in her arms.

“Oh Belle,” she murmurs and I bury my face in her hair, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“I miss him, Millie,” I sob, the pulverized pieces of my heart trying to flare back to life, but the effort is too painful. “God, I miss him so much.”

“Let it out, Belle. We’re here for you.” I feel Taylor curling her arms around me, her hug light, but no less warm. Her voice is thick, like she has been crying too—the black-hearted ballerina has a warm, beating heart, hidden from everyone, but I know it’s there.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper in our group hug as sobs wrack my body, the pain never-ending.

“One day at a time, Belle. One day at a time,” Millie whispers, clutching me tightly. “Ryland, Grace, and the others are at the hospital, and they’ll let us know if anything changes.”

“You need to rest, Belle,” Taylor murmurs when we disentangle ourselves from the hug. “You look like absolute shit. He won’t recognize you when he wakes up.” Her nose crinkles and lips twitch, like she’s struggling not to cry.

“God, you suck at comforting people, Tay. But I love you anyway,” I choke out before smiling, a rush of warmth flooding my insides.

My girls. My family. I’m not alone.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m going to stay strong for him because I believe in him, in us.” I sniffle and swallow the lump in my throat. “He’ll come back to me. I know he will.”

Just then, Taylor’s phone rings, the shrill sound causing me to flinch.

She answers, her eyes widening as her mouth drops open.

“T-Thanks. I’ll let her know.”

She ends the call and stares at me.

“What? Tay, tell me.” My heart races in my chest, the dying embers refusing to extinguish.

“It’s Grace. H-He’s awake.”