Chapter 5

Two weeks of trapping myself in my art studio on the fourth floor of the estate, listening to the classic arias playing from our vintage phonograph and ignoring my siblings’ calls, did nothing to dull the sense of doom lurking inside me. The only times I’ve ventured outside were for urgent meetings at Fleur.

It’s one thing to know my role, but another thing to actually go through with it.

Rain patters against the tall lattice windows. A few showers in May are nothing unusual, but this spring seems exceptionally dreary—a never-ending parade of charcoal, graphite, and blacks.

There’s a permanent chill in the air, the cold burrowing deep into my bones.

I don’t have the heater on. There’s no need for it when it’s only me living in the estate now, with my siblings having settled in their own apartments either at The Orchid or elsewhere in the city.

I suppose I could move, but an inexplicable yearning chains me here, this enormous building filled with ghosts and sorrows, but that also holds so much beautiful, haunting history. This estate has been in our family for centuries, passing down from the eldest son to the next, just like the way my ancestors have done it with the dukedom and entail in England.

My phone chimes and I set down my paintbrush and swipe at the screen.

Charles

We’re at the gentlemen’s club in The Orchid. Rex is drunk already. Come, Maxwell. Save me from him.

Rex

Audio message: “F-Fuck y-you, tattle-taler, pants on fire.”

Ethan

If you can’t handle your alcohol, why are you drinking? You sound like you’re five.

I smirk, staring at the exchange from my family and friends in our chat group.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a private message.

Ryland

Something’s going on with you. I can feel it. Don’t bullshit me. You told me to rely on you and the family when I was going through my shit. Why can’t you do the same?

A weight presses down on my chest. Damn twin-sense. Even if I haven’t seen him in the recent weeks, Ryland knows. I helped him out when he was in the pits before he got his act together and went after Millie, the love of his life, and now, he’s expecting the same from me. As he should.

My fingers pause over the screen as I mull over what to type, and another message pops up.

Dad

The meeting for the negotiations is set for next month. I’ve met with the family and they are proceeding with the match .

A muscle twitches on my forehead as I set down the phone back on the side table.

I can’t breathe.

Grabbing my paintbrush again, I stare at my art on the canvas, another attempt at purging a restlessness inside me. It’s a silhouette of a woman in our rose garden—the same painting I’ve attempted many times over the years. Her face is blank as always, a vague outline I can’t bring myself to fill in because somehow, I know I can’t do her justice.

Failure. Another failure.

I have a feeling the answer lies in my recurring dreams—vignettes of me dancing with someone in the twilight, the smell of roses in the air.

In those haunting visions, I wrapped my arms around a slender waist as I fiddled with a paintbrush, trying to paint something on canvas. The faceless woman in my arms laughed and nudged me out of the way.

“Someday, I’ll be a painter just like you, and your face will be my masterpiece,” I murmured.

A ghostly whisper replied, “Hope is the dream of a waking man.”

As always, I’d wake up breathless and disoriented.

It’s like a forgotten memory, just out of reach; the lines blurred, colors muted.

My hands tremble, fury gathering strength, and I set the brush down and grab the canvas, my fingers digging into the white cloth.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I fucking accept myself, dammit.

I set down the art next to the pile on the herringbone floors.

Piece after piece of fucking soulless trash.

Twisting my family ring on my finger, I stare at the dark gemstone, wondering if any of my predecessors ever felt like this, like they were fighting an unknown enemy they couldn’t see, like they were running away from a monster who had a noose with their name on it, only to look back and find nobody there?

I can’t keep this up. Being a ghost of myself. Heck, I tell Ryland to live for himself, to be happy. Why can’t I do the same ?

Grabbing my phone, I check the time. One a.m. on a Friday. Sleep eludes me, as always. The night is still young. An event notification pops up, one I’ve ignored for weeks: The Spring Race—2 a.m.

My mind made up, I type a quick reply to the invitation attached. Then, I press a button by the painting of my great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Ashford Williams Anderson the Third, hanging above the fireplace, and stare at the man with whom I share the same slate-gray eyes and brown hair, so dark it’s almost black. He wears a serious expression on his face, but I’ve always thought his eyes were haunted by sadness.

I wonder what he saw in his lifetime and what he would do in my situation.

“Yes, sir?” one of the staff responds.

“Have Simon get the McLaren ready for the race. I’m going out.”

“Yes, right away, sir.”

I shrug into my black leather jacket hanging on the coatrack and head toward the door, but as I cross the threshold, I pause, staring at the family ring on my finger.

Letting out a ragged breath, I tug the heirloom off and deposit it on the gilded tray on top of a small table. The ring clatters onto the dish with a crisp clang , and I shut the door behind me.

Half an hour later, I rev the engine as I turn into the lineup at an underground parking garage of a nondescript building on Broadway and Grand in Lower Manhattan. I roll down the windows of my latest beauty, my chrome-colored McLaren 720 S, with all the works done—nitrous oxide system and suspension upgrades, aerodynamic rear spoiler modifications, bespoke, imported from Japan, lightweight polymer for the hood, trunk lids, and door panels.

It’s the car of a victor, not a failure.

A rainbow assortment of sleek, luxury vehicles gather in an orderly fashion, all smooth lines and bright colors, and hordes of people fill the floor of the parking structure .

The smell of gasoline mixing with the damp, wet scent of the rain sparks a fire in my veins, my senses turning on one by one and I can feel my lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.

Live for myself. Be happy.

In this moment, as my heart thumps to the heavy beats of hip-hop music straining from the speakers of the cars in front of me, I can almost feel that elusive emotion.

I feel alive.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the aggressive, pungent cocktail of gasoline and burned rubber. This is more like it.

These are common sights and smells of the monthly races organized by The Orchid for its rich and elite patrons who have nothing better to do than to risk their lives for a taste of danger. Along with The Lilith, the voyeur room inside The Orchid, street racing is the occasional break I give myself, a place where I’m not the eldest Anderson son haunted by a centuries-old curse.

Excitement sizzles from the large crowd of bystanders and other racers, the women wearing tiny articles of clothing showing more skin than runway models for the summer resort collections, the men in various sports and leather jackets I know cost more than a month’s rent for any of the apartments in the area.

A few girls nearby have their phones in the air, the flashes illuminating their pouting lips and sexy poses as they take selfies. Several couples are plastered next to their cars, hands roaming over their clothes, mouths devouring each other.

I scan the crowd, noticing a few famous models and actresses, beauties of all shapes and sizes, but my body doesn’t stir, my cock not even twitching in my pants, another unfortunate, regular occurrence for the past year besides losing my muse for my art.

Gritting my teeth, I start to turn my head toward the settings in the front panels of my car, my eyes skimming over the sea of naked skin, glittering gems, and dark fabrics.

Until I see her .

A woman, standing on the outskirts of the crowd, looking as uncomfortable as a patient right before a rectal exam. Pale, flawless skin, without a stitch of makeup on, large, doe-like eyes, the color I can’t make out from the distance, and thick, shiny black hair tied up in a high ponytail. She’s gnawing on her lip, her eyes darting left and right, a deer in the headlights, her feet tapping a nervous rhythm on the ground.

While she’s wearing a short dress like many women around her, a slinky black number ending mid-thigh, she carries herself like she’s wearing an elegant ball gown. She has an aura of sweetness I can almost see and taste.

My chest seizes, riveted by this woman in front of me. There’s something about her that prevents me from looking away.

She’s breathtaking.

A redhead nudges her and speaks into her ear. She shakes her head and the other woman laughs. They murmur to each other and suddenly, I see her straighten up, the little deer growing a backbone in front of my eyes. She frowns, her lips pressing into a firm line.

What are you doing here? What are you thinking about?

Someone raps the roof of my car, interrupting me from my perusal of the mysterious woman.

“Maxwell, I thought you couldn’t make it tonight.”

Glancing at the interloper, I smirk, my shoulders loosening. “Last minute change of plans.”

I motion to the excited crowd gathering around us. “Great showing tonight. No complaints so far?”

Jack’s eyes sharpen, the jovial smile sliding off his face as he leans in. “None. Attendance is up, and folks are excited about this new route. We’ve checked in with the commissioner and he’s directed his officers to other areas of the city during our race.”

It’s no surprise Jack has everything handled, including making sure the NYPD won’t give our members any grief. After all, the commissioner is a member at The Orchid as well .

Jack Szeto started as a club promoter but quickly climbed up the ranks by being excellent at generating hype and capturing the particular tastes of the capricious billionaires in our circle. He’s now the Director of Entertainment at The Orchid and occasionally frequents the races to “get a pulse” for the events himself, as he says.

I nod, satisfied with the turnout, and rev my engine again, enjoying the smooth purring of the cylinders. “I’ll see you on the other side then.”

“Will do. Good luck tonight, not that you need it.” He doles out a lazy wink, transforming into the party-hard playboy right in front of my eyes, which is now a costume he wears since he’s head over heels in love with his girlfriend, Sarah.

My eyes rove to the spot where the alluring woman was standing moments ago, but she disappeared. A mysterious ache forms in my chest, and I frown.

After closing the windows, I press a button on the side panel, and the infamous aria, “Nessun Dorma” from Puccini’s Turandot , erupts from the speakers.

I sway my head to the sweeping drama of the song and the lyrics, listening to the Italian tenor playing the main male character, Calaf, sing about his character’s love for Princess Turandot and his desperation for her hand in marriage pushing him to challenge her to discover his real name by dawn. If she fails, she’ll marry him, but if she succeeds, he’ll be killed.

To experience such a desperate, tumultuous love for someone else. To be willing to die for this person.

I swallow, a fruitless attempt at dislodging the lump in my throat.

To love with your whole body and soul…

It’s a thirst I can’t quench and will never be able to.

Thoughts of Sydney drift into my mind again—her laughter when she won a game of Scrabble after we finished our papers for twelfth grade English class. But even then, I’d never felt a fraction of what Calaf felt for Princess Turandot .

Just then, I hear the announcer mumble something about racers needing a passenger.

Fuck. This again? They do this every so often to change up the races.

Memories of being the last kid standing when no one picked me for their sports teams in elementary and middle school flash to the forefront. The helplessness, the anxiety. Fuck, I hate this feeling.

My heart drops to my stomach as a heat flushes through me and I see the mad dash of excited patrons getting into cars.

The heaviness returns to my chest.

I have no one. Lonely as always.

Shaking my head, I dispel the morose thoughts. If they won’t let me race alone, then I won’t race at all. I’ve accepted my course of life long ago. I’m calm. I’m at peace. I’m—

Slam!

My head swivels to the right, finding the mysterious black-haired beauty sliding into the passenger seat. Her eyes widen comically as she listens to the aria, her full lips parted as she heaves in panting breaths, like she has run a mile to sit next to me instead of walking the dozen steps of distance between us.

She gnaws on her lips again as I find myself speechless while the tenor’s voice erupts into a crescendo in the tight space of the car.

What the fuck?

She takes in a deep breath, turns to me, and holds up her hands. “Look, I know I don’t know you, but this is my year of yeses, and the announcer just said for this race, every racer needed to have a companion to liven things up, and I didn’t see anyone get into your car.”

Her hands cover her cheeks, which are flushed and pink.

She rambles, “Then, Jamie gave me an ultimatum and I couldn’t say no because it’s my year of yeses. I said that already, didn’t I?”

My voice continues to desert me as I stare at this vixen, my fingers suddenly itching to pick up a pen or a pencil, my sleep-deprived mind even contemplating opening a vein to capture her on paper. Fucking insanity .

But the life teeming in her eyes beckons me. Then, there’s her smooth ivory skin, unblemished except for a small freckle under her right eye, her long lashes, her beautiful irises, which I now see are a dark, tawny green, the colors of the moors in Scotland in spring.

My jaw flexes and every muscle in my body locks with tension. The air thins in the space between us.

She blinks, her face turning bright red. “What am I doing? Oh God, this is so embarrassing. You know what? I’m just going to leave—”

She reaches for the door handle and I don’t know what comes over me this instant, but all I know is I don’t want this woman to leave my car.

Stay . Don’t leave me.

Leaning over her, I cover her trembling fingers with my hand, flinching the moment my skin touches hers, a barrage of jittery sensations overloading my nerves. She lets out a breathy gasp, and a thousand shivers coast down my spine.

And my cold, impervious heart—the muscle I thought was long dormant—stirs to life.