Epilogue

Six Months Later

“Thank y-you for coming tonight. The newly inaugurated Anderson Depression and Anxiety Research Center will greatly benefit from the proceeds of the sales this evening.” Maxwell clears his throat and nods to the crowd gathered at a chic gallery in SoHo. It’s not The Met, but I know he has no interest in being at such a high-profile place. This smaller setting is perfect for him.

His face is flushed, and I can hear the hitch in his breath as he stands in front of the stage.

Not on top of it, because he didn’t want the spotlight shining on him.

He’s drawn boundaries for himself, and I’m so proud of him for that.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes sweep the room until they land on me. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “M-May there be a day when the stigma of mental health conditions can be eradicated because we all deserve good health…both inside…” he points to his temple, “and outside.”

Giving the crowd a terse nod, applause rings in the air as he hands the microphone over to an attendant. He then strides over, all tethered power and masculinity in his three-piece dark navy suit—a McKenzie’s creation, of course—his hair artfully swept up, carefully groomed stubble on his chiseled jawline.

Pride swells in my chest, joining the undercurrent of excitement. I can’t wait to tell him the news.

Heat sweeps through me as I watch my very handsome husband walking toward me, a lightness in his steps despite just having given a closing speech to the guests of his first-ever art show since he was in high school. I told him he didn’t need to give a speech, that I could take care of it for him, but he said he wanted to.

“I’m a winner,” he murmurs, his dark eyes glinting in our bedroom a week ago. “I’m not hiding behind my anxiety anymore.”

I smile and touch his cheek. “You’re a winner either way. Because you’re battling your inner demons each day with bravery. On the good days, and the bad.”

His voice hitches and his nostrils flare. “You’re right. I’m the biggest winner in life already…because I have you by my side.”

My chest warms at the memory as he reaches me, his comforting scent wafting to my nose. The guests are filtering out of the gallery as planned. When I finalized the schedule last week, I didn’t want him to feel pressured to socialize for the entire night. Therefore, I slotted his speech as the closing remarks, so he could appear at the end of the evening on his own terms.

“I’m so proud of you.” I loop my arms around his neck. “You did so well up there.”

“Dr. Lin helped a lot.” He’s been seeing her weekly and diligently taking his medicine to help control his panic attacks. It hasn’t been smooth sailing, but he’s been so much happier.

It also helps that ever since we discovered Silas’s journal and read Emma’s parting words…words about sacrifice, much like what Maxwell did when he came in between the bullet and me, there have been no more strange accidents. The rose garden is in full bloom, including the patch of soil that grew nothing before. Maxwell was right. The curse, if there was one, has been broken .

Now, when I step in between the beautiful bushes and smell the lush scent of the flowers, I no longer feel sad. Instead, I feel a bone-deep peace and contentment. The estate also feels brighter, like all the missing parts have slid into place.

“All the pieces are sold. They love your work. A smart CEO and a brilliant artist. How did I get so lucky?” I gesture at the colorful canvases hung on the walls, all marked with orange stickers to indicate a sale.

He grins, his smile wolfishly handsome. Fleur’s stock has rebounded and is higher than ever. The public is singing praises at how he has become a champion of mental health awareness.

Stepping on my tiptoes, I press a kiss on his lips. “My husband is so, so talented.” I dip my tongue out and lick at the seam. “Just like his wife,” I add, before giving him a saucy wink. Fiona called me into her office yesterday with a promotion to senior designer…all on my own merit.

He growls and hauls me flushed against him. “I can show you how talented I am.” He gyrates his hips slightly, letting me feel his hardness for emphasis.

Heat unfurls between my legs and just as I’m about to ask him to show me his abilities in a supply closet, an angry voice penetrates the sexual haze.

“She was uncomfortable, you jackass.”

Our heads whip toward the entrance, where Charles is in the face of a slim man. Taylor stands next to him, scowling while rubbing her forearm.

The man holds his hands up, clearly not wanting to anger the fuming god of thunder towering over him, and scurries away.

Taylor narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “I didn’t need you to save me. I could’ve handled that myself. I’m very capable, you know.”

“Didn’t look like it from my angle. You were shivering like a leaf.”

“Oh fuck you, Charles!”

“Not in a million years, even if you were to ask me,” Charles growls as he stares Taylor down, who now has her arms crossed over her chest .

I can smell the hatred all the way from over here.

“You guys, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” Grace hurries over to them. She looks at us and gives me a wink.

I’ve got this , she mouths. Go enjoy your night.

“Well, well, well, trouble in paradise, eh?” Rex grins, bringing with him Ryland, Ethan, and Steven. Lana and Millie are giggling over what probably is some gossip of the day.

“What paradise? More like hell,” Charles mutters under his breath.

“The golden prince is ruffled by our black-hearted ballerina. I want to know all the details.” Rex waggles his brows and everyone groans.

“Should we rescue them?” I ask Maxwell.

He chuckles, his deep voice sending shivers down my body as his finger draws circles over the triangle back cutout of my dress.

“No, they’ll be fine,” he murmurs and presses a kiss right under my ear where he knows I’m most sensitive.

“Maxwell,” I moan, arching toward him. “We’re in public.”

“That’s literally the only thing preventing me from ripping that dress off your body.”

I shiver, the image of him having his way with me in public causing my pussy to clench.

“Ah, I forgot my wife is a slutty exhibitionist,” he rakes his teeth down my neck, “but no one gets to see you naked except me. But maybe we can find a room here and everyone can hear how you scream for your husband’s cock.”

I think back to that night at The Lilith and how I fell apart in his arms with an audience on the other side of the glass. We may have reenacted that a few times in the last few months. My legs turn to jelly and I would’ve melted into a puddle on the floor if it weren’t for him holding me upright.

Something flashes in my mind and the lustful haze clears.

I straighten. I completely forgot my surprise for him.

“Something wrong?” he asks, clearly sensing my mood change.

“I have something to show you. ”

I lace my fingers with his and tug him toward my destination, ignoring the curious glances of my friends and family. My heels click on the marble floors as we breeze through the white walls filled with Maxwell’s art—pieces he has created over the years when he hid himself and his talent away from the rest of the world. Now, each of these paintings is sold, appreciated, and loved by others.

What’s art if not to be loved and admired?

That’s what he told me before, and I turn around as my legs pick up in speed, my hair floating behind me, hitting him in the face. He laughs, a rich, loud sound I’ll never get sick of hearing.

Grinning, I break into a half jog, him matching my pace behind me, as my heart pounds in an excited rhythm. After a few turns in the convoluted maze of walls in the gallery, I come to a slow stop, my breathing coming out in quick pants. Squeezing his hand, I walk toward my destination, a singular portrait decorating a large, white wall, with a lone spotlight shining on it.

My favorite piece of his creations.

It’s the painting of me smiling, with the rose garden behind me in full bloom. The painting he was working on when I was taken six months ago. The painting that made my heart hurt in sadness before, but now swells in joy because of the love in every stroke.

His love for me, captured on canvas. The essence of our story.

“I thought this one wasn’t for sale,” he says as we walk up to the painting.

“It isn’t. But I want the world to see it, because it’s so beautiful,” I whisper, curling my arm around him and leaning my head against his shoulder. “Many people wanted to buy it, but I refused. Because this one is mine.”

“Hmm…” He stares intently at the art.

I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll see it. The subtle change I made. A glimmer of pale cream on the dress at the waist, so it looks like it’s floating in the wind, molding to the subtle new curves of my belly. Just like the dash of hope I instilled in the turbulent skies in his painting of Lake Superior or the streak of red hidden in the blue-green of atrovirens.

A few moments of silence pass by as I’m breathless with anticipation.

Suddenly, he shifts, his muscles tensing at my side, and I smile inwardly.

He sees it.

He grips my hand tightly as his breath catches, and he slowly tugs me closer to the canvas.

“Did you… Is it? What?” Nonsensical words tumble out of his mouth and he turns to me, his eyes darting to my midsection, then to the painting, then back at me again.

“Belle… Are you? Is this what I think it means?”

Tears well in my eyes, and I press my lips together and nod as a choked sob slip out of my mouth.

“Yes, Maxwell.” I throw my arms around his neck, pulling his head down so we are at eye level, his charcoal eyes glittering with moisture under the stark lighting.

His face blurs in front of me and I whisper in his ear, “You’re going to be a dad.”

His breath catches. Pulling back slightly, he cradles my face in his hands, his eyes shining with so much wonder and awe…and joy.

Complete elation.

We turned to IVF shortly after he recovered, since my egg reserves were much lower than expected. It had been months and months of pills, hormones, and shots—three egg retrievals, yielding only three viable embryos and the last two attempts had failed. I was a moody mess, my body reacting horribly to the procedures, and we promised each other if this last attempt failed, we would craft a different dream for ourselves.

Because we would be happy either way…even if the present was painful .

The last transfer was two weeks ago, and I got the call from the clinic yesterday with the good news. I then spent the next hour in the Elysium modifying his painting of me.

Maxwell’s breathing grows ragged as he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingertips with such reverence, my breath stalls in my throat.

He then leans forward and dips his forehead against mine, much like all the other times before, and he presses a kiss there.

Then he moves to my lips, searing me with a gentle kiss before whispering, “I love you so, so much, Belle.”

Finally, he kneels down and cradles my belly. Tears slide down my face as I watch him smooth his hands over my nonexistent curves.

“Hello, baby. I’m your father, and I love you to the ends of the earth,” he whispers before pressing a kiss there.

Another sob escapes my mouth, and he glances up at me, tears welling in his eyes.

Standing up, he curls his hand around my nape, the other angling my jaw before he crushes his lips to mine, making love to my mouth as I do the same to him.

Heat swirls over my chest and down my body, my heart pounding in an erratic rhythm as he deepens our connection before he pulls apart.

The beginning strains of Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” sound from the speakers. We smile at each other, and my heart skips a beat. I’m brought back to when I first heard this aria with him in his car, the night that is forever emblazoned in my mind.

How much things have changed since then…and yet, nothing has changed the way my heart pounds for him, an ancient rhythm created long before I walked this earth.

My lips curve up and I murmur, “I love you, husband.”

He tucks me against him. “I love you, wife.”

We stare at his masterpiece, the painting that captures me so perfectly, all the while listening to the evocative melody of hope and victory.

Silas’s words float to my mind .

Your image dwells eternally in my mind, though I could spend the rest of my life attempting to capture your likeness on canvas, nothing will ever compare, for my skills can never do you justice.

Yet I vow, one day, when we are reunited in another life, when my heart is made whole, I shall attempt to portray you once more, my love. Perhaps then, I will finally be able to capture your essence.

Yes. He did capture my essence.

Completely, irrevocably, whole-heartedly.

Thank you for reading WHEN HEARTS SURRENDER. Hope you’ve enjoyed Maxwell and Belle's story as much as I did writing it.

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Read Charles's Story Next: Do you know Charles and Taylor's story is next? This is one angsty enemies to lovers, forced proximity billionaire romance with "Who did this to you?" and "I'll burn the world for you" vibes. Don’t miss WHEN HEARTS AWAKEN. Read it here: https://geni.us/whenheartsawaken

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Excerpt from When Hearts Collide : Curious about the angsty romance between Professor Ryland Anderson and his student Millie Callahan? Keep reading for the first chapter of When Hearts Collide , available now!