Page 155 of When Hearts Surrender

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 withlight 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 andMaxwell. 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.

---