Page 32 of When Hearts Surrender

Atrovirens.

The wallpaper is atrovirens.

A sadness weighs on my chest as snippets of my conversation with Silas float to the surface. It’s been almost two months since the night of the street race and if it weren’t for the leather jacket hanging in the back of my closet at the apartment, I’d think that evening was a figment of my imagination.

If the fates allow, after I divorce from Maxwell, perhaps I’d bump into him again, the only man I’d ever felt a deep stirring for in my heartstrings—an inexplicable connection far transcending the short time we spent together.

Maybe we’d greet each other with smiles on our faces and he’d ask me to go with him to Nellie’s to share a simple pastrami and rye.

Maybe I’d bump into him at the Met, watching one of Puccini’s operas, and he’d ask the man next to me to switch seats.

Or maybe…just maybe I’d see him in the distance, his fingers intertwined with those of a beautiful woman, two little kids in tow.

He’d be living his dream life, and I’d be alone.

My heart clenches at the bittersweet images. A few of many that have sifted through my mind ever since I met him, a stranger who left an indelible imprint in my heart after only a few magical hours spent together.

“Ms. Law-McKenzie?” a blonde in a crisp gray sheath dress addresses me.

I nod.

“Mr. Anderson is in the room in the far corner. Do you want me to lead you to him?”

“I’m sure I can manage.” I look around the empty lounge and ask, “Is it always this quiet here?”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Anderson secured the entire lounge for your meeting. He said he didn’t want any disruptions or distractions,” she explains.

My pulse is thready as I stare at the frosted glass room with the door ajar.

My fiancé is sitting in there.

I’ve tried searching for him on the internet at home but his photos from the press conference have been removed. There are gossip sites saying the Anderson family has paid sizeable sums to media outlets and IT firms to scrub his images off the internet. The photos are rumored to be unflattering due to his very public panic attack.

I could’ve asked the girls for photos or information on him, but that’d require me to tell them what I was planning to do.

And to be honest, until this moment, I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to do it, to agree to marry a man I’d never met before. I didn’t want to worry them and I was sure they’d have strong opinions about our match, since they knew Maxwell and loved him dearly. Plus, they’d want me to marry for love. After all, I’d want the same for them.

Blowing out a deep breath, I walk toward the room.Let’s get the show on the road.

The opening notes of Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” sounding from the speakers stop me in my tracks.

My heart hammers a staccato rhythm and suddenly, tears threaten my eyes as I remember listening to this aria in Silas’s car.

The world of what-ifs and what could-bes.

The tenor’s voice strains at the high notes, the chorus and orchestra melding into an unforgettable melody and I square my shoulders and walk into the room, my feet coming to an abrupt halt when I see the man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned toward me.

The bright sunlight renders his shape into a dark silhouette, but something about him causes my pulse to flutter wildly in my veins.

Everything about him screams power and prestige. He stands tall, his long legs spread a foot apart, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He’s wearing a black suit that seems to be tailor-made for him, the fabric stretching over his lean muscles as he hums under his breath, too softly for me to make out his voice.

His head sways gently to the music, and as the tenor sings the pinnacle of the aria, Maxwell’s head stills, his deep, smooth voice raising in volume as he hums louder to the climax of the song that has graced cinema multiple times in the last century.

The hairs on my forearms rise.

That voice. The unmistakable deep voice that sends shivers down my spine.

It can’t be.

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