Page 89 of When Hearts Surrender

Ice fills my veins as I stare at the gnarly branch, unable to move, unable to breathe.

The curse, the winds seem to wail.Stay away from her.

The warmth from minutes ago is swiftly replaced by a bone-chilling fear, which is seeking my panic as its macabre dance partner.

I tug my bow tie. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.

Stay away…

“Oh God, it’s happening again,” Agnes whispers next to me, her skin as pale as a ghost. She must’ve come in during the commotion. Beside her, Morris is standing tall, his face grim. A muscle pulses in his jaw.

“The curse.” She moves her hand to her forehead and chest—a sign of the cross—and closes her eyes, her mouth moving rapidly and I hear her whispered words of prayer.

It can’t be.

Sydney, her green eyes unseeing, her mouth parted as if opened in a silent scream, her blond hair tangled and her pale skin blue. Her lifeless body sprawled on the beach.

Sweat gathers on my forehead. I shake myself.

It can’t be. I haven’t fallen in love with her. Iwon’tfall in love with her.

My heart seizes, the escalating pain in my chest eviscerating.

The staff struggle to block off the shattered windows with a tarp as the storm surges outside, battering against the centuries’ old structure, the violence unrelenting, the outdoors a nightmare in monochrome white.

The image of Sydney transforms into one of Belle, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips parted in terror as she reaches for me. It’s like my dreams of the woman in the rose garden, but this time I see her face clearly. A darkness lurks behind Belle, dragging her into a bottomless black hole as she screams for me.

And I’m helpless, my hands and feet bound tightly, unable to move even as my heart splinters into a thousand pieces.

“No, no, no, it can’t be,” I whisper under my breath, shutting my eyes.

I can’t love her.

She can’t leave me.

Not this time.

The thought materializes in the back of my mind, a ghostly whisper, like a wraith from a past I’m not privy to.

Chapter 32

“You’ve brought back lifeinto the place,” Melody exclaims, her voice awestruck as we admire the opulent ballroom filling up with guests for the gala. “Growing up here, it always felt like a mausoleum, no sign of life. But now…now we’re talking.”

There was a disturbance earlier in the day, and some of the staff went to assist while Melody and I helped to finish the setup for the event.

It’s the first public affair the Anderson Estate has hosted since the early nineteen hundreds. The press is salivating at the event hailed as more exclusive than the Met Galaandthe usual crème de la crème event of the year, the annual Christmas Ball at The Orchid. That Ball was unprecedentedly canceled this year for this occasion.

I smile, marveling at the soaring, intricate coffered ceilings, the two enormous three-tiered crystal chandeliers lit up byrealcandles, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls and the ceiling. A towering twenty-foot Christmas tree is tucked away in the corner and the sea of stark white from the storm outside the windows acts as a backdrop.

“You did all the hard work—you and your mom.”

“Under your impeccable leadership, Your Grace.” She sweeps her hand in a mocking bow and I grin.

“Technically, you’re supposed to curtsy. You’re a woman. Also, I’m not a duchess, I’m a marchioness. So, it should be ‘my lady’ instead.”Thank you, Millie and Grace, for that interesting factoid.

“Ugh! You’d think after growing up here for almost thirty years, I’d know this stuff.”

Laughing, I nudge her on the side as Morris walks in, his eyes roving around the ballroom before landing on Agnes. He frowns as he stalks toward her.

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