Page 92 of When Hearts Surrender

“Shit!” Steven takes out his phone and groans. “Five missed calls.” He tugs Grace toward the doors. “My parents and the video call. Adrian or Emily must’ve called Millie to remind us.”

“See you guys later!” I holler at the two of them as they follow Charles out of the ballroom.

I walk to the windows and stare at the maelstrom of white, the faint shadows of twisted tree branches clawing against the strong winds.

Wraithmoor Abbey. Silas’s letter. Broken hearts and lost loves. Grisly deaths spanning generations. The tree branch shattering a window.Could it all really be pure coincidence? Or could it be…the curse?

I shake myself, trying to dispel the slithering unease making its way up my spine.You don’t believe in curses, Belle.There has to be a logical explanation for everything.

There has to be, right?

But in this moment, I’m not really sure of anything anymore.

Chapter 33

The next hour passesby in a blur as everyone takes their seats at the assigned tables. My parents have arrived and are sitting with Linus and some executives from McKenzie Atelier. Dinner is served by an army of staff members decked out in crisp black tuxes and dresses.

Mora outdid herself with the pan-searedfoie gras, caviar withcrème fraîcheserved on thin butter crackers, truffle deviled eggs,canard à la presse—a perfectly roasted duck breast with the creamiest bread pudding, and a swordfish dish that’s perfectly tender and flavorful.

But I barely touch my meal, my mind on Maxwell, who still hasn’t shown up yet. A flash of light temporarily blinds me and I see a press photographer discreetly taking a photo. Security is as tight tonight as it would’ve been at the Christmas Ball at The Orchid. While the press may send one photographer and reporter per major news outlet, the usual antics of the paparazzi are strictly prohibited unless they want to be blacklisted by the Andersons—an industry death sentence.

I put on the fake society smile I’ve spent years perfecting, fighting the urge to go and find my husband, who must be sweating bullets because of his upcoming speech.

“Is he coming down soon?” Taylor asks to my right, clearly thinking about the same thing.

“I think so. The speech is in twenty minutes. We’ve rehearsed it and I think he’s ready, but the pressure is getting to him. What he needs is alone time and not us hovering over him, so I’mgoing to do that.”

The answer is more for myself than for her because I want nothing more than to run up to his studio, where he’s most likely holed up, and give him a big hug for support.

Since I found out he secretly invested in BSUA, fired Bob, and converted the shelter into a no-kill shelter, our relationship has thawed somewhat. I still don’t appreciate his overbearing, domineering personality, but at least he knows he’s in the wrong for resigning from BSUA on my behalf without consulting me beforehand.

But he still doesn’t kiss me or undress me whenever he comes into my room once a week to fulfill his “husbandly duties.” He still has me pressed face down on the bed, the room cloaked in darkness like he can’t bear to see what we’re doing even as he delivers the most efficient orgasm to me and slakes his lust inside my body.

And I’m still not pregnant. It’s like adding salt to the wound.

My chest aches every time these thoughts cross my mind. I wish I could break down this thick wall between us.

I wish I could have my Silas back.

The sound of a chair scraping on the parquet floor and the whiff of sandalwood and amber alerts me to his presence as he takes a seat next to me.

“Belle,” he murmurs. “The gala is going well. You’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

The bargain.The pressure in my chest increases. I have to remember that’s all there is to it. Only an arranged marriage that has turned into a marriage of convenience.

Swallowing, I brace myself and turn toward him.

My breath freezes in my throat as I take in his appearance, which reminds me of the first time I met Maxwell Anderson, the billionaire, at The Menagerie. He’s certainly not gentle, soulful Silas from the race.

The candlelight dances on his features, the shadows caressing his face. His expression is severe, his gray eyes the color of a swirling tempest, his dark hair carefully combed and swept up, and jaw cleanly shaven. He looks so good in his tux, a design I recognize asMcKenzie’s, and I release a sigh even as I hurt deep inside. He’s doing his part in promoting my family’s business.

Because what we have is an arrangement. A contract.

I reply, “Thank you. Here, eat something before your speech. How are you feeling?”

I try not to be disappointed by the way he refuses to look me in the eye, or the fact he didn’t even comment on my dress this evening—a crimson silk ball gown of my own design with a sweetheart neckline, tapering at the waist, and flaring at the hips in a dramatic fashion, inspired by the gowns in the Victorian era.

He’s just nervous about the speech. Don’t overthink this. Heck, don’t think at all.

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