Page 93 of When Hearts Surrender

“Fine. Let’s just get this shit show over with.” He flags a staff member carrying a tray of champagne, grabs one, and downs the drink in one gulp.

It’s not personal, Belle. Don’t take it personally.

Maxwell Anderson is a Seurat painting—made up of millions of tiny little dots and actions, forming a breathtaking whole. He’s a study of stark contrasts, the icy chill and blazing warmth, the indifference and quiet passion, the masculine beauty and thick scars, the infuriating asshole and…the man who claims not to know how to love, but secretly loves the strongest of them all.

His loyalty to his family, how he almost lost his life to save his brother, the way he silently takes care of me. He’s the definition of actions speaking louder than words.

Another flash brightens our table and I try not to let the growing heartache dim my smile. We’re on a public stage, and I know every little thing I do will be magnified and discussed tomorrow in the newspapers around the world.

Maxwell doesn’t touch his food as he turns to Ryland, who’s sitting next to him, and the two fall into a deep discussion. Despite being in a room full of people, surrounded by my closest friends, I’ve never felt more alone than now.

My gaze sweeps around the table and lands on Millie, who looks stunning in the silver gown I gave her from my personal design collection. She flashes me a sad smile, her eyes brimming with sympathy as if she knows how I’m feeling.

I look away, unable to withstand her penetrative gaze which seems to see through this farce of a marriage I find myself in, a whiplash rollercoaster ride I can’t seem to bring myself to disembark, even if that means I’m dizzy and nauseous the entire time.

“And now, let’s welcome Mr. Maxwell Anderson to the stage,” the emcee announces.

Loud applause rings through the ballroom and I see Maxwell fisting his pants before smoothing out the wrinkles and standing up. A dark flush creeps up his neck. He nods to the crowd, lips flattened, jaw clenched, and strides up onto the stage.

He doesn’t look at or acknowledge me.

Despite the pain of his rejection, my pulse can’t help but ratchet up as I stare at my husband, who’s about to attempt something so terrifying for him, he’s opted to spend most of his thirty-six years in the quiet background.

The microphone emits a sharp piercing sound as he adjusts it. He stares at the podium and the room quiets as the spotlight focuses on him.

We wait with bated breath for the king to address his subjects, but he just stands there, as stiff as the gargoyles guarding the estate.

The seconds bleed into minutes, the awkward tension thickening. I see his throat working, the flush from his face minutes ago long disappeared and instead, his skin is leached of color. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare as he grips the podium for dear life.

Oh no.I can almost see the monster he once described to me as his anxiety lurking inside him, wrapping its tendrils around his neck, suffocating him in front of everyone. The image claws at my heart and makes me want to cry.

Low murmurs and hushed whispers rise from the crowd and the photographers furiously snap photo after photo, reporters quickly typing notes out on their phones.

A chair squeaks beside me and I turn toward the noise, finding Ryland and Charles frowning, clearly concerned for him.

It’s then I make a decision.

The monster will not murder my husband, not if I can help it.

Pushing out of my chair, I slowly stand up, ignoring the whispers and furtive glances as the crowd’s attention shifts to me.

I fiddle with the locket he gave me, and his fevered eyes snag on mine as I slowly make my way toward him.

Smiling, I whisper, “You can do this. It’s just you and me,” knowing full well he can’t hear me but also feeling, deep in my gut, he can understand me.

Like he always has.

He shifts and straightens, his intense gray eyes pinned on me, tracking my movements as I stride between the tables toward him.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I mouth, prompting him. He swallows, his eyes holding mine.

“G-Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to the b-ball.” His voice is deep and thick, sounding unused, a thread of uncertainty woven throughout his words.

The flashes from the photographers intensify as the crowd settles into an eerie quiet, clearly riveted by him.

But he’s only looking at me, like he’s speaking directly to me.

My heart skips several beats and I wet my lips, pausing at the bottom of the stage.

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