Page 97 of When Hearts Surrender

Maxwell looks at me, his eyes flashing, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “I won’t let anyone disrespect you.” He turns back to Gordon. “Apologize. Now.”

Gordon, finally coming to his senses, grabs Maxwell’s hands and utters, “S-Sorry, B-Belle. I’m s-sorry.”

Grunting, Maxwell throws Gordon against the wall and a few guards step in and haul the asshole out of the hallway.

Melody walks around the foyer, her mouth opened in apparent shock as she ushers the guests back into the ballroom. Morris frowns at us, his eyes radiating disapproval and anger as he spins around and headstoward the east wing. Agnes furrows her brows and shakes her head at me, as if I displeased her. She then follows Melody and helps direct the paparazzi back into the room.

But I know the damage to Maxwell’s image is already done.

“Annabelle! That was completely embarrassing!” Dad stalks toward me from the entrance of the ballroom and my heart sinks. I really don’t want to deal with him right now. “Everyone heard your argument with Gordon in there! What were you thinking—”

“I wouldn’t continue that sentence if I were you.” Maxwell’s voice comes out as a low rasp. “I don’t care if you are my father-in-law. Anyone fit to be called a father should first care about his daughter’s well-being over anything else after that asshole harassed her.”

A lump forms in my throat as I drag my attention to my husband, who is glaring at my dad with murder in his eyes. He’s defending me again—fighting for me when no man has ever done so before in my life.

“Maxwell, y-you s-see, I—”

“No.I don’t see.And I don’t care. Go, before I give you the same treatment I gave to Gordon.” He points his finger toward the ballroom, his body vibrating with intensity.

Dad sputters, his lips twitching, but he’s clearly intimidated by Maxwell because he spins away and stomps back into the ballroom.

I turn to Maxwell, wanting to thank him, to kiss him, to yell at him because what happened just undid everything he worked so hard for.

“Maxwell.” I reach for him, my hand shaking.

His stare is mutinous as he swiftly brushes my hand away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Without another word, he spins around and stalks off, leaving me reeling and completely stupefied.

Chapter 35

I’m unraveling.

Every carefully knitted stitch, held together by years of painstaking control, is coming apart in front of my eyes, and I can’t stop it.

I can’t stop the way my heart pounds for her, my little muse, and how I live to hear her laughter and see her smiles.

I can’t stop my addiction to her and how I want to be the reason for all her happiness, how I want her to think of our marriage as the real thing and not a sham, not a contract, not an arrangement.

I can’t stop my fantasies of her every night in my room when I fight my lust as long as I can, fucking my cock in my hand until I can’t stand it, until I allow myself one night per week for relief, when I feel at home sheathed inside her, feeling her orgasm squeezing my cock.

I can’t stop the burning rage coursing inside me, a cataclysmic eruption, when I saw that asshole boss of hers belittling her, doubting her,hurtingher with his words. I want to strangle him, to kill him for causing my little muse pain.

And that’s why I’m stalking up the staircase, fleeing to my room instead of wrapping her in my arms and kissing her luscious lips, getting a hit I’ve been craving ever since I saw her in that gorgeous red dress looking like a fucking goddess and felt her calming touch as she completed my speech for me when she saw me floundering. I wanted to worship her in front of everyone, to thank her for knowing exactly what I need, one kiss at a time, until I don’t know where she ends and I begin.

“Fuck!” I take off my tux jacket and hurl it on the floor.

The bow tie follows.

I wrench open the French doors, letting a blast of cold air rush into the room, uncaring if the wind is bringing the snow indoors even though the storm is letting up. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I’m unraveling. My heart is swelling, aching, yearning for her.

But the curse. The branch from earlier. The omen.

I can’t fall in love with her. I can’t put her at risk.

My love is a death sentence.

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