Page 141 of When Hearts Surrender

“Shit,” he rasps. “I didn’t…I was never with her—”

“I know. I know you wouldn’t betray me that way. But she came in between us, didn’t she? Even long after I fell out of love with her. She was a ghost that lingered behind, right?”

He swallows and nods. “I thought if you didn’t know, I’d spare you more pain.”

“We were both thinking of each other and not being honest. Just like I was with most of my life. Hiding. It didn’t help shit.”

Ryland chuckles and swipes his hand over his face. “Fuck man, I didn’t know you were carrying this all by yourself the entire time.”

“Just like I didn’t know you felt burdened being the face of the company. Two fucking peas in a pod, asshole.”

He snickers. “You’re the asshole.”

Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” I call out.

The door opens and in strides a woman with glossy black hair and glasses, who I presume is Dr. Lin. She looks to be around Lana’s age and is younger than I thought, but I trust Steven’s judgment. Ryland slowly gets up and clasps my shoulder. “Brothers forever.”

He holds up his wrist and flashes his bracelet. “I’m so proud of you for getting help.”

I smile and nod. He quietly slips out of the room as I stand and extend my hand toward the doctor.

“Hi, I’m Maxwell Anderson, and I need your help.” Acid roils in my gut and makes its way up my throat. I take a deep breath and force out the next words. “I have severe social anxiety and, quite possibly, PTSD.”

I won’t let the monsters inside me win again.

Chapter 51

The whispers of thecrowd mingle with the haunting strains of the violin and cello from a live performance by a string quartet at the McKenzie Atelier fashion show, which will showcase our upcoming fall and winter collection. The space is dim, the dark ambiance stirring the excitement from the audience in the much-anticipated event of the season.

I shiver from the air conditioning, purposely set to a frigid forty-five degrees to simulate a late fall, early winter evening in a garden. A sense of dread snakes up my spine—the same restlessness growing inside me since three days ago, when I woke up in the middle of the night, my body bathed in sweat.

It was the same dark dream, but this time, the details were clearer and more vivid—me running in the rose garden, a place I still couldn’t bring myself to visit, a place which seemed to be walled in with grief. He was there, the tall, dark-haired man dressed in the attire of a bygone era. The moon was high in the skies, the pale beam bathing him in an ethereal glow.

He hovered over an easel, a paintbrush in his hand, as sobs wracked his body.

I wanted to see what he was painting, what had him so devastated. A desperate need clawed inside me to comfort him. To tell him I was there and everything would be okay.

He whispered, “I miss you so much, my love. Why can’t I paint you so I can keepyour image with me always?”

My chest spasmed in pain and I broke into a run. But the distance between us seemed insurmountable. The faster I ran, the farther he was, the rose garden stretching endlessly, the thorns of the bushes prickling my skin. I screamed but nothing came out of my mouth, and I was helpless in my Sisyphean task, watching the blood prickling my arms, each scratch a dagger to my heart.

Normally, I’d wake up then. Breathless, heartache piercing my chest.

But this time, I didn’t.

I was still trying to run to the man, to save him because I knew he was very important to me. As if sensing my presence, the man turned around, his face illuminated by the eerie moonlight and the breath wrenched from my lungs.

It was Silas, the duke, dressed in his finest attire, like the one I saw in the portrait gallery. But he looked like Maxwell—the same glittering dark eyes, the soulful eyes that seemed ageless.

Tears streamed down his face, and I gasped, seeing a pool of blood spreading on his white shirt, the tendrils withering, curling its way up his body, but he didn’t seem to notice as he sobbed into his hands.

Behind him was a portrait—a beautiful woman in a gray dress, her face blurry.

My heart splintered and the dream shattered.

It felt so real, unsettling, a ghostly memory or a vivid imagination.

---