Page 14 of When Hearts Surrender

Turning away from my father, the great Linus Anderson, on the screen of my laptop for our weekly conference call, I toss back the remnants of my whiskey, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it washes down my throat. It’s the best of the best from the MacGregor’s Whiskey Library at The Orchid, but it’s tasteless on my tongue.

If only I could get drunk easily, I could pretend I didn’t know what he meant.

But unfortunately, I’m as sober as a foot soldier on the battlefield, and after my fiasco at the press conference last week, I have no excuses to put my father off any longer.

My horrendous, pathetic press conference. Having a full-blown anxiety attack in front of everyone. The headlines are still going strong: “Nervous Wreck Debut—Investors Jumping Ship from Fleur Entertainment,” “The Frigid King Should Be The Mad King,” “Anxiety Attack or Other Mental Illness—The Case of Maxwell Anderson.”

Grimacing, I pour myself more whiskey from the decanter before striding to the towering bay windows behind my antique oak desk. I stare into the dark gardens far below, barely illuminated by a starless night.

Sinister shadows loom in the gardens, and tree branches bend to the wind. The dim lighting offered by the lone desk lamp flickers as the howling gale creeps in through an open window.

“Do you have a candidate in mind?” I don’t bother turning around.

“I do. I’ve already spoken with her parents. I think our families are well suited. They’re in an industry we aren’t part of and they can use our funding and influence. Their daughter is well educated, no scandals or gossip to her name, and—”

“Fine. Set it up, Dad.”

A few seconds pass by, the atmosphere heavy with tension I can almost taste.

“You know this was the plan from the beginning, Maxwell. As the eldest Anderson son, we don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s our job to continue the bloodline, and if you don’t get married and have heirs, the curse will fall on Ryland. That’s what happened to Uncle Nathaniel because Father wanted to cheat the curse.”

I bite back a snort. Having heirs so I can give the curse to my son instead of my brother—a lose-lose situation. What a clusterfuck.

“I saidfine. I know my duty.”

I toss back my whiskey. The burn from the alcohol is relentless this time, churning in my gut, and each breath of air seems to fan the flames into a fire I can’t contain.

Gritting my teeth, I turn around, faking a smile for my father. “I don’t need to know anything about the woman. I trust your judgment. Just let me know when and where to show up for contract negotiations, and I’ll be there.”

My father’s eyes soften with apparent sympathy. After all, arranged marriages for the eldest son have been a tradition for our family for generations. When our forefathers were in England, as part of the aristocracy, this was the way things were done amongst thehaute ton. But after the curse, this was done from necessity.

It’s the fate of the oldest son to be in a loveless marriage. Even when we have an heir, as eldest sons, we still aren’t allowed to fall in love with our wives, because we will endanger their lives.

Simply put,she will die.

The rules of the curse have been passed down by word of mouth for generations, but Grandpa and Dad have put them down in writing in a handwritten letter tucked away in the safe. We try to add to it based on what we learn over time, so that future generations will have a guide to this mess.

These rules have been hammered inside me since I learned of the curse in second grade.

First, death only happens to the woman the eldest son loves if they are married and confess their love to each other. Ergo, we shouldn’t fall in love and arranged marriages are the way to go.

Second, should we ignore the first rule, there will be a series of unfortunate incidents or accidents happening to the woman in question—warnings, if you will.

Third, should we ignore these warnings, something will happen to the woman, and she will die, usually within one year of the couple confessing their love to each other. Before then, a branch will shatter a window in the estate, serving as a final omen.

Fourth, should the eldest son not marry and have an heir, the curse will pass onto the next eldest son in the family, and we Andersons have always been blessed with an abundance of male heirs.

I fought hard against believing it until I couldn’t, until I experienced the touch of death myself. Mom died when she ultimately fell in love with Dad after almost a decade of cordial marriage. So did grandmother, whose death my grandfather never forgot, the sorrow clear in his eyes until the day he passed away, lonely in bed in this very estate. So did all the women the firstborn sons loved in the generations before.

So did Sydney.

My mind flickers to the beguiling green eyes that twinkled in laughter, the silky blonde tresses fluttering in the wind. Our heated argument—our last conversation together.

Her lifeless body washing up on the shore.

I remember the guilt in my grandfather’s eyes when he told me about his role in his brother’s death while lying on his deathbed. He wantedto challenge the curse by staying single, but the deaths occurred anyway when his sister-in-law and two adorable children died in a horrific accident. Grand Uncle Nathaniel, overcome with grief, killed himself a few years later. It was the curse, and those deaths were punishment for Grandfather not following its rules.

He never forgave himself.

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