Page 17 of When Hearts Surrender

Failure. Another failure.

I have a feeling the answer lies in my recurring dreams—vignettes of me dancing with someone in the twilight, the smell of roses in the air.

In those haunting visions, I wrapped my arms around a slender waist as I fiddled with a paintbrush, trying to paint something on canvas. The faceless woman in my arms laughed and nudged me out of the way.

“Someday, I’ll be a painter just like you, and your face will be my masterpiece,” I murmured.

A ghostly whisper replied, “Hope is the dream of a waking man.”

As always, I’d wake up breathless and disoriented.

It’s like a forgotten memory, just out of reach; the lines blurred, colors muted.

My hands tremble, fury gathering strength, and I set the brush down and grab the canvas, my fingers digging into the white cloth.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I fucking accept myself, dammit.

I set down the art next to the pile on the herringbone floors.

Piece after piece of fucking soulless trash.

Twisting my family ring on my finger, I stare at the dark gemstone, wondering if any of my predecessors ever felt like this, like they were fighting an unknown enemy they couldn’t see, like they were running away from a monster who had a noose with their name on it, only to look back and find nobody there?

I can’t keep this up. Being a ghost of myself. Heck, I tell Ryland to live for himself, to be happy. Why can’t I do the same?

Grabbing my phone, I check the time. One a.m. on a Friday. Sleep eludes me, as always. The night is still young. An event notification pops up, one I’ve ignored for weeks:The Spring Race—2 a.m.

My mind made up, I type a quick reply to the invitation attached. Then, I press a button by the painting of my great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Ashford Williams Anderson the Third, hanging above the fireplace, and stare at the man with whom I share the same slate-gray eyes and brown hair, so dark it’s almost black. He wears a serious expression on his face, but I’ve always thought his eyes were haunted by sadness.

I wonder what he saw in his lifetime and what he would do in my situation.

“Yes, sir?” one of the staff responds.

“Have Simon get the McLaren ready for the race. I’m going out.”

“Yes, right away, sir.”

I shrug into my black leather jacket hanging on the coatrack and head toward the door, but as I cross the threshold, I pause, staring at the family ring on my finger.

Letting out a ragged breath, I tug the heirloom off and deposit it on the gilded tray on top of a small table. The ring clatters onto the dish with a crispclang, and I shut the door behind me.

Half an hour later, I rev the engine as I turn into the lineup at an underground parking garage of a nondescript building on Broadway and Grand in Lower Manhattan. I roll down the windows of my latest beauty, my chrome-colored McLaren 720 S, with all the works done—nitrous oxide system and suspension upgrades, aerodynamic rear spoiler modifications, bespoke, imported from Japan, lightweight polymer for the hood, trunk lids, and door panels.

It’s the car of a victor, not a failure.

A rainbow assortment of sleek, luxury vehicles gather in an orderly fashion, all smooth lines and bright colors, and hordes of people fill the floor of the parking structure.

The smell of gasoline mixing with the damp, wet scent of the rain sparks a fire in my veins, my senses turning on one by one and I can feel my lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.

Live for myself. Be happy.

In this moment, as my heart thumps to the heavy beats of hip-hop music straining from the speakers of the cars in front of me, I can almost feel that elusive emotion.

I feel alive.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the aggressive, pungent cocktail of gasoline and burned rubber.This is more like it.

These are common sights and smells of the monthly races organized by The Orchid for its rich and elite patrons who have nothing better to do than to risk their lives for a taste of danger. Along with The Lilith, the voyeur room inside The Orchid, street racing is the occasional break I give myself, a place where I’m not the eldest Anderson son haunted by a centuries-old curse.

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