Page 58 of When Hearts Surrender

Maxwell pauses and turns to face me, his face severe and half-cast in shadows. “Belle, you’re one hundred percent safe here. I’dneverlet anything happen to you.”

My pulse reverberates in my ears.

I believe him. Somehow, I know this man will hurt himself before he lets me getin harm’s way.

“G-Good.” I flash him a tentative smile even though butterflies have taken flight in my stomach.

Ding.

He pauses his motions and wipes his hand on a towel before pulling out his phone from his sweatpants.

“Shit.” He scowls.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances at me before turning his attention back to his food prep. “They want me to speak at the gala.”

“The one in January here?”The one I’m hosting? It’d be nice if people loop me in.

He nods.

“Who’s they?”

“A PR think tank out on the west coast. They work closely with Lana on all things press related.”

Before we got married, Maxwell sent me an email saying the gala I’m overseeing is a charity ball benefiting depression and anxiety research. It’ll also serve as a press event to open the doors to the elusive Anderson family, so to speak, which the PR team hopes will ease the public and investors’ recent worries over Fleur.

“You don’t want to speak at the gala.”

It isn’t a question, but more of an observation. I remember how difficult it was for him to say the wedding vows at church. The haunted look in his eyes, which only lessened once I turned him away from the crowds. Then there were the articles I found about his disastrous press conference when I was doing my research on him.

The thumping of the knife hitting the cutting board ratchets up in aggression and his jaw clenches.

“No. But I have to. For the company. There have been too many changes in management in the last few years. Then I fucked it up at the press conference.” And the wedding reception, but we both don’t mention that.

He grunts and hangs his head low.

“I need to fix this. To fix what I broke.” He grabs the towel and whips it against the counter. “Fucking pathetic. It’s only a fucking speech.”

I step closer, my heart tugging at the anguish and frustration in his voice. “But you didn’t break anything.”

Gnawing my lip, I take in his tense frame, wondering if I should continue. “Few people know this, but my grandpa had anxiety. Severe anxiety. His was different than yours, but I recognize the signs. His mind wouldn’t turn off about his worries—work, family, how the next collection would do. Sometimes, he’d lock himself in his studio and not see anyone.”

Maxwell stills and silence fills the air. I wonder if I overspoke.

“What did he do?”

Sliding my hand over his back, I rub reassuring circles over his bunched muscles. “He’d try to tough it out and every time he came out of the room, he’d put on a smile and tell me everything was fine. But I knew that wasn’t true until one time when I was sixteen.”

I swallow, thinking back to the day that changed everything for me.

“I barged into his studio and found him curled up on the floor, sweat plastering his forehead. He was breathing into a paper bag. He’d had a panic attack.”

My eyes tear up. “He started crying when he saw me. Loud sobbing. He told me he thought he was useless for being a mess. And it couldn’t be farther from the truth. This was the man I looked up to my entire life. The man who created things from his imagination. The man who spent the most time with me. It was then when I realized how much Grandpa loved his company and how much beauty—his groundbreaking designs—came out of such a dark place.” I swallow before letting out a shaky exhale.

“When he died a few months later, I promised myself I’d take care of his legacy, to make sure the beauty continues.”

I clutch Maxwell’s shoulder, but he still refuses to look at me. It’s like he’s ashamed. “Anxiety and panic attacks aren’t weaknesses. They’re just chemical imbalances and neurons misfiring and whatnot. Standingup and trying again is a sign of strength. Not many people can do that. Be strong enough to keep trying.”

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