Page 1 of Taboo
Prologue
AMELIA
Rain lashes the attic windows, a restless drumbeat that syncs with the wild thump of my heart. It’s near midnight, the world outside is cloaked in a storm’s fury, but up here, in this purple-painted haven Max made for me, it’s warm and cozy. Fairy lights twinkle along the slanted ceiling, casting a soft glow over the cluttered space—my books, my paints, the photos we pinned to the walls. The air smells of cedar and turpentine, mingling with the faint musk of Max’s skin as I straddle his hips, my knees pressing into the rug beneath us.
His lips are fire against mine, hungry and possessive, each kiss pulling me deeper into a dream I never want to awaken from. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, and I breathe him in. My whole body is alive with the thrill of his touch.
Three months ago, Max was just the housekeeper’s son, a stranger with a guarded smile who’d come to stay for the summer. I tried to match his chill with my own, but somehow, we ended up here—lost in each other, every moment a sparkthat’s set my world ablaze. His warmth, his strength, the way he sees me: it’s everything I never knew I needed.
Suddenly, Max’s phone rings, sharp and insistent, slicing through our haze of passion. It takes a little while longer, but eventually Max pulls back, his sapphire eyes clouded with reluctance as he snatches the phone.
I groan, leaning in to steal another kiss, my lips brushing his jaw. “Nooo ... I don’t want to stop.” My hands slide down his chest, feeling his heart galloping under my palms.
“It’s your father,” he says, his voice still rough with the same need coursing through me.
A chill seeps into me, dousing the warmth. Max might not see it, but I’ve noticed the storm brewing in Dad’s eyes lately. His gaze lingers when Max and I are together. We’ve tried to keep this secret. We spun a story about Max tutoring me for SAT math—his perfect score was the perfect excuse. But we’ve spent too many hours up here alone, reading poetry, mixing paints, baking pastries in the kitchen—things I’d never done before. We’re inseparable, living under the same roof, and Dad’s the sharpest man I know. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed.
“Don’t answer, Max,” I warn.
“It’ll only piss him off if I don’t,” he says, catching my wrists gently. “Let’s see what he wants.”
My hands fall limply to my sides as he takes the call.
He listens quietly, then says, “Yes, sir. We’ll be there.” Then he ends the call and tosses the phone down.
“He wants to see us now in the library,” he mutters,
My father wants us both in the library, not just me. My stomach twists. “This smells like trouble,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the rain.
Max gently holds my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Probably not.”
I try to kiss him again, desperate to hold onto this moment, but he stops me, his grip firm. “Amelia, let’s go and get it over with. Whatever it is.”
I stare into his fearless eyes, and terror claws at me, a whisper that’s haunted me since we started—the dread that I could lose him. “Do you have any idea at all why he’s calling us?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Do you think he’s noticed … us?”
His gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll handle it together. I’m not giving you up, no matter what.”
“Promise me we won’t be separated,” I say, my eyes searching his. I don’t say it outright, but we both know Dad won’t approve of a union between the housekeeper’s son and his only daughter. I need Max to feel the weight of the situation, to be ready.
“I promise,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s probably just about your studies. You're still a bit shit at math."
A teasing smile tugs at his lips, and I laugh nervously, the tension easing just a fraction. "Well, how can it be my fault if my teacher spends more time watching me undress than actually tutoring me?"
"Watching you undress is entrancing and illuminating," he says gravely, but his eyes twinkle like blue stars. "I can't blame me either."
I slide off him, offering my hand to pull him up. He takes it, rising with that easy grace that makes my chest ache. As we move toward the attic door, his head grazes the low ceiling with a soft thud. We both freeze, then burst into laughter, the sound bright against the storm’s roar. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm and strong, as he guides me out.
The magical fairy lights fade behind us, and the attic stairs creak under our weight as we descend into the shadowed house. My pulse hammers, each step toward Dad’s study tightening the knot in my chest. The rain’s rhythm follows us, a reminder thatthe world outside is as unsettled as the one we’re walking into. I sneak a look at Max, and he smiles at me. I take it as a promise that we'll both be resilient enough to face whatever waits beyond the heavy library door.
Max
The corridorto the library stretches before us, a dim tunnel of polished wood and shadowed portraits, our anxious footsteps echoing like a countdown. Amelia’s a half-pace ahead, her shoulders tense, her green eyes fixed on the floor.
I’m trying to keep my cool, to bury the dread twisting my insides, but it’s clawing up, raw and relentless. This summons screams trouble. I told her it is probably about her studies, but the words felt hollow even as I said them. John Fitzwilliam’s not the type to call us to his study at close to midnight for a chat about SATs. Something’s wrong, and the dread presses heavier with every creak of the floorboards.
This house doesn’t help—a sprawling monument to wealth that I can’t wrap my head around.
Growing up in a cramped Utah shack, sharing a room with my uncle, and living off the money Mom sent from her job here, I never imagined I’d see the inside of a place like this. Marble floors, gilded frames, furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum.
