Page 9 of Taboo
To make matters worse, his wife clung to his arm relentlessly. They made a beautiful couple. I will cry myself to sleep tonight and blame it on Dad’s death, but it will be Max, always Max, breaking me open.
I bite my lip, fighting the tears that threaten as the car turns into our driveway.
I’ve told myself I won’t cry. I’m scared that if I start, I won’t stop.
Right now, in this bleak moment, there’s no one I want more than Max, his arms around me, his voice soothing the jagged edges of my grief. But he still thinks he is my half-brother, and the fact that he has a family keeps him forbidden and untouchable to me. It’s a line that I can’t cross. I’m no home wrecker. It is just the cruel hand of fate. That’s all. I must be brave and accept the situation as it is.
The house looms ahead, the gray stones somber under the overcast sky.
I get out of the car and walk towards the front door. Guests are already milling in the drawing room, their voices hushed and indistinct as I step inside. I play the hostess, nodding at condolences, thanking people for coming, my face a brittle mask.
“Amelia, you’re so strong,” someone says.
I smile and murmur something suitably polite, but I’m not strong. I’m crumbling. Only held together by sheer will. My eyes betray me once again, and I find Max across the room. He’s holding a glass of red wine and talking to Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. His posture would appear relaxed to anyone who doesn’t know him as I do, but I can see the barely held tension in his jaw, the shadow in his eyes. Our gazes suddenly lock, and my heart slams against my ribs, a frantic, pounding rhythm. I tear my eyes away. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I grab a tray of used plates. The porcelain clinks like crazy in my shaky hands.
In the kitchen, I drop the tray on the counter, the clatter loud in the quiet space. I grip the edge of the sink, my breath uneven and fast. A voice in my head whispers, ‘Tell him. Tell Max we’re not related. Dad lied.’
The thought of telling him snakes sensuously through my mind, tempting and terrifying.
Only for one weak moment, though.
Then I press my fingers to my forehead and shut them down hard. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I so little control? My longing for him is a dangerous fire that could consume me and him. I take deep, calming breaths. Of course, I’m not going to do it. It’s just that I’m too raw, too fragile. He has a family—Sara, radiant and warm, and their son, a bright-eyed boy who looks just like him. I won’t ruin that. I can’t.
Anyway, why would he even care?
I catch my reflection in the window—pale, lifeless, even my eyes have become dull. I’m 29, but I look faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. No one would look twice at me, least of all Max, with his glamorous wife and perfect life. Telling him would change nothing, only break me further.
Resolved to let him be, I straighten my shoulders and smooth down my black dress.Let’s have no more nonsense, Amelia.He’s here for the funeral, nothing more. They’ll leave soon, backto their wonderful world, and I’ll stay in mine, carrying this ache alone. It’s better this way, safer, even if it feels like I’m dying.
Chapter
Five
MAX
The plan was not too complicated: go to the Fitzwilliam estate, pretend to pay my respects, but really, make sure Amelia is coping, then slip away before the past can sink its claws too deep.
But seeing her has blown that plan to hell.
The moment I laid eyes on her yesterday, standing pale and fragile in the dim glow of the Church, everything I’d buried came roaring back. Love, longing, pain—a tidal wave that nearly knocked me to my knees. I thought fourteen years would’ve dulled it, might’ve made her a stranger, but no.
Even the quiet shadow of sorrow on her face and the weary slope of her shoulders cannot hide her beauty. She’s more beautiful now than she ever was. Her eyes are still the tranquil green lake I’d drown in, and her blonde hair never stops holding light like a halo.
But watching her unhappiness cuts me deeper than I thought possible. I almost didn’t come. When it appeared, I could not come without bringing Sara and Jason with me, I managed toconvince myself I could stay away and spare myself the torture. But now, standing in this crowded drawing room, I’m glad I did, because she needs someone—needs me—even if I don’t know how to be what she needs.
I grip my wine glass, its ruby contents untouched. Sara is across the room, chatting with the vicar, her smile easy and practiced. Jason is clinging to her hand, his small face solemn. Everyone’s occupied, their attention finally drawn away from me, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. It gives me license to watch Amelia, though I’ve tried not to. Tried and failed. She moves through the room like a ghost, her black dress too large for her frame, her smile a brittle thing that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s playing the hostess, nodding automatically at kind words, but I see her strain, the way her lips tremble when she thinks no one’s looking.
She is my half-sister.
The hyphenated word is a chain, heavy and unyielding, binding me even as my heart and body scream for her. I hate—hate that I am denied from loving her the way I want, that I can’t pull her into my arms and erase the pain carved into her face.
I’m selfish. I should be able to support her as a brother and offer comfort without this ache in my chest, this fire that flares every time she’s near. Even if I don’t look at her, I feel her presence like a force, an irresistible pull that reaches out to me from across the room. It’s always been this way; her nearness affects me viscerally, but it’s worse today, with her grief so raw, so visible. I want to fix it, to hold her until the shadows lift, but how? How do I give her what she needs when every glance feels like a lie of the truth we can’t escape?
She’s been avoiding me since that stiff hello when I arrived with Sara and Jason. Her eyes skitter away from mine, her voice is clipped, like she can’t bear to acknowledge me. It stings, a quiet knife, but I get it. Seeing her hurts me too, more than I canstand, but I can’t look away. Not when she’s breaking. Not when I know she’s alone in this, just like she was back then, her world too small for the big, generous heart she carries.
I’ve caught her glances, fleeting but full of pain and longing, and each one fans the flame I’ve tried to smother. The sadness in her eyes, the way she looks at me—it’s the same look from that summer in her father’s library, and it’s killing me, because I can’t be what she needs.
What I need.
