Page 3 of Taboo
“Enough,” John snaps. “It got this far because you decided to conduct your… relationship in the dark. I didn’t know what you were up to until now, Amelia. You weren’t supposed to get this close. Max was here to help you with your studies, nothing more. If there’s blame to be had, it’s on both of you. But now you know, and you’ll stop this unnatural perversion immediately. Be grateful it hasn’t gone too far.”
My head’s a haze, grief and rage colliding. Amelia’s sobs are a quiet torture, and every instinct screams at me to hold her, to deny this nightmare, but my body’s frozen. Her father reaches into his desk and pulls out a check, and slides it across. I glance down—$200,000.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice low and venomous.
He replies as calm and cold as an ice lake when he has just tilted my world in a way I'll never recover from. “Take it and leave right now. Use it to build your future. This is the best I can do for you."
What? Just like that? He erases us?
Amelia’s crying, her face crumpled, and the sight rips me apart. I want to touch her, to promise we’ll fight, but the word half-sister is a chain, binding my hands. If I reach for her now, I might never let go.
My jaw clenches, and disgust curls my lips as I glare at the check, then at my father. Without a word, I turn, my boots slamming against the floor. The door crashes shut behind me, and I’m gone, my heart a shattered wreck.
Chapter
One
AMELIA
The brush trembles in my hand, hovering over the canvas where a dragon’s scales gleam under my careful strokes. Each emerald fleck takes forever, but the precision soothes me, a tether to something steady when everything else feels like it’s crumbling. My studio is full of light. The clock on the shelf has ticked well past noon, and my eyes burn from hours of work since dawn.
Sleep has become a stranger, chased away by the gnawing worry over Dad’s health. The disease is literally sucking the life out of him, day by day, stage four, no mercy. With every breath he takes, there is a little less of him left. I dip the brush into the palette of paint again, but my heart’s not in it, tangled in thoughts I can’t outrun.
A knock at the door startles me.
“Come in,” I call, my voice rough from disuse.
The door creaks open, and Mrs. Harrow, our housekeeper, steps in with a tray. Her graying bun is neat as ever, her smile warm. I stand, forcing a smile as I wipe paint from my fingers.
“Hey.”
She sets the tray on the table. “I brought lunch for you, Miss Amelia." She pauses disapprovingly. “Since you didn’t come down.” She pauses as her eyes take in the canvas on my easel. "Good heavens, Amelia, that’s really beautiful.” Her voice is heartwarmingly full of awe. I glance at the dragon, its wings half-formed but already vivid with color and movement.
“Thanks,” I say, shrugging. “It’s taking forever, though. I'm exhausted.”
“It will be worth every second in the end,” Mrs. Harrow, bless her heart, pipes up loyally.
I go over to the tray to see what she has prepared. A thick turkey sandwich with her special cranberry spread, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a small bowl of sliced mango and strawberries. The fruit looks as vibrant as a summer market, but my stomach twists at the sight. I haven’t been hungry in weeks, not really.
Mrs. Harrow moves forward and pulls a bulky envelope from under the tray. “I almost forgot. This came for you.”
My pulse spikes, and I snatch it greedily, my fingers trembling. “A magazine?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She chuckles. “Yes, indeed.”
I tear into the envelope, the glossy cover catching the light as I pull it free. Mrs. Harrow’s still watching, curiosity in her lined face. “I don’t get why you bother with these, love. Young people nowadays don't really bother with physical magazines anymore, do they? You could read it all online. I’m twice your age and even I don’t subscribe anymore.”
I barely hear her. My whole focus is locked on him. Max, staring out from the page, his blue eyes piercing even in print. He’s in a tailored navy suit, his jaw sharp, hair tousled just so. The headline screams at me: Young Titan: Max Carver’s E-Commerce Empire Hits the billion mark. My breath catches asI sink into the chair and devour the image. He’s more striking than ever, a man carved from ambition and grit, worlds away from the youth I knew.
Mrs. Harrow lingers, her gaze probing. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Ring if you need anything, Miss Amelia.”
I’m too lost in the pages to answer. The door clicks shut, and her footsteps fade.
The interview unfolds his success story—how he clawed his way up, the early years of doubt and failure, and the triumph of his vision. But he’s guarded, his answers are clipped and give very little personal information away, but the interviewer pushes: You’ve got it all—a beautiful wife, a son, an empire. Life must be perfect.
Max’s response is curt: Yes, I’m very fortunate.
The word is like a cold claw in my chest. Fortunate. I trace his face with my fingertip, the ache in my heart swelling until it’s a physical pain. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall.
