Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
MAX
The office is a square of sharp edges—glass desk, steel shelves, the city skyline slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m slouched in my leather chair, the whirr of the AC a low drone under Tom’s voice, my VP of ops, who’s pacing like he’s on a stage.
“Finally! The contract’s in the bag, Max.
I'm so impressed, man. New York signed off this morning, full terms, no pushback. We’re set for a Q3 rollout.
By the way, I’ve arranged a meeting for Wednesday to hash out the shipping schedule.
It works for you, right?” His smile begs for a nod, a scrap of praise.
I tap a pen against the desk. “Wednesday’s too soon. Move it to Friday. I want the cost breakdown first.” My voice is flat, my eyes drifting towards Chicago’s spires glinting under a gray noon sky.
Tom’s enthusiasm deflates, but he murmurs something that sounds like agreement and heads for the door.
“Solid work,” I call after him, more reflex than feeling. "Thank you, sir," he responds, his steps light and happy.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone; the silence seeps back into my life. Another deal closed, another step up the ladder I’ve climbed to forget her. As soon as I think of her, my chest aches, a dull pulse that never quite fades.
Amelia.
Every day, she’s there, like a ghost in the quiet moments, like a wound I can’t close.
Her name is a whisper in my blood, stirring memories I’ve tried to bury for fourteen years—her eyes, the palest green I have ever seen, in the clear morning light, her laugh filling that attic in the sky.
I’ve never been happy since I left it. I lean back and run a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm.
A knock shatters the stillness, and it’s as sharp as a gunshot.
“Come in,” I say, straightening.
Lisa, my secretary, steps inside, and I can’t help but notice that her usual crisp efficiency is softened by a flicker of hesitation. She is holding a cream envelope in her hand, which she extends to me.
"This came for you. It’s a card.”
A card?
I frown. The word card is jarring in the sterile rhythm of my workday. “What is it about?” My tone’s sharp, a reflex from the unease curling in my gut.
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t open it. It’s marked private.” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “It’s from the Fitzwilliam estate.”
The name hits like a fist, stealing my breath. My hand freezes mid-air, the room tilting as if the floor drops out.
Fitzwilliam. Amelia. John.
A flood of heat and pain rushes in—her lips on mine, the attic’s fairy lights, the cold slap of that study door slamming shut. My heart pounds loudly in my ears as I force my hand to move and receive the envelope full of the past. The paper is cool and smooth against my skin.
“Thanks, Lisa,” I manage.
She nods and slips out, leaving me to my turmoil.
I’m alone again. The card feels like a live wire in my hand.
I set it on the desk, unopened, and stare at it, my pulse a wild drumbeat.
The Fitzwilliam estate. What the hell could they want?
John, that bastard, who called me his son before he shoved a check in my face and sent me packing.
Amelia, my… half-sister. Even the thought is a blade lodged in my chest.
For I loved her—loved her so fiercely it has become a sickness.
I’ve drowned myself in work, in deals, in building an empire to outrun the truth.
I can’t forget her, and I can’t get over her.
This company, this office, every dollar I’ve made—it’s all because of her, because I had to keep moving, keep breathing.
But no matter what I do, how far I run, she’s there, every day, in the quiet moments, her smile, her voice, the naked curve of her back, a little memory from a place when I was happy.
My fingers hover over the card, itching to tear it open, but a wary restraint holds me back.
What if it’s her? What if she’s reaching out?
Or worse, what if it’s him, pulling me back to that mausoleum, that pain?
I can’t. Not when every instinct in me screams to hold her, feel her body move beneath me, sister or not.
I’ve kept my distance, no more than glanced at every book she’s illustrated so her name doesn’t cut too deep.
There is no escape.
My hands rush to the card; the sound of it tearing fills my square prison.
The words are stark and formal. My father, John Fitzwilliam the third, has passed away, and I’ve been invited to attend his funeral.
The details are included. I stare down at the card.
News of his death is like wind on a rock, stirring nothing.
No grief, no anger, just a void where he never was.
He claimed me only to discard me, his check, the final and brutal insult.
But Amelia… a sharp pain slicing through the numbness.
She must be breaking, her vulnerable heart torn open by this loss. Has she changed? I remember she was always alone, her world small, her friends few. I try to picture her in that gray mansion, her bright eyes dim with tears, her lips trembling as she tries to hold it together.
She’s hurting, and I’m here, useless, miles away.
I wonder if she’s found friends, people to hold her through this, or if she’s still that girl who only revealed her true self to me? No matter. I can’t go. There is nothing I can do for her. She doesn’t need me there, stirring up pain. Let her be. I tell myself she’s fine. Just as I am fine.
My fingers tighten on the card, crumpling the edge. Then I slip the card into my top drawer and try to get back to work. I do my best to focus on the screen, but my mind is locked on her now.
Fourteen years apart, and the mere thought of her could still unravel me, thread by thread, until I’m nothing but raw edges and want. This is exactly why I made the right decision to ignore this invitation.
I am not obligated to be there. He was, and is, nothing to me.
But her... I let out a heavy sigh. One look at Amelia—her lovely eyes, soft as dawn, fierce as a storm—could shatter the thick high walls I’ve built, the empire I’ve forged to keep the need for her at bay. But I know without a doubt I'd give up everything if I could have her back.
But I can never have her. Not in this lifetime. So it won’t matter if I see her one more time. Just to know that she is bearing up okay and give her some support. In case she needs anything. In case I can be of help.
In a moment of weakness, my hand finds the buzzer that connects me to Lisa. My voice sounds strained, barely recognizable.
“Call the Fitzwilliam estate. Tell them I’ll be at the funeral.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, her tone has returned to its usual professional mode.
I lift my finger off the button, and the line cuts out.
Silence floods the room again. Everything looks the same as it did before the card came, and yet everything has changed.
I can feel the blood pounding in my temples.
Echoes from that summer stream into my head.
Amelia’s voice, warm and teasing, her alabaster skin so smooth and creamy it was almost poreless, the way her pale fingers laced with mine.
She made me feel whole, alive, until the truth tore it all away.
I don’t know what I’m walking into, but I just need to see that she is okay, even if it’s just a fleeting glance across a crowded room. At least make sure that she is not falling to pieces. We are, after all, despite how much I loathe it, related by blood.
A harsh knock rips through the quiet, jarring my frayed nerves like a blade on bone.
“What?” I bark, my voice raw.
The door cracks open, and Lisa pokes her head in, her expression apologetic, her eyes darting to mine. “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but your wife and son are here.”
Before I can process her words, Jason, my five-year-old son, squeezes through, a small, trembling figure, his face blotchy, and his eyes are red and swollen from crying.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I ask.
Lisa pulls back and Sara sails in, her smile bright, almost blinding, her blonde hair swept back in a perfect wave, her hand rests lightly on Jason’s shoulder.
“Surprise!” she chirps, her voice too cheerful for the chaos swirling in my head.
My jaw is clenched so tight, the muscles ache.
Sara never comes to my office. She knows the boundaries we’ve carved out, unspoken but ironclad: she manages the house, raises Jason, keeps our life running smoothly, and leaves my workplace untouched.
It’s why I chose her—no demands, no mess, just a quiet partnership that doesn’t ask for my heart.
This is a crack in the careful distance we’ve perfected over the years.
“Is there a problem?” My eyes return to Jason’s tear-streaked face.
“Jason is fine. Just a little tantrum over what to wear. We were on our way to lunch,” she says, undeterred, her voice light as she smooths Jason’s hair, her fingers gentle and loving.
“As we were passing by, I thought we’d say hi.
And maybe… we could all eat together. Burgers and fries at Friedmans?
” Her smile doesn’t waver, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of expectation that feels like a trespass.
I stare at her. Normally, I’d nod to keep things civil, but the card’s shadow looms, Amelia’s pain a dark tide pulling me under. Lunch with anyone, let alone Sara with her probing, inquisitive eyes, is something I cannot stomach right now, and I instantly refuse.
“I would’ve joined you both,” I say, my voice tight, the words clipped as I force them out, “but I can’t. I just received some bad news.”
Sara’s eyes go wide, her hand freezing on Jason’s shoulder, worry creasing her perfect face. “Oh my God, what happened?” Her voice is soft, urgent, and searching my expression for something I’m not ready to give.
“My father died.” The words are like stones in my mouth. They come out sounding flat and empty. It is a fact that means nothing to me. John Fitzwilliam was never a father, just a man who claimed me to control me, then shoved a check in my face and sent me packing.
Sara’s eyes widen, and her lips form an O shape.
I can see her scrambling for the right response.
She knows I’m not close with him. I have mentioned him only once when we first started dating.
A brief slip I have never repeated. I didn’t invite him to our wedding.
When she pressed gently, I shut the idea down hard.
He'd never been anything but a ghost in my life, and I wanted it to stay that way.
“I’m so sorry, Max. That’s… awful,” she says, her tone cautious. She steps closer, and Jason’s small hand is still in hers. My son’s red-rimmed eyes watch me like I’m a stranger.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll be going to the funeral.”
Sara nods, too fast, her smile softening into something sympathetic. “Yes, yes, I completely understand. You must pay your last respects.” She hesitates, then steps closer, her hand brushing Jason’s hair again. “I could come with you. I’m available, and it might—”
“No,” I cut her off, sharper than I meant to, my hand slashing through the air.
Even the idea of Sara there, in that house, near Amelia, makes my skin crawl.
This is mine—my pain, my past, my… whatever Amelia is to me now.
I can’t let Sara touch it. I force myself to smile.
“Thank you for the support. I appreciate it, but as you know, I was not close to him, and I don’t plan to stay long.
You stay with Jason. He needs you more.” My tone is final, an unscalable wall.
Sara blinks, her smile falters, but only for a split second.
Then she recovers and nods. “Alright.” Her voice is soft, accommodating, the way it always is.
She gives Jason’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as her gaze lingers on me, searching for something I won’t give.
“It’s your decision, of course, but it’s wrong to deprive Jason of the right to meet his only aunt and say a final goodbye to his grandfather. ”
She turns and guides our son toward the door, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. The door shuts noiselessly behind them, and I’m alone again, staring at the empty space where they stood.