Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
AMELIA
The world fades into a surreal blur as I watch my father’s coffin sink into the earth.
Goodbye Daddy.
The polished mahogany catches the gray light before disappearing beneath the soil. My heart cracks open, and a fresh wave of grief slices through me. He’s gone. He’s really gone.
Mrs. Langley, an old family friend, wraps her arms around me, her perfume so dear and familiar. “It’s alright, dear,” she murmurs.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, but it’s not alright.
I’ll never see him again. No matter how wrong he was to lie to Max and me, he did it out of a misguided sense of loyalty and love.
Slowly, the crowd starts thinning, and their murmurs of condolence trail off as people head to their cars.
A small lunch waits at the house, a ritual I dread, but can’t escape.
I let Mrs. Langley guide me to the car and steady me as I slid into the back seat.
The drive home is quiet, the low drone of the engine a dull backdrop to my thoughts.
I press my forehead against the cool window and close my eyes.
Dad is at peace now. I shouldn’t begrudge Dad that.
I lift my head and stare at the passing trees, their leaves heavy with autumn’s first blush.
His pain consumed him these last months, the cancer devouring him from the inside out…
and I was trapped in that agony, too. I suffered with him.
Sometimes I felt unable to even breathe.
The future stretches before me now, vast and open, but I’m too hollowed out to move toward it, too drained to even imagine a step forward.
Instead, my mind drifts, unbidden, to Max.
When I first saw him, my breath caught, and my heart stumbled at how devastatingly handsome he’s become.
The boy I loved is still there—same dark hair that the wind loves to throw over his forehead, same piercing gaze—but he’s a man now, broader, more magnetic.
His commanding presence must fill any room he walks in.
His eyes kept finding mine, even across the crowded funeral, a silent pull I couldn’t ignore.
He arrived with his wife, Sara, and his son, Jason, a miniature of him, to offer his condolences.
It was unbearable to hear his voice murmur those meaningless platitudes and pretend he was my half-brother.
Even though I tried my best, I could barely look at his wife, even though she smiled at me warmly and seemed eager to welcome me into her family unit.
But I don’t want to get to know her. She cuts through the fog of dull ache of hopeless longing to bring forth the sharp and ugly feelings of envy and jealousy.
For in my mind, Sara has to be the luckiest woman alive. She is sophisticated, classically beautiful, she is married to Max, and she has a gorgeous son.
She has the life I dreamed of.
A bitter spark of anger flares, unfair but unstoppable. It’s not her fault that she has what should’ve been mine, what I lost when my own father tore us apart.
The second I could, I found an excuse and escaped their intolerable presence.
I avoided him after that, dodging his gaze and refusing even to acknowledge his presence.
He noticed, I'm sure. The flicker of hurt in his blue eyes was unmistakable, but what could I do? It was too much. I can’t face him.
Not when every glance stirs a pain even more excruciating than the day he walked out.
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, back to 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.