Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
AMELIA
The moonlight follows me through the large windows on the landing as I climb the stairs, my bare feet whispering against the polished hardwood. The echo of Max’s words “If I cross a line, please stop me,” rings in my ears.
My heart is heavy, a stone lodged in my chest, as I slip into my room. I sink onto the bed, and the duvet is soft beneath me, but it offers no comfort, not when sadness wraps around me like a shroud.
Max’s struggle, laid bare in the breakfast nook, cuts deep—his voice raw, and his wonderful blue eyes shadowed with guilt, is fighting the same battle I am.
He loves me, but not as a sister. The pain of his restraint is a pain I know too well.
The only difference is, he doesn’t know the truth.
If he knew the truth…. The weight of the truth crushes down on me as I curl my knees to my chest, my arms tight around them, and press my face into the pillow.
The ache spills over, and a quiet sob muffled by the pillow escapes me.
Once again, the urge to tell him surges, a reckless impulse to confess that we’re not related, that Dad’s lie stole our chance all those years ago.
It would instantly erase his guilt, lift the chain of taboo that binds us.
The truth will shred his barely leashed control, the raging fire he’s holding back.
I see it in my mind—his hands on me, his lips, the boundaries we’ve fought to keep crumbling in a moment of euphoria.
My body tingles at the thought, and heat starts pooling low, but out of the blue, Jason’s sad little face floats into my mind, and I shut my traitorous thoughts down, hard.
I can’t hurt him. I can’t hurt Max’s family, the perfect little world he’s built with Sara and Jason.
Jason’s shy, trusting smile, Sara’s generosity, and genuine warmth.
They’re innocent, undeserving of the wreckage my truth could bring.
With a fierce resolve, I clamp my mouth shut and vow to keep my secret locked away. To treat Max as my brother, nothing more. It is the only way to protect them, even if it means burying my heart.
The next morning, Sara’s departure looms. There is already a quiet shift in the house’s rhythm as I come down the stairs.
Sara’s suitcases wait by the door, three pieces of matching Louis Vuitton cases.
I can hear voices in the living room. For a moment, I stand undecided in the foyer, the morning light streaming through the wide windows. Should I go in?
Then she comes into the foyer. She’s in a soft gray sweater, black jeans, and boots.
Her hair is pulled into a neat ponytail.
She flashes me a big grateful smile. Jason follows behind her.
His gray eyes are solemn. Max comes into the foyer too, his suit crisp, his jaw tight, and I feel his presence like a current, even as I keep my eyes on Sara.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” I say, my voice warm, stepping closer to hug her. Her arms wrap around me, warm and firm. I smell her perfume, then she pulls back.
Her smile is soft but earnest. “Amelia, thank you so much for agreeing to stay. I hardly know you, but for some reason I feel I can completely trust you to look after Jason for me. I know it’s a lot, but…
you’re so good with him. And Max,” she glances at him.
“Well, I’m so glad he finally has family with him. ”
I nod, my throat tight. “I’ll do my best,” I promise, meaning it, even though the thought of being alone with Max sends shivers through me, a mix of longing and fear.
Jason tugs at her hand, and she kneels, kissing his forehead.
She whispers something in his ear that makes him nod.
Max steps forward and puts his hand on her shoulder.
I realize it’s the first intimate thing I have seen him do to her, and I quickly avert my gaze, my heart aching.
A couple of staff grab her suitcases, and we all head out to wave her goodbye.
As soon as the car drives off, Max says his goodbyes to us and heads off to work. Jason’s tutor is waiting for him, so he goes to his lessons and I have a solitary breakfast before returning to my studio and my painting.
That evening, I find Maria in the kitchen beginning to make dinner even though she has a splitting headache.
I decide to send her back to bed and take over.
A slab of beef is waiting on the cutting board, so I decide to make a meal I know Max loves—or loved, back when we were young and eating together in the large kitchen.
Beef fried rice, a rich and meaty recipe I haven’t touched in years because it hurt too much.
Every bite would have been a memory of him.
Soon, the kitchen is warm, and the air thick with the scent of sizzling beef and caramelized onions.
I move with purpose, chopping mushrooms with a steady rhythm, the knife’s soft thud against the cutting board.
Jason comes in and sits at the counter, coloring a dragon I sketched for him, his crayons scratching softly, his small face focused.
My heart races at the thought of Max coming home, of sitting across from him with Jason between us.
I realize I am playing house with Sara’s family, and the thought sours my mood, but I push it away and set about laying the dining table.
I find linen in the cupboard and candles.
I will make it a meal to remember. White plates check.
Silverware check. Bowl of flowers check.
Bottle of ruby red wine check, and a bowl of steamed green beans, their vibrant color a compliment to the fried rice.
The front door opens, and Max’s voice calls out. “I’m home.” My pulse spikes, and I smooth my new blue dress, a simple choice from my last shopping spree. It’s not sexy like the black dress, but it makes me feel good and confident.
Jason hops off his stool and runs to greet him. I watch as Max steps into the dining room, his suit jacket gone, tie loose, and his eyes land on the table, then on me, widening with surprise at the apron I’m wearing.
“You cooked?” he asks, his voice low, a flicker of something—memory, maybe—passing through his blue gaze.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice soft, a smile tugging at my lips. I pick the beef and a bowl of buttered steamed green beans and head towards the dining table. “Thought it’d be nice. Plus, it’s your favorite, right?”
He laughs out loud. “Right,” he agrees, but I cannot help but feel slightly uncomfortable, though I’m not sure why. The boys take their seats and are ready to eat.
Jason digs in, and I watch him intently, hoping he will love it as much as his father once did, but his face scrunches after the first bite, his gray eyes narrowing, and my heart sinks a little. He doesn’t like it!
"What's wrong?" I ask.
“It’s… kinda… uh… weird,” he says, glancing uncertainly at his father. His voice is small and almost apologetic as he pushes a piece of beef to the side of his plate.
I’m shocked, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I spent hours on this meal. It’s Max’s favorite from years ago, a loving memory that I poured into every chop, every stir… and it’s failing.
Max shoots Jason a look, a flash of irritation in his blue eyes.
“Don’t be rude and ungrateful, Jason. Aunt Amelia has very kindly taken the time to cook you a meal full of goodness,” he says, his tone firm and commanding.
With deliberate purposefulness, his fork pierces a piece of beef.
“She used to make this for me years ago. It’s my favorite. ”
“This is your favorite?” Jason asks incredulously.
“Yes, it is,” Max says emphatically.
His gaze lifts to mine, intense and steady. “Thank you, Amelia. It’s perfect. Just like I remember.”
His words are a lifeline, and I manage a grateful smile, my lips trembling with the effort.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur with relief, but the truth soon becomes clear to me as I dig in as well.
The rice is okay, but the spices are a bit overkill, and the beef is quite tough.
But still its edible and is just the way I used to make it, so…
Max eats enthusiastically so I continue on as well.
“How’s work?” I ask, my voice cutting through the silence, desperate for something normal to tether us.
“Very busy,” he replies and smiles.
I glance at Max, but he is looking at me, and my gaze awkwardly skitters away from his and lands on the wine bottle instead. The label looks pricey. “Always is,” he adds, his fingers brushing the edge of his plate, and the casual motion draws my attention, his hands strong, familiar.
I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together, trying to ignore the heat his gaze ignites, a warmth that is shameful but undeniable.
Nodding, I force a smile and turn to Jason, hoping to draw him out. “What about you, Jason? Got any fun school stuff going on?” My voice is light, encouraging, but he only shrugs, his eyes fixed on his fork with which he is pushing a green bean in circles.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles, barely audible, and my heart tugs with worry. What’s pulling him so far inward? Is it the absence of Sara, or something deeper?
Without Sara, the silence grows and presses against us, Max’s gaze lingering too long, my skin alive with it, a current I can’t escape.
I want to tell him to stop, to look away, because it’s too much, too close to the line we can’t cross, but I can’t find the words, not with Jason here, not with my heart racing.
Eventually, we have our fill. Jason dashes upstairs to his room and Max and I work together to clear away the plates and take them to the kitchen. Max’s voice drops as we load the dishwasher, a note of secrecy threading through it.
“I have a secret to tell you,” he says, his marvelous eyes locking on mine… and my heart stops.