Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
AMELIA
Icannot remember the last time I put this much effort into getting ready. The charity gala is tonight, and I’m nervous as hell. There's a flutter in my chest that’s half-thrill, half-dread. Are we making a mistake? Can we really pull it off and pretend not to be lovers, but siblings?
I dab foundation onto my skin, the cool cream blending seamlessly, hiding the faint shadows under my eyes.
My fingers are less than stable as I apply eyeliner, extending the sharp line slightly outwards from the edges.
It makes my eyes pop and look a brighter green.
I apply mascara next, thickening my lashes.
I lean back. It looks good. I should use eyeliner and mascara more often, but it’s such a hassle trying to take it all off before bed.
A touch of rose lipstick on my lips and it works as a blush across my cheeks too.
I stare at my reflection.
I look… alive, vibrant, gorgeous, nothing like the drab woman who came to this house. For the first time in years, I’m doing my hair and makeup, not just for him, but for me, and it feels good.
The emerald dress hangs on the closet door, its silk shimmering like a forest at sunset.
I go over and admire it once again, almost unable to believe that it is mine.
With a purr of pleasure, I slip it on, and the fabric glides over my skin, cool and smooth, hugging my curves with a daring neckline that dips low.
For a moment, I worry that it is too much.
I don’t want to look slutty, then I remember that Sara had given her nod of approval, and surely she must know the type of look the society her husband keeps expects from women.
Quickly, before I can change my mind, I push the unflattering thoughts out of my mind.
I walk closer to the mirror, and the high slit at the thigh teases a show of skin with every step. My heart flutters at just how flattering it is. I take in my reflection as impartially as I can. The dress is stunning, and I feel quite beautiful in it, more than I’ve felt in a decade.
The woman staring back is bold, alive, and I’m starting to love her. I see the fire Max always saw. This is who I could’ve been, who I am when I am with him, and it’s a gift, a fleeting glimpse of a life I was meant to have.
I step into an elegant pair of silver heels, their straps delicate against my ankles. Holding my clutch, I take a deep breath. Just as I’m standing behind the door feeling quite sick with nerves, a soft knock at the door jolts me. My pulse spikes, and nervous anticipation floods my veins.
“Come in,” I call, voice shaky.
Max steps through, his black tuxedo tailored to perfection, outlining his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt stark against his tanned skin.
My stomach contracts as I take him in. He is unbelievably gorgeous.
His blue eyes widen, raking over me, and his breath catches, a sound that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Amelia,” he says, voice low, rough, stepping closer. “You’re… wow. I knew you would look beautiful but… Jesus!” His gaze lingers on the dress, the slit, the curve of my hips, and I feel it like a touch, my skin flushing under his stare. “I can’t fucking take my eyes off you.”
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, voice teasing, but my heart’s pounding, overwhelmed by his intensity, by the way he makes me feel seen, wanted.
He grins wolfishly.
“Has Jason’s babysitter arrived?”
“Yup, she’s here. Pizza is ordered. All is good. We use her all the time, and she has my number in the event of an emergency.”
He offers his arm, and I take it. His warmth seeps through the tux, and it makes me feel a part of him as we head downstairs into the quiet foyer.
The moonlight is spilling across the marble, and outside, a limousine waits, its sleek black body gleaming under the streetlights.
I am incredibly surprised at this, as I’m sure this is among his fleet of cars.
I turn to him then, and something in his eyes tells me there’s a dot to connect here.
"This is… extravagant, no?" I ask. "Am I missing something?"
“I was supposed to take you to prom,” he murmurs, voice low, as he opens the limo door. “I couldn’t then. So I wanted to make it right tonight.”
His words hit deep, like a wound and a gift. I am too shocked by his words to answer. I stare at him in disbelief. He remembered that it mattered to me. I have to fight to keep my tears from spilling and ruining my carefully applied makeup.
I slide into the plush leather seat inside the regal interior. It is cool inside, and scented with leather and the faint smell of champagne.
“Ready, my love?" he asks as he settles beside me. Max looks at me like I am his world.
I nod in response, feeling like a teenager with him all over again. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His thigh brushes mine, and a spark ignites my skin.
The limo glides through the city, lights streaking past, and I feel delirious with happiness.
But I know that the more he does things like this, and the more time we spend together, the more my heart broods, mourning for what could’ve been.
This was supposed to be my life—Max on my arm, nights like this, a world painted in colors he brings out in me.
With him, I’m alive, vibrant, a woman who loves herself, who feels every shade of joy, desire, pain.
But this life is not mine, none of it is mine. I’ll have to give it back to Sara.
And face the crushing reality that no man is ever going to live up to Max, and I’ll probably end up a lonely old spinster. Thank God, we arrive at the event, and I am grateful for the reprieve from my painful thoughts.
The gala is in a grand hotel ballroom, and as we head in, I am awestruck by the gorgeous chandeliers dripping crystal, their light dancing across polished floors.
Everything looks so classy and elegant. Guests in tuxedos and gowns swirl around us, their laughter mingling with the clink of champagne flutes, the air scented with expensive perfume.
Max’s hand rests casually on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd, and I feel every eye on us, on the emerald dress that hugs my curves. We sip champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue, and he leans close, his breath warm on my ear.
“You’re stealing the show,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but his eyes are serious, burning with pride, with love.
I laugh, soft, nervous, my fingers tightening on the flute. “It’s the dress. Sara picked a good one.” Her name slips out, and guilt stabs me in the heart. Another reminder of the life I’m borrowing.
Max’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something—pain, maybe—crossing his face, but he covers it with a smile.
“It’s not the dress,” Max says, his voice rough, low, like a secret meant only for me. His hand brushes mine, his fingers grazing my knuckles, warm and deliberate.
My pulse races, heat flooding my veins, and a throbbing starts in my belly.
I meet his eyes, so blue and so intense, locking onto mine with a blazing hunger.
The ballroom hums around us, the clink of silverware and soft laughter of the fine guests blending with the jazz band’s smooth melody.
But it’s all background noise, drowned by the way Max is looking at me, like I’m the only woman here, the only person that matters.
My cheeks grow warm under his gaze. “You’re biased,” I murmur, teasing, but my voice trembles, betraying the storm inside me.
“I’m not,” he says as we find our table.
We take our seats and after exchanging greetings with others, some at the table and others coming over in search of Max, the ceremony finally starts.
I watch as dinner is served, appetizers first and then a spread of elegance—seared salmon glistening with lemon glaze, lightly steamed asparagus spears with butter.
I’m too excited to dig in, so I start with the wine first, needing it to settle my nerves.
I take a sip, and the wine is cold down my throat, rich and oaky.
Max watches me, almost as if he can’t take his eyes off me, and I watch him back, intoxicated by his nearness, his presence always pulling me under.
He leans closer then, his tuxedo jacket brushing the tablecloth, his scent—cedar and spice—wrapping around me. “You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman I know, definitely the most beautiful human,” he says, voice low, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m not,” I protest.
His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t you look at yourself in the mirror before you came out? You’re stealing every eye in this room, Amelia.” His fingers linger on mine, hidden beneath the table, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a shiver up my spine.
I bite my lip, trying to focus on the plate before me. The salmon is perfectly cooked and delicate, and the asparagus is crisp, but my senses are hijacked by him, by the heat of his touch, the way his eyes trace my face, my neck, the dip of my neckline.
“Stop it,” I whisper, half-laughing, my voice soft as I nudge his hand away. “Didn’t you say you’d be on your best behavior?”
My heart pounds, the thrill of our secret mixing with the reminder that there is nothing inherently wrong with being this intimate with him.
It makes me wonder once again whether I am not just torturing myself and being cruel by not telling him.
I’m playing God and the devil all at once.
Not wanting the guilt and sin of making him give up his family for me, yet…
enjoying the sweetness from pretending to be his. It makes me feel kinda deranged.
“I am on my best behavior,” he murmurs, his grin wicked, but his eyes soften, a flicker of something deeper, something that makes my chest ache. But he pulls his hand back. Not before his thumb brushes my wrist, a promise that lingers.
We eat in silence for a moment, the band shifting to a slower song, a sultry saxophone weaving through the air.
Guests around us chat, their voices a low hum—talk of donations, art auctions, city gossip—but I’m lost in Max, in the way his knee brushes mine under the table, deliberate, teasing.
I glance at him, catch the spark in his eyes, and desire curls tight in my core.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks.
I nod, and he stands and offers his hand.
My throat feels tight as I take his hand, his fingers warm and sure.
He leads me to the dance floor, the polished wood gleaming under the chandeliers.
The band plays a slow melody, and Max pulls me close, his hand settling on my lower back, just above the curve of my hips, his touch firm, possessive.
My body fits against his, the silk dress sliding against his tux, and I feel every inch of him—his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
“You belong with me. Like this. Always,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear, breath warm against my skin.
His hand tightens on my waist, guiding me in a slow sway, the music wrapping around us like a cocoon.
I lean into him, my cheek brushing his jaw, his stubble a soft scrape that sends a shiver through me.
The room fades, the other couples blurring, and it’s just us, moving together, bodies pressed close, a dance that feels like a vow.
“I feel like I belong with you, too,” I say, voice soft, barely audible over the music. The words slip out, raw, honest, and his eyes darken, a flash of pain crossing his face, mirrored by the ache in my chest.
He spins me slowly, the slit baring my thigh, and his hand grazes the exposed skin. “You’re killing me,” he says, voice rough, pulling me back against him, closer now, our bodies flush. “I don’t know how to let you go again.”
His words crack something in me, and I look up, meeting his eyes, seeing the same turmoil, the same desperate love.
The song ends, and we pause, still holding each other. The applause of the other guests is a distant hum. I pull back, my hand lingering on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
“Max,” I say, voice trembling, as we step away from the dance floor, the music shifting to something faster. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?” My heart feels suddenly heavy with what I need to say, what I’ve been dreading.
He nods, his jaw tight, and leads me to a corner of the ballroom, a small alcove with velvet curtains, partially shielding us from the crowd.
The air is cooler here, scented with lilies from a nearby arrangement, and the dim light casts shadows across his face, sharpening his features.
I turn to him, my hands twisting in front of me, the emerald silk rustling.
“This… It’s too much,” I say, voice soft, breaking.
“It’s everything I ever wanted, Max. You, this life, the way you make me feel—like I’m alive, like I’m me again.
But it’s not real. Sara’s coming back soon, and this—” I gesture between us, my throat closing—“it’ll break my heart.
We should stop now, before it goes any further. ”
His eyes darken, pain flashing, raw and sharp. He steps closer, his hand cupping my cheek, thumb brushing my skin, warm and gentle. “Amelia,” he murmurs, voice raw, broken. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. I don’t know how. This is real to me, more real than anything I’ve ever had.”
His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm, ragged, and I’m trembling, torn between the love that consumes me and the fear of what comes next.