17. Heidi
HEIDI
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask for the seventh time.
Max doesn’t answer. He just lifts a hand and gestures for me to keep driving, directing me farther up the hill into the winding, sun-dappled streets where iron gates guard mansions that cost more than I’d make in three lifetimes.
I have no idea what’s gotten into him, and I haven’t had the chance to ask. We were trapped in the control room until two-thirty last night finishing the cut. Max refused to go to bed, sitting in the corner with his arms crossed, his eyes tracking my every move.
“No,” he says now, his voice clipped.
He’s staring out the window at the passing estates, his jaw set in a hard line.
“You know this is how most true crime podcasts start,” I say, easing the car around a tight bend. “If you’ve dragged me up here to murder me, today’s not a great time. I’m going to need you to reschedule.”
I’m trying to break the tension, but he doesn’t even smile.
“Just drive,” he says without looking at me. “We’re almost there.”
We finally pull into a driveway guarded by a gate that looks more like a fortress than a residence. Max leans over, his arm brushing mine as he punches a code into the keypad.
The gates swing inward, revealing a long drive that winds toward a two-story manor built from stone. It looks like it was carved straight out of the mountainside.
The house has the feel of an old European villa. Ivy climbs the stone walls, softening the hard edges just enough to make it feel lived in. The whole place is tucked behind a screen of dense trees, hidden from the road.
Then I notice the cars.
A small fleet sits in the circular court: a pristine white SUV, a battered vintage Range Rover, and a sleek BMW.
“Where are we?” I ask, my heart starting to race. I shift the car into park, the engine idling between us. “Who lives here?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt.
I follow him toward the front door and glance down at what I’m wearing.
A charcoal blazer, tailored trousers, pointed-toe heels. I look like I’m here to negotiate a contract, not walk into someone’s home.
When no one answers the door, Max doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the handle and turns it.
I stop on the threshold, my pulse picking up. “Max, we can’t just—are we breaking in?” I whisper.
He doesn’t even look back. I follow him inside.
The house feels warm and lived in, but everything is perfectly tidy, like someone has just finished straightening up. The only thing out of place is a small blue rattle on the floor.
Before I can demand—for the ninth time—where the hell we are, Max is already heading toward the back of the house.
“Looks like they’re out back,” he says. “Wait here a second.”
He disappears around the corner, leaving me alone in the living room of a stranger’s house. I stand there, wondering if Max has finally lost his mind, until he finally comes back. Without a word, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the back of the house.
“Max,” I hiss. “What is this? You need to tell me—”
We step out onto a wide timber deck, and my questions die in my throat.
My stomach drops.
Two men are standing by the railing, the family resemblance impossible to miss.
Henry is polished and striking, the kind of man who looks like he belongs on a billboard. But it’s his eyes that catch me—piercing blue, almost icy against his dark hair, although, he’s graying at the sides.
Beside him, Dean is slightly shorter but broader through the shoulders. His hair is messy, and he has the kind of rugged look that suggests he’s more comfortable in a T-shirt than a suit. He’s less curated than Henry. With what looks like a name tattoo’d on his neck.
They’re both studying me now.
Up close, they’re a little intimidating.
“This is Heidi,” Max says, a hint of pride in his voice. “My girlfriend.”
Before I can process that, I’m shaking their hands.
Dean’s handshake is firm, his palm rough against mine. Henry’s is smoother, his grip polite but assessing.
“Nice to meet you, Heidi,” Henry says. His voice is smooth, but his eyes are far too perceptive. “So tell us—how exactly did you two meet?”
Max lets out a short, incredulous breath.
“Seriously?” he says. “Don’t be a dick.”
Dean and Henry exchange a knowing look before breaking into quiet laughter.
Max doesn’t react. His hand finds mine instead, his grip firm.
“Excuse us.”
Before either of them can say anything else, he’s already leading me down the steps toward the lawn.
I dig my fingers into his palm in silent protest.
“What are you doing?” I hiss under my breath. “You didn’t tell them how we met, did you?”
“Just breathe, baby,” he says, his eyes already scanning the crowd below.
I open my mouth to scold him—to remind him about the contracts and the nightmare of this getting out—but the words die when I see the scale of the gathering.
It looks like we missed lunch. Half-empty plates are still scattered across a table. To one side, a group of women are talking in lawn chairs while a pack of kids—too many to count—race across the lawn, screeching as they go.
Max wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against his side, and steers me toward a man standing on a flat stretch of lawn. He’s leaning on a wooden mallet, watching two of the kids chase each other through a series of wire hoops.
“Will,” Max calls.
The man looks up. Like Dean, he’s a couple of inches shorter than Max, but he’s handsome in a more controlled way. Everything about him, his posture and expression, is precise.
“Heidi,” Max says. “This is Will.”
He props the mallet against a lawn chair and steps forward to shake my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes sharp. He studies me for a second too long, like he knows something I don’t.
“Glad you could make it, Heidi,” he says.
Will doesn’t let go of my hand right away. Around us, the noise is constant—the click of croquet balls, kids shouting across the lawn, and laughter from the women. It’s a lot of life to take in all at once.
“Max tells me you’re a producer?” he says, finally releasing my hand.
I glance at Max, a surge of panic hitting me. He’s not supposed to tell anyone about the show, let alone introduce me as his girlfriend and then casually mention my job. I make an awkward sound, searching for something to say, but Max steps in.
“She’s the best in the business,” he says smoothly.
The air seems to cool as a woman approaches us. She looks to be in her sixties, painfully thin, with an elegance so rigid it makes Grace look like an amateur. Her posture suggests she’s spent her entire life being singularly unimpressed.
“This is Heidi,” Max says, pulling me closer. “My girlfriend. Heidi, this is my mom, Silvia.”
She shakes my hand. Her grip is light but cold, and her gaze sweeps over my outfit with clinical precision.
I can practically feel her cataloguing every detail of my outfit.
She isn’t impressed. I’m not surprised—she used to run a luxury fashion house, and Max has brought me here in my affordable workwear.
She turns to Max, dismissing me instantly. “And where have you been? I haven’t heard a peep from you in weeks.”
“Reality dating show!” Henry calls from the deck, his voice carrying a mischievous edge.
Silvia’s eyes widen.
“I’ll explain in a minute,” Max says, cutting the conversation off.
He steers me toward the group of women chatting on the lounge chairs. His grip on my waist is firm and possessive, like he thinks I might make a run for it.
I’m tempted.
“I don’t remember agreeing to be your girlfriend,” I whisper, my head spinning. “Or to meeting your mother—”
He ignores me.
“Hey,” Max says to the group of women. “This is Heidi. Take care of her for me.”
Then he’s gone, already striding across the lawn.
I stand there for a moment, rooted to the grass, watching him go. He crosses the yard and joins Will and Silvia. Dean and Henry drift over to them a second later, the four of them falling into conversation like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I turn back toward the group of women, feeling like a deer in headlights and something bumps into my leg.
I look down.
A little boy, maybe five years old, is tugging on the hem of my blazer.
“Who are you?” he demands, staring up at me.
“I’m—”
“Who are you?” he asks again, more insistent this time.
“Harvey, leave the poor woman alone,” one of the women laughs. She hops up and gently pulls him away from me. I look up and feel a fresh wave of intimidation—she’s stunning, with dark hair and effortless style. But then she smiles and it feels like a warm hug.
“I am so sorry,” she says. “It looks like Max has thrown you straight in the deep end. I’m Abigail, Will’s wife. This is Natalie—Henry’s wife—and Michelle, Dean’s.”
Natalie and Michelle offer warm hellos, but neither of them gets up. Then I notice their stomachs. They’re both pregnant.
I glance at the swarm of kids tearing across the lawn. It seems the Carter’s take reproduction very seriously.
“I’m Heidi,” I say, finally finding my voice, even though Max has already introduced me.
“Heidi,” Abigail repeats, studying me with quiet interest. “And you and Max?”
The question is gentle, asked with genuine curiosity that makes it hard to be defensive.
“We’re…together,” I say. “I think.”
I expect them to press for details, but they don’t. Instead, they exchange a knowing, amused look.
“Say no more,” Michelle says. She has sharp features and a blonde bob that makes her look delicate, almost fairy-like—but there’s something mischievous in her smile. “You look like you could use a drink.”
She points a manicured nail toward a glass dispenser filled with pale pink punch.
“I’m driving,” I say, though my gaze lingers on it. The punch looks cold, sweet, and exactly like the reset button I need right now.
“Make him drive,” Michelle says, barely glancing toward Max. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare only Max can cause.”