24. Heidi
HEIDI
By the time I reach Max’s building, it’s well past ten.
Grace and Colette are settled at the Westmere.
Before I left them, Grace was already complaining about the thread count like she’s been sentenced to a some kind of prisoner camp.
After that I sat with Miles for an hour reviewing the raw footage from the gala, pausing every few seconds while he argued about which angles made Grace look best. By the time we finished, my eyes were sore from staring at a screen.
Now I’m here.
Max’s apartment sits forty floors above the city.
The front door opens straight into the living space. The entire wall facing the city is glass. A single uninterrupted sheet stretching from floor to ceiling, turning the skyline into something closer to a living mural than a view.
The floors are pale concrete. A low Italian leather sofa anchors the center of the room beside a sculptural steel coffee table.
There’s almost no clutter. Just a few pieces: a massive abstract painting in muted blues and charcoal, a wall of built-in shelving with a handful of art books and objects spaced with museum-like precision, and a bar stocked with bottles that probably cost more than my car.
The whole place feels modern, quiet, and expensive in a way that doesn’t seem interested in proving anything.
I walk toward the glass, drawn to the view.
“It’s incredible. But…forty floors?” I glance over my shoulder. “I thought you were scared of heights.”
Max stands a few feet back from the window, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He glances toward the view for half a second before his gaze shifts quickly back to me.
“I’m fine as long as I’m inside,” he says. His voice is casual, but his shoulders are a little too rigid to make it convincing. “Put a pane of glass between me and the drop and I’m good.”
He nods toward the window.
“But put me on a balcony? No thanks. I don’t need to feel the wind while I’m contemplating gravity.”
I turn back to him, a small smile playing on my lips. “So you bought a glass box in the sky to test your limits?”
“I bought it for the privacy,” he counters, finally stepping closer. Even now he keeps his gaze fixed on my face instead of the city behind me. “Nobody can look in from forty floors up.”
I smile at that, but the expression fades as another thought slips in. The lobby downstairs flashes through my mind—the security guard .
Max notices the shift immediately. “What?”
“Just thinking about the guard downstairs.”
I made a point of stopping to talk to him.
His name is Pete—it was stitched neatly onto his uniform.
He seemed thoroughly uninterested in me, but that didn’t stop me from leaning against the desk and sighing loudly about Max’s “fragile state,” how the network had sent me to babysit him through his house arrest. I told him Max’s phone had been confiscated, his internet access cut, and that he’d been ordered to stay put until the finale hype settled.
The network doesn’t want him seeing the edits or the comments before the live proposal. They want him raw and isolated and I’m here to keep an eye on him. I probably overdid it. My attempt to make my presence seem normal may have done the exact opposite.
“I told him I’m here for the network, but I’m not sure he bought it.”
Max pulls a face that immediately makes me suspicious.
“Don’t be mad, okay,” he says. “Just…take a breath.”
The words make my stomach tighten.
“Pete’s a good guy. He’s been here a long time. He’s a friend—”
I turn toward him fully. “Max. What did you do?”
“I told him about us.”
My pulse jumps.
“You can come and go,” he continues quickly. “He won’t say anything.”
“You can’t know that. Do you have any idea—”
“Stop panicking.” He lifts a hand like he’s trying to slow me down. “I paid his son’s college tuition. Alright? So he’ll let you in. Keep his mouth shut.”
For a moment I just stare at him.
My mind spins through the possible headlines, the disaster scenarios, the absolute nightmare it would be if the network found out.
Then another thought pushes its way in. Pete hadn’t been surprised to see me. He’d just nodded along as I talked. He didn’t seem to care. I let out a slow breath.
“Max,” I say quietly, “you can’t solve every problem by writing a check.”
“I solved this one,” he says, that cheeky smile creeping back.
It’s hard to stay mad at him.
I close my eyes for a second, the tension draining out of my shoulders. He’s right. If I’m honest, his plan is smarter than any excuse I could have made.
When I open them, he’s watching me.
“You’ve seen the living room,” he says, pushing himself away from the window. “And the view.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the full tour?”
“Hardly.” His mouth curves as he steps closer, stopping just in front of me. “We haven’t even gotten to the bedroom.”
“Well,” I say, aiming for calm and landing somewhere closer to amused, “that seems like an important room.”
“Not for everyone,” he says.
He holds out his hand, and I place mine in his. He lifts it, turning my fingers so the ring catches the light. His thumb brushes over the band as he studies it.
“Let’s see,” he murmurs. “Yeah.” His mouth tilts, satisfied. “You’ve got clearance.”
It’s Monday night.
Forty minutes until the episodes drop.
For the past four days, Max’s apartment has become my unofficial home base. During the day I’ve been at the studio with Miles, polishing the final cuts. Now the episodes are polished, exported, and queued up on the network servers. There’s nothing left to tweak, nothing left to fix.
Tonight they go live. And that feels terrifying because my name is on the titles. Releasing something with your name attached to it is like stepping onto a stage and hoping the audience doesn’t throw tomatoes.
I’ve been thinking about the wedding special, too. When Miles and I were reviewing a scene from episode seven, Grace was talking about her dream life with Max. And an idea clicked.
I’m still not sure if it’s brilliant or completely insane.
“Stop worrying,” Max says, bringing me back to the present.
We’re stretched out on his sofa, a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table and a shared bottle of wine between us. Max is wearing soft gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. One arm is slung along the back of the couch behind me.
“What if it’s the worst show in the world?” I say.
“It can’t be,” Max says easily. “I’m the star.”
I glance at him.
“Point taken.”
He should be just as nervous as I am. But he’s so relaxed it’s almost irritating.
“You’re not nervous?” I ask.
“I don’t care what people think,” he says with a shrug. “They don’t know me. And between you and me, the producer has a thing for me, so I’m pretty sure she’s going to give me a good edit.”
I grab the couch cushion and smack him with it.
“Hey,” he protests, laughing.
He’s not wrong, though. You always make your lead look good. The difference is that with Max, I barely had to try.
“How long now?” he asks.
I check my watch.
“Thirty-eight minutes.”
The words make my stomach tighten. Max notices immediately. He shifts closer and pulls me into his side.
“Well,” he says, “we should probably make you worry about something else until then.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s talk about the future.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I see a house in the hills,” he says thoughtfully. “Big windows. A ridiculous kitchen. And maybe some kids.”
I tilt my head up to look at him. “Kids? What about my work?”
“I’ll stay home with them.”
The answer comes so easily it catches me off guard. The image appears in my mind before I can stop it—Max holding a baby, tiny and pink and impossibly fragile.
It’s a dangerous thought. For years I’ve told myself the only thing I really wanted was my career. The next project. The next step forward. But the truth is…I like the picture in my head.
Maybe more than the life I’ve been chasing all this time.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until Max brushes his thumb along my cheek.
“What?” he asks softly.
“Nothing,” I say, leaning into him.
I close my eyes against his chest. For a moment, everything feels simple—like the future might actually be something we build together.
“How long now,” he asks.
I check my watch. “Twenty-nine minutes.”
I push myself up, turning toward him. “I have an idea about the wedding special,” I say slowly. “But I’m not sure if it’s…if it will work.”
“Go on.”
“Grace doesn’t really want a husband,” I say. “She wants to be the envy of every woman in Alton Hills.”
“Right,” Max agrees.
“So we give her the opposite.” I turn fully toward him, the pieces of the plan clicking together as I say it out loud.
“On Saturday, you present the ‘measly’ hundred-thousand-dollar ring. Then you give her a speech. You tell her—and the ten million people watching—that this show changed you. That you want a simple life. You’re donating everything to charity.
You’re giving up the spotlight to move somewhere quiet.
Downtown, maybe. Or better yet, Bolivia for two years helping rehabilitate elephants in the jungle. ”
Max raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure Bolivia has elephants.”
“Fine. Llamas. Whatever.” I wave a hand impatiently, my heart starting to race as the plan sharpens.
“The point is: no designer galas, no society pages, no profile. No cell service, even. If you present her with a future that completely destroys her brand, she’ll have to say no.
She’ll realize that saying yes means disappearing into a life of service and anonymity.
She’ll back out. Right there on live television. ”
“You think she’ll do it publicly?” he asks. “She won’t just fake it and dump me later?”
“She can’t,” I say firmly. “If she says yes to a life of poverty on live TV, she’s trapped.
Her vanity is practically a reflex, Max.
She’ll try to spin it as staying true to herself or something, but the cameras will catch that split second of horror on her face.
The network gets their shocking finale, we get the ratings, and Grace is the one who breaks the contract.
No wedding special. You walk away clean, and I don’t get the blame. ”
Max is quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching mine. Then he takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine and pressing our palms together. “I think that might actually work.”
The episodes drop.
No matter how much Max tries to distract me, I can’t stop myself from reading every comment as they roll in. Technically he shouldn’t be exposed to any of it, but I can’t help myself. I scroll through the reactions and read the best ones out loud from my phone.
“Okay,” I say, trying—and failing—to sound calm. “First one.”
@caffeinatedlawyer: ok but WHY is max this hot??
Max snorts.
“Next.”
@brunchandbinge: Grace is actually stunning though??
@realitytvjunkie: I told myself I wouldn’t watch another dating show but here I am. Max is dangerously charming
Max leans back against the sofa cushions, clearly enjoying this more than he should.
“Keep going,” he says.
@late_night_latte: Max Carter…I’m not surviving this season
@watchwithwine: Grace is gorgeous but something about her feels…rehearsed idk
@mollyfanclub: can we talk about Molly because she’s the only one asking real questions
@streamqueen88: wait I kinda love Penelope?? she’s carrying this episode
@citygirlscrolling: why is max the only reality TV guy who actually seems normal
@popcornandcommentary: not me already rooting for max after ten minutes
@the_real_kelsey: ok I get it now. Max could absolutely ruin my life
Max grins. “That last one seems particularly insightful.”
“Don’t get a big head,” I mutter, scrolling again.
By one in the morning, the binge-watchers are already five episodes deep.
I promised Max I’d go to sleep. I even pretended to. But now I’m lying in bed beside him, wide awake in the dark while he sleeps, my phone lighting the duvet like a tiny lantern as I scroll through the reactions in real time.
So far it’s good.
People are talking about Molly and Delaney being fake. How sweet Colette is. They’re debating whether Penelope is sincere. They’re picking favorite contestants and posting clips. What they’re not saying is that the show is terrible. Which, at this point, feels like a major victory.
Max shifts beside me and I quickly slide the phone under the duvet, hiding the glow.
My screen lights up again.
#MaxAndGrace has climbed from #8 to #1 worldwide.
The public hasn’t just bought the story. They’ve swallowed it whole.
A warm weight settles against my back as Max stirs behind me. He pulls the duvet higher around us. I lean into him, feeling the steady heat of his chest against my spine.
My phone buzzes.
Vivian: The numbers are astronomical. Highest engagement in seasons. You’ve done it, Heidi. You’ve made Max and Grace the most loved couple in the country.
I stare at the words until they blur together.
“Heidi?” Max whispers.
His voice is thick with sleep, but it sharpens slightly as he senses the shift in me. I quickly lock my phone.
“You need some sleep,” he says.
I turn toward him. His eyes are barely open, his hair a mess against the pillow.
“I spent so long worrying about the show blowing up…I didn’t really prepare myself for it to actually work. For people to like it.”
He reaches for me, pulling me across his chest. His arms close around me, his heartbeat slow beneath my cheek. I shift higher, tucking my face into the curve of his neck.
“They love you, Max,” I whisper, my eyes finally starting to close. “Everyone loves you.”
“I don’t care about everyone,” he says. His grip tightens just slightly. “I only care about you.”
I stay there, wrapped around him. As his hand moves in lazy circles along my back, the tension finally drains out of me. For the first time, I let myself believe that everything might actually work out.