Chapter 34
MAX
Coming Home
The clouds hang low and angry, like the whole damn sky is holding its breath.
I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans and walk faster, boots hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the storm in my chest. Thunder growls in the distance—low, like a warning. I don’t even know where I’m going. I just needed out. Away from my apartment. Away from my thoughts.
From the silence.
I pass a hotdog stand, the scent of mustard and burnt onions turning my stomach. Someone bumps into me without apology. A cab splashes through a puddle too close to the curb. It all feels fitting—chaotic, dirty, loud. Like penance I haven’t earned.
A drop hits my cheek.
Then another.
I stop under a rusted scaffolding awning just as the skies break open, rain slamming down in sheets, drumming on metal like an angry drummer.
My phone buzzes.
I almost ignore it—I'm in no shape for another PR crisis, fan theory, or one more stab from Jake. But something in my gut tells me to look.
It’s from Vivienne.
Vivienne:You need to hear this.
There’s a voice memo attached.
The wind picks up, slicing through the back of my hoodie like a warning.
I glance around—the sidewalk’s thinning. Now’s as good a time as any.
My stomach tightens, instinct prickling beneath my skin. I tap the screen, thumb suddenly unsteady.
The voice memo plays.
Ambient noise bleeds through first—clinking glasses, distant chatter, someone laughing off-camera. Then I hear him.
Jake Armstrong.
Slick. Smug. Cold.
“I engineered them,” he brags, and I stand up straight, blood freezing mid-flow.
“Mocked up a few throwback posts, gave them a timestamp makeover, linked an old fan account to your precious little library email. It’s laughably easy if you know what to fake and who to leak it to.
People believe what confirms their worst instincts.
Especially when the guy’s already halfway convinced he’s being played. ”
I stop breathing.
“His father saw you buying that pregnancy test and reached out—apparently, he’s got his own axe to grind.
The plan to fake the posts? All his idea.
Who knew Lawrence Westwood had such a nasty streak?
Not me. But that was my golden ticket. All I had to do was spin the story. And Max? He bought every word.”
Jake’s voice drips with pride—and something crueler.
My knees nearly give. The city noise fades. I’m not standing in Manhattan anymore—I’m back in that moment I sent her away, convinced she’d played me. Betrayed me.
I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong.
Thunder crashes, there’s lighting somewhere in the distance and it’s the perfect representation for my feelings.
Nora didn’t lie. And I—I tore us apart.
And then—Nora’s voice.
Not shaken. Not weak.
Steel-wrapped velvet. Calm. Controlled.
“That,” she says, “was you confessing to everything.”
I press the phone to my ear and replay the message. Once. Twice. A third time. Then I call Vivienne.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Max.” Her voice is sharper than usual. Controlled. Measured. Like she’s been waiting for this.
I swallow hard. “Is it true?” My voice is hoarse. “Everything in that recording—Jake… the posts…”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “It’s all true. Nora had nothing to do with it. Jake faked everything. The posts. The account. He even spoofed the recovery email to match her work address. I got the whole thing verified. Cyber investigators confirmed it.”
I close my eyes. “Jesus. Why didn’t she tell me sooner?”
“She didn’t know,” Vivienne says. “Not until yesterday. She found out when I called her—because I figured it out. And she was…” She exhales shakily. “Max, she was wrecked. She thought you hated her. She thought she meant nothing.”
A sharp pain twists in my chest. “She does. She meant—she means everything.”
“Then why the hell did you send her away?” Now Viv’s voice shakes—not with grief, but fury. “She was trying to tell you. She was terrified and pregnant and you shut her out. You didn’t even ask. You just… assumed.”
“I know,” I say, my voice cracking. “I thought I was protecting myself. I didn’t want to believe it. But Jake… he timed it perfectly. He showed up right after—right before she told me she is pregnant.” I laugh bitterly. “I didn’t even question it.”
There’s a long pause. Then: “You don’t get to be the victim here, Max.”
“I know I don’t.” I press my fist to my mouth. “I fucked up.”
“Then make it right,” she says. “And Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck it up again.”
She hangs up and I start running. I run, like I haven’t run in long time.
As I sprint down the streets, rain pelts my skin like punishment—cold, relentless—but I barely register it. My clothes are soaked through. Water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my forehead. My boots slap against the pavement, heavy and loud, matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
I must look insane.
I reach her building, lungs burning, hoodie drenched.
I pound on her door, harder than I probably should, heart thudding like a drumbeat I can’t control. I’m shaking—not from the cold, but from everything in me unraveling.
The door opens.
And there she is.
Nora.
She’s barefoot, wrapped in a soft gray sweater, her eyes wide and wary and already glassy. The sight of her hits me like a punch to the ribs.
“Hi,” I croak.
She doesn’t say anything—just stares. Her mouth is a little open, like she doesn’t know if she wants to scream or cry.
“I listened to it,” I say, voice low and rough. “The voice memo. Vivienne sent it.”
Still nothing. Her arms are crossed, her whole body curled inward like she’s bracing for impact.
“I know what Jake did,” I push on. “I know the posts were fake. That he made it all up. I know you never… I know you’d never do that to me.”
Her chin trembles. She looks away.
“I believed him,” I whisper. “I looked you in the eyes and I believed him. And I can’t—I don’t even have a word for what that makes me.”
My throat tightens, and I feel the first tear break loose, trailing hot over my cold skin.
“I fucked everything up,” I rasp. “I threw away the only thing in my life that ever felt real. You.”
Her hand rises to her mouth, and I see her shoulders shake. She’s crying too—quietly, but fully.
“I love you,” I say, and my voice cracks in half. “God, Nora. I love you so much. I was scared. Scared of how much I needed you. Scared you’d leave like he did. Like everyone does.”
A sob bursts from her, and she turns away—just for a second—like she doesn’t want me to see.
I step inside, slowly, dripping all over her floor, not caring.
“I want to be a family with you,” I say. “I want everything. Diaper changes and baby books and you bossing me around about proper shelving. I want all of it. With you.”
She turns back to me, eyes rimmed red, cheeks wet.
“Why didn’t you trust me?” she asks, and her voice is barely there. “Why was it so easy to believe I’d hurt you?”
“Because I didn’t believe I deserved anything else,” I whisper. “Because I didn’t think I was worth you.”
She shakes her head, tears streaming. “You were. You are.”
We just stand there for a moment—crying, breathing, breaking in each other’s presence.
And then she steps toward me.
Another sob catches in her throat as she pulls me into her arms—and I crumble.
Full body shaking, gasping, crying like I haven’t in years.
She holds me through it, and I hold her back, and we just stand there, soaking wet and clinging to each other like the storm outside has nothing on the one we just weathered.
“I love you,” I whisper again, and she nods against my shoulder, her fingers digging into my back.
“I love you too,” she says.
And when my mouth finds hers, our kiss is anything but soft.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s heat and tears and weeks of aching—of holding back what we wanted most. Her hands are in my wet hair, dragging me closer like she can’t stand another inch between us.
I press her against the door, the wood thudding behind her as our bodies collide, all frantic mouths and soaked clothes.
She’s crying. So am I.
Tears streak both our faces, but it doesn’t stop us.
If anything, it fuels the fire that’s been building too long.
This isn’t careful or planned. It’s wild.
Raw. Desperate. Her sweater is already half off her shoulder, and when I kiss the tear-slicked skin there, she gasps like I’ve struck a nerve straight to her soul.
“I missed you,” I breathe against her throat. “Every day, I missed you.”
Her fingers fumble at the hem of my hoodie, tugging it up, palms flattening against my bare chest like she needs to feel my heart beating for her.
“You broke it,” she whispers, voice cracking. “You shattered me.”
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes—both of us wrecked, ruined, still crying.
“I know,” I rasp. “And I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life putting you back together.”
She kisses me again, hard and aching, biting at my bottom lip like she wants to punish me and save me in the same breath. My hands are under her thighs, lifting her as her legs wrap around my waist. We crash against the door, the slam echoing through the apartment like a thunderclap.
“I love you,” I say again, over and over, like a chant. Like penance.
She’s gasping my name like a lifeline. Like I’m the only thing anchoring her.
“Max,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my ear.
“Please. Don’t stop.” Her words are a plea, a command, and a promise all at once.
I don’t need to be told twice. My hands roam over her, urgent but reverent, like I’m mapping her body for the first time.
Her sweater falls to the floor, forgotten, and I trace the curves of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone. Every inch of her feels sacred.
I slide my hand up her thigh, under the skirt she’s wearing, until my fingers brush the edge of her panties. She gasps, head tipping back, brown hair spilling over her shoulders—and I swear, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
She’s already wet, so wet, and the realization makes my dick twitch painfully in my jeans. I groan, pressing my hips into hers, letting her feel how much I want her.
“Max,” she whimpers, her head falling back as I dip my fingers beneath the lace. “Please.” I smirk against her skin, but it’s shaky, unsteady. “Begging already?” I tease, though my voice is rough with my own desperation. “I haven’t even started yet.”
Her nails dig into my shoulders as I press her harder against the door, the wood groaning under our weight.
The rain outside is a distant hum, a backdrop to the storm raging between us.
I kiss her neck, her jaw, her earlobe, whispering filthy promises I fully intend to keep.
“I’m not stopping,” I growl, my lips brushing her ear. “Not until you’re screaming my name.”
My hands grip her ass, squeezing hard as I grind against her, the friction between us sending sparks through my veins.
She’s wet, so fucking wet, her heat seeping through her panties, and I can’t wait any longer.
My fingers fumble with the waistband of her lace-trimmed underwear, tearing them down her legs with an urgency that borders on violence.
Her heels still dig into my back as she helps me kick them away, the fabric pooling at our feet like discarded evidence of our restraint.
“Now,” she orders, her voice a low, primal growl.
I don’t need to be told twice. My belt comes undone with a frantic tug, my jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in one swift motion.
I’m free, my cock throbbing, desperate for her.
She shifts her hips, guiding me, and I slide into her in one swift, seamless motion.
The tightness of her pussy engulfs me, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body that’s almost too much to bear.
Her eyes flutter open, lips parting on a soft moan. “Fuck,” she gasps. “Max, that feels—”
“Good?” I ask, voice rough. “Tell me it feels good.”
“Yes. God, yes! Harder, Max,” she begs, voice trembling with need.
I obey, thrusting into her with everything I’ve got.
The door creaks with every movement, but it’s drowned out by our ragged breaths and her desperate, breathless moans.
Her legs lock around me, nails digging into my shoulders, her body arching to meet my rhythm.
She’s close—I can feel it in the way her walls clench around me, in the sharp catch of her breath as she moans my name.
“Baby,” I rasp, pressing my forehead to hers, “can you wait for me? I want us to come together.”
“Yes,” she manages, voice tight with urgency.
We find that rhythm, moving in sync, each thrust building like a wave cresting toward the inevitable. My release barrels toward me, unstoppable, and I groan against her mouth, “Now, baby.”
When it hits, it’s not just physical—it’s everything. A collapse and a connection. A crash and a coming home. The rush, the heat, the surrender. We fall apart and back into each other all at once.