29. Max
MAX
It’s Saturday. A week since the finale.
I rake a hand through my hair and pace the length of the living room. My brothers are sprawled on my couch, watching me. They look like they’ve never seen anything more entertaining than my life falling apart.
They showed up an hour ago, uninvited. Apparently, they decided that what my imploding life really needed was an intervention.
I guess they’re not wrong.
I’m a wreck. I haven’t slept properly in days. I can barely choke down toast. And I can’t stop doom-scrolling. Every time I see the words scandal or home-wrecker next to Heidi’s name, a fresh wave of anger hits me.
Not at her. At everyone else.
I’m the one in the center of this. I’m the one who pursued her and I’m the one who was supposed to be getting to know other women, but I’m getting a pass. The headlines are calling me a “heartbreaker” or a “rebel,” while they’re tearing Heidi apart.
I rake a hand through my hair again.
“Mom isn’t happy,” Henry says. “She thinks you’ve embarrassed the family name on a global scale.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I was worried I hadn’t disappointed enough people this week.”
Will elbows him in the stomach.
“It’s not that bad,” Will says. “I mean, it’s not illegal. You’re not going to see any ramifications—”
“I don’t care about that either. Heidi won’t talk to me. I need to fix it.”
“Every man gets his wife fired at some point,” Dean shrugs. Henry nods thoughtfully, and so does Will. Like this is a well-known stage in the relationship life cycle.
“You just have to—wait.” Dean sits up suddenly. “Just buy the network.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Buy the network,” he repeats. “Then fire the people who fired her.”
I rub my eyes. “I’m not ‘buy-a-media-conglomerate’ rich. And I’m fairly certain the network isn’t for sale.”
Henry leans forward, entirely too serious. “Start your own network. The Carter Channel. All Heidi, all the time.”
“You guys are useless,” I groan, dropping onto the arm of a chair.
For a moment, they all watch me spiral. Then Will straightens.
“You know who will actually know what to do?”
The room goes quiet. We all look at each other.
“Abigail,” we say in unison.
Abigail arrives at my apartment about an hour later.
She doesn’t say hello. She just points sharply at the door until Will, Henry, and Dean scramble out like teenagers caught breaking curfew.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Abigail stands in the entryway for a moment, still holding her car keys, dressed like she stepped out of a boardroom in tailored charcoal trousers, a silk blouse, and sharp heels. Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek knot, not a strand out of place. She looks deeply unimpressed.
“I knew this was coming,” Abigail says. “I knew you’d mess it up. You’re all the same—”
She stops herself. Her eyes close briefly as she pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a slow breath.
“Okay,” she says after a moment, her voice settling into something calmer. “That was unhelpful. I’m sorry.”
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, the room suddenly quiet with just the two of us in it.
Abigail crosses the living room and sits opposite me, folding one leg neatly over the other.
“Okay, so,” she says carefully, “you and Heidi got close on set. You proposed after weeks…just like your brothers…” She catches herself again and exhales through her nose. “And then you told the world about it on live TV.”
“I didn’t tell the world,” I say, snapping my head up. “Not really. Grace figured it out. And I just…didn’t deny it. I should have. But I froze and honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to pretend anymore. And now she won’t talk to me.”
Abigail studies me for a moment, her expression softening slightly.
“It wasn’t exactly fair to you either,” she says. “Her asking you to keep it a secret.”
“It’s not her fault,” I snap. The words come out sharper than I mean them to. I exhale and drag a hand through my hair. “She was under pressure. Everyone was watching. I know I should’ve just gone along with it. Played the part for the cameras and dealt with it afterward.”
Abigail nods slowly. I can tell she’s thinking because she’s doing that thing where she bites her lip.
“So here’s the thing,” she says. “You don’t win her back by begging right now.”
She tilts her head, studying me.
“Right now,” she says slowly, “the story out there is that she’s a manipulative producer who crossed a line and got caught. And the problem is, she can’t correct that story. If she says anything, it looks defensive. Or guilty. Or self-serving. The more she talks, the worse it gets.”
“So I say something,” I say, sitting up.
“You take the fall,” she says. “Publicly. Loudly. In a way that makes it impossible for anyone to blame her. And then maybe she won’t feel like this is the end of the world. And that you have her back.”
“Of course I have her back.”
God. Now that she’s said it, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself. It’s so obvious. And I’ve just been sitting here, pacing and spiraling while the world tears her apart.
“But what do I say?”
“You make it your fault. You pursued her. She was the sweet, innocent producer you had wrapped around your finger because you’re a playboy.” She shrugs. “Only now that she’s gone, you realize you fell for her. The playboy has been reformed.”
I stare at her.
Everything changed when Will met Abigail. Before her, the four of us were just…drifting. Successful, sure, but untethered. Will met Abigail and suddenly things started clicking into place. Then the rest of us followed like dominoes.
Henry found Natalie. Dean found Michelle.
And now me.
I’ve found my wife. And I’ll do anything to keep her.
“Good luck, Max,” Abigail says, standing and smoothing the front of her blouse. “And you better make it work. I like Heidi.”
So do I.
I waste no time.
Two hours later I’m sitting under blinding studio lights while someone powders my forehead and tells me not to lean too far forward because it throws off the camera framing.
The chair they’ve given me is too small. The lighting is blinding. And the host across from me is wearing the kind of sympathetic expression that’s been practiced in a mirror.
“Max Carter,” she says once we start rolling. “Everyone’s been talking about what happened on the finale. You’ve been trending for days. So let’s start with the question everyone is asking.”
She leans forward slightly.
“Tell us about Heidi.”
“Heidi came onto the production late,” I say. “She was brought in to fix a sinking ship. And honestly? She was a pain in the ass.”
The host blinks and glances toward someone off-camera, like she’s checking whether we’re allowed to say that on live television. When no one stops me, I keep going.
“She was competent. Clever. And she didn’t sugarcoat anything,” I continue. “Most people in my life tell me what I want to hear. Heidi told me the truth. For the first time in years, it felt like I’d met someone real. So I pursued her. Hard.”
The host straightens.
“You’re saying the relationship started because of you?”
“Yes. Heidi tried to keep things professional. She tried to protect the integrity of the show. I didn’t make that easy.”
“So the rumors—”
“—are mostly wrong,” I cut in calmly. “Penelope and Delaney are making things up. Heidi didn’t manipulate anything. If anyone crossed a line, it was me.”
The host blinks.
“And she resisted because Heidi cared about her job. About the contestants. About the show. She barely knew those women, and she still felt like she was betraying them—even knowing my heart wasn’t really with any of them.”
I look straight at the host.
“That’s the kind of person she is,” I say.
“So you never intended to marry any of the contestants?”
“I went into the show open to it,” I say. “I really did. But I couldn’t picture a life with any of them.”
I pause.
“Until Heidi. She’s the first person, the only person, I’ve ever actually imagined building a life with.”
“And where does that leave things now?”
I exhale.
“She won’t take my calls. She lost her career because of me,” I continue. “And that’s not fair. I’m the one who broke the rules. I’m the one who pushed, and she’s the one paying the price. So now I’m going to make it right.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“How?”
“I’m asking the public for help,” I say.
The host’s smile widens immediately.
“Go on.”
“I’m starting a hashtag,” I say. “#ForgiveMeHeidi. She needs to know the world doesn’t see her the way the headlines do. She needs to know people support her.”
The host reaches for her phone instantly.
“Well,” she says, grinning, “you heard it here first.”
She angles the phone toward us.
“Let’s get #ForgiveMeHeidi trending before we even hit the commercial break.”
She snaps a quick photo of us together.
“Max Carter,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re either completely insane or the most romantic man alive.”
She hits post.
“I guess we’re about to find out.”