Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Max
The corridor to the library stretches before us, a dim tunnel of polished wood and shadowed portraits, our anxious footsteps echoing like a countdown. Amelia’s a half-pace ahead, her shoulders tense, her green eyes fixed on the floor.
I’m trying to keep my cool, to bury the dread twisting my insides, but it’s clawing up, raw and relentless. This summons screams trouble. I told her it is probably about her studies, but the words felt hollow even as I said them. John Fitzwilliam’s not the type to call us to his study at close to midnight for a chat about SATs. Something’s wrong, and the dread presses heavier with every creak of the floorboards.
This house doesn’t help—a sprawling monument to wealth that I can’t wrap my head around.
Growing up in a cramped Utah shack, sharing a room with my uncle, and living off the money Mom sent from her job here, I never imagined I’d see the inside of a place like this. Marble floors, gilded frames, furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum.
It’s old money, the kind that makes you feel small. When I first arrived, I pegged Amelia as the princess of this palace, a pampered brat who’d never even glance my way. But then I saw her—really saw her. Her quick laugh, her gentle teasing, the way she humbles herself to make others shine. She’s not just kind; she’s generous and caring in a way that pulls you in.
And I fell hard, despite every warning I gave myself.
I knew I was playing with fire. She is the daughter of a very rich and powerful man, and I’m a nobody, the housekeeper’s kid crashing in the servants’ quarters for the summer. I told myself to keep my distance, but when she kissed me, her lips soft and hungry, I was done for.
Now, as we near the library, my chest aches with the fear that it’s all about to implode. Amelia’s been careless—her giggles in the kitchen, the way she brushes against me when she thinks no one’s watching. The staff talk, and her father’s got eyes everywhere. His worry is not baseless.
I am hopelessly in love with his daughter and intend to make her mine.
My boots feel leaden. Amelia’s steps falter, and I can’t stand it anymore—the distance, the pretense. If this is the end, I need something real to hold onto. I’ve always kept us hidden, but right now, I almost don’t care who sees. I reach for her hand, my fingers curling around hers, and the warmth of her skin hits me like a shot. Her eyes flick to our joined hands, then to me. A quiet smile curves her lips, soft and trusting, and it’s a knife to my heart.
We stop at the study door, its carved surface looming like a warning. Amelia knocks, her knuckles barely making a sound, and Mr. Fitzwilliam’s voice rumbles through.
“Come in.”
The door swings open, revealing a room of dark paneling and leather-bound books, and lit by a single lamp that casts long shadows. The air is thick with the scent of wax and old wood. Her father is settled behind his desk, solid and unyielding, and his hair stark against his pale face. His frown is deeper than usual, etching lines that make him look older, harsher.
I step as far away from Amelia as I can without it looking awkward, but it is crucial in this moment to keep space between us. If this isn’t about us, then I most definitely do not intend to tip him off. Not yet. I have big plans. One day, he will be proud to have me as a son-in-law.
Amelia offers a tight smile, and her posture and manner are stiff and awkward.
John’s eyes sweep over us, sharp and unreadable, before he comes straight to the point. “Max, have you ever met your father?”
The question catches me off guard, and my mind starts racing with confusion. Why the hell is he asking about my father? Mom never speaks of him, and the one time I asked, she told me it was a one-night thing while she was on holiday in Mexico. For one crazy instant, a flicker of relief sparks in my chest—maybe this isn’t about Amelia and me after all. Then suspicion tightens my chest like a vice. What’s his angle?
“No, sir,” I say slowly.
He exhales slowly, and his gaze becomes heavy with something like regret. “I hoped I’d never have to say this, but your… involvement with my daughter forces my hand. For both your sakes, I can’t stay silent.”
Both Amelia and I glance at each other, as dread surges back. The air seems to turn cold. Even the room feels like it is shrinking around us. I step forward, words spilling out before I can stop them. I try not to jump the gun, but at that moment, sheer panic takes over. It’s either fight or flight, and I’m fighting. With everything I’ve got.