Chapter 18 Two Directions
Veronica's POV:
I frowned down at him, shaking my head. “You’re in no condition for this,” I said quietly, pressing the warm compress to his forehead once more.
Max gave me a faint, rasping chuckle, the kind that barely reached his lips, before his deep-blue eyes fluttered closed.
The exhaustion had finally claimed him.
Setting the glass of lemon water on the nightstand, I slipped a small note beneath it: Drink this.
That should’ve been it. My part was finished. I should’ve walked away.
But as I turned, a sudden tug on my wrist stopped me, which was strong and trembling at the same time.
I looked back.
Max’s hand was clasped around mine. His fingers felt too warm against my skin... despite the chillness in the room.
“Don’t go yet…” came out his whisper, all while his eyes alone were still closed.
There was something raw in the way he said it. He sounded no more like the typical bad-boy charmer that he was.
He sounded like someone who was just tired and needed company.
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Whitmore?” the servant asked, still standing by the door with the empty tray.
I glanced at Max’s hand, still loosely wrapped around my wrist, and then at her. “Yes,” I said quietly. “Please bring my laptop here. I’ll work from this room."
Even after she left to pick up my laptop from my room, I could still feel the faint imprint of his warm fingers on my skin — a sting that shouldn’t have meant anything, but somehow did.
Ridiculous, I thought, shaking my head. Absolutely ridiculous.
Why was I feeling anything for Max Ashford, when I’d already chosen Theo?
Yet, here I was again... back to square one with my feelings, my heart was split in two directions, all of my logic losing its battle with my emotions.
Once Max drifted into a deep sleep, I settled into the small desk that was beside his bed, opening my laptop and diving into the project Theo and I were building together.
Slowly, the rhythm of typing began to drown out the chaos in my mind.
The sound of the ocean waves outside, along with the soft hum of the air conditioning in the room, and even Max’s steady breathing — it all faded into background noise as I got lost myself in work.
It must’ve been at least half an hour later when the buzz of a phone broke the silence and disturbed me.
I ignored it at first, assuming it was mine, but then I realized the sound was coming from Max’s nightstand.
The screen lit up briefly... with a photo filling the lock screen.
A woman. Beautiful. Graceful. Blonde hair and green eyes — she looked like the female version of Theo himself.
She was holding two little boys, maybe four or five years old. The resemblance was undeniable.
I froze
Leila Ashford. Their mother.
I remembered her name vaguely... a headline from years ago. The tragic death of Leila Ashford, wife of billionaire
Conrad Ashford.
But what was the cause of her death? I tried to remember, but the details blurred at the edges of my memory.
Curiosity clawed at me, refusing to let go.
Without a second thought, I opened my browser and typed the words: Leila Ashford death.
The results loaded in seconds with dozens of old headlines, each one colder than the last.
“Socialite Leila Ashford Dies in Tragic Drunk-Driving Accident.”
“Ashford Family in Mourning After Fatal Crash.”
My breath caught.
A car accident. Drunk driving.
Before I could process it, a voice behind me said, low and rough,
“The news won’t tell you the truth about my mother.”
I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. “My God, Max,” I exhaled, clutching my chest. “You scared me!”
He was awake — sitting up now, the sheets slightly rumpled around him, his inky black hair was disheveled, like a halo of dark waves.
His voice now had none of its usual arrogance. It was calm… heavy.
“Okay then,” I said once my pulse settled, turning the laptop screen toward him. “What is the truth?”
Max shifted, leaning back against the headboard of the bed, his blue eyes that were contrasting his black hair had an expression unreadable, looking hollow.
“It wasn’t drunk driving,” he said quietly, his tone was low and deliberate. “And…” — he paused, swallowing hard — “I was in the car too.”
My lips parted in shock. “What?” I whispered, unsure if I wanted to hear what came next.
Max nodded once, his gaze was unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the walls of the room that we were in. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was just eleven back then.”
Then he ran a hand through his black hair and let out a shaky exhalation. “Mom and Dad… they were in a bad place. Constant fights, yelling, slamming doors... that kind of thing. I remember covering my ears some nights, hoping it would stop. But it never did.”
He paused, the faint smell of alcohol still lingering on his breath as he spoke. “That night, they had one of their biggest arguments. Dad accused her of being irresponsible, said she was ruining the family name. But my mom... she just wanted to be loved. But he never gave her that. She’d been drinking, yeah — but not enough to crash like that. She just wanted to get away from him. She took the car, and I…”
He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “I ran after her and got in the backside. I thought I could calm her down.”
My chest tightened as I listened, afraid to even breathe.
Max’s eyes glistened faintly under the dim light, his tone shifting between bitterness and pain. “She didn't even notice me at all actually, that I was in the car with her, she was too drunk to hear me... And the crash happened not even fifteen minutes later. I woke up in the hospital, glass cuts in my back and arms, and bandaged like a mummy, and they told me she was gone.”
He laughed weakly, which was a hollow, broken sound. “And then Dad told the world she was drunk and reckless. That was his story. A neat little lie to protect his name, his empire. But it was his fault. He drove her to do that."
He looked up at me then, his voice trembling now. “You know what’s funny, Veronica? The world believed him. Everyone did. But she wasn’t an alcoholic. She was just heartbroken.”
I sat frozen, my throat was tight, tears threatening to fall.