Chapter 59 Chapter 59
Amelia
The past three days have been nothing short of miserable. Declan kept calling, not to check on me, but to remind me about the money I owed him, as if I could forget even for a second. Each call left my chest tight and my nerves on edge. On top of that, Maxwell kept asking if I had started taking the fertility pills yet. Every time he brought it up, it felt like another weight added to my shoulders.
I spent the weekend with my kids, even though Maxwell was strongly against it. He was convinced that I was going to spend the weekend with Adrian.
My parents didn’t make things any easier. They kept asking when Maxwell and I were going to call off the wedding and when I planned to return fully to the company. I lied through my teeth, telling them I was still learning a few things from Maxwell and that I would be taking over again very soon.
I left my kids early on Sunday. I told them I had a meeting, even though it hurt to lie to their faces. The real reason was that I wanted to get back to the house before Maxwell returned. I needed a little time to breathe without him watching my every move.
That afternoon, I called Cynthia, and she told me Maxwell had left the house very early in the morning. Relief washed over me at that news.
At least I wouldn’t have to face him right away.
When I drove into the mansion, I noticed Camilla speeding out of the driveway, clearly in a hurry. I couldn’t help but think she was trying to avoid Maxwell too. Lately, he had been snapping at everything and everyone around him, even things that weren’t alive. The tension in that house was thick, and I could feel it pressing down on me the moment I stepped inside.
I walked into the house and immediately noticed Cynthia standing in the living room. She looked tense, her eyes darting toward the stairs as if she was afraid someone might hear her.
“The boss is back,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but you need to avoid him.”
“Thanks, Cynthia. I will be fine,” I replied, forcing a small smile. She nodded and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
I headed upstairs, my steps slow and careful. As I passed Maxwell’s room, a loud crash made me freeze. Something shattered, followed by another heavy thud. My heart skipped a beat.
What on earth happened to Maxwell? Why was he losing his mind like this? I had never seen him like this before. He didn’t do drugs at least not that I knew of and aside from alcohol, which he rarely drank to excess, there was nothing that explained this kind of rage.
I rushed into my room and locked the door behind me, my hands shaking slightly. I took a long shower, hoping the hot water would calm my nerves and drown out the noise. But even after I was done, I could still hear things breaking.
Part of me wanted to reach out to him. Maybe I could calm him down, but fear held me back.
I was scared he might snap at me or worse, hit me. Seeing him like this was already messing with my mental health. Still, my feet carried me toward his room. I stopped in front of his door, hesitated for a brief second, then pushed it open.
I gasped, the room was completely destroyed. The bed wasn’t spared—it had been ripped apart like it meant nothing. The mirror was shattered, decor smashed, furniture overturned. Everything lay in ruins, as if a storm had torn through the room and left nothing untouched.
I stood there frozen, my heart pounding, staring at the mess and wondering just how far gone Maxwell really was.
He was standing in the corner of the room, his back pressed against the wall. His eyes were bloodshot, and for a brief moment, I wondered if he had been crying.
“What part of leave me the fuck alone do you people not understand?” he snapped.
I sighed, forcing myself to stay calm. “No one is going to leave you alone if you keep acting like this. You are hurting yourself. I don’t think destroying things is going to help whatever you are going through,” I said, taking a careful step into the room.
“And you care because?” he asked coldly. He was clutching one hand, and I noticed blood dripping slowly from his knuckles.
“I’m your wife,” I said quietly. He scoffed.
“You are bleeding. I’ll get the first aid box,” I added, turning to leave before he could argue.
“My wife only by contract,” he said behind me. “Don’t forget that. And don’t come back.”
I didn’t respond. I slipped out of the room and went downstairs, grabbed the first aid box, and forced myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
When I returned, he was still standing exactly where I had left him, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I told you not to come back,” he said, his voice rough.
I ignored him and carefully made my way toward him, watching my steps so I wouldn’t cut myself on the broken glass and shattered bottles scattered across the floor. I almost stepped on a sharp piece, and suddenly he moved.
He stood up quickly and grabbed me. The touch was brief, he let go, as if he’d burned himself. He sank down onto the floor, his back sliding against the wall until he was sitting, his head dropping forward.
I knelt in front of him, my heart pounding. “Give me your hand,” I said softly, reaching out toward him.
He didn’t say a word. He just stared at me, his eyes dark and conflicted, as the silence between us grew heavy.
I gently took his hands and began cleaning the wounds. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched me closely as I treated him, his gaze never leaving my face. When I was done, I handed him a bottle of water and some painkillers.
“Take this,” I said. He just stared at me. “I will force it down your throat if you don’t take it right now,” I added, my tone firm despite how nervous I felt.
That finally got a reaction. He took the bottle and the pills from me and swallowed them. I pushed the first aid box aside and sat down next to him.
“I know you are hurting,” I said quietly. “But whatever you are going through, anger won’t fix it. It will only blind you and keep you from seeing other options.” I paused, then added softly, “Please calm down.”
He didn’t respond. He just stared into space, as if he was somewhere far away. I reached for him and helped him to his feet. “Come on. You need to shower and get some rest. You can’t stay in this room.”
He shook his head like a stubborn child, but I didn’t let go. I stood up and pulled him with me.
We carefully made our way out of the destroyed room, stepping around the broken glass. I led him into my bedroom and gently pushed him toward the bathroom. He lifted his hands, showing me the bandages, silently reminding me that he couldn’t take care of himself like this.
I followed him in and told him to lie back in the bathtub. I helped him bathe, washing the blood and sweat from his skin. Neither of us spoke.
When I was done, I led him to my bed. The moment his body touched the mattress, his eyes closed. Just like that, he was asleep.
I realized then that he hadn’t slept in days, I turned to leave, planning to go downstairs and ask Cynthia to call the cleaners to deal with the mess he’d made of his room. I was almost at the door when his voice stopped me.
“Thank you.” I didn’t turn around, but my chest
tightened at those two quiet words.
Author's note: let my baby breeeaatheeee, but Maxwell saying thank you was not on my bingo card