Behind The Mask

Chapter 2: The Dead Eyes

POV: Maxwell

I knew exactly what day it was.

I hadn't forgotten. In fact, the date had been flashing on my phone calendar since the morning: Third Anniversary. But instead of leaving the office early, I deliberately scheduled three extra meetings. I stared at spreadsheets until my eyes burned. When the sun went down and the city lights of New York turned on, I picked up my phone and called Camilla Jones.

I didn't call her because I loved her. I didn't even call her because I wanted her. Camilla was loud, vain, and completely self-absorbed. But she served a very specific purpose in my life: she was my shield. She was the perfect tool to prove to everyone, especially to my grandfather and to Fiona, that I was a man who could not be controlled.

My grandfather, Arthur Jordan, thought he could snap his fingers and force me into a neat, perfect little box. He thought he could threaten my inheritance and force a ring onto my finger. He thought marrying Fiona Caldwell would somehow fix me or make me the "respectable" family man he wanted to take over the company.

I hated my grandfather for that. But deep down, in a dark place I refused to look at, I knew I hated myself even more for how I had trapped Fiona.

I remembered the bar three years ago. I remembered how fierce she was when she slapped me. She had a fire in her that intrigued me. But instead of leaving her alone, I used my power. I got her fired. I orchestrated her hiring as my secretary. I played the role of the perfect gentleman until she fell for me, all because I needed a clean, naive girl to secure my empire.

I ruined her life just to save my own. And because I felt guilty about it, I had to make her hate me. If she hated me, I wouldn't have to feel bad anymore.

Standing in the foyer of my own mansion, I watched that exact plan unfold.

The heavy oak door was open, letting the cold rain blow in, but the real ice was inside the house. Fiona stood frozen a few feet away from me.

She was wearing a red silk dress. It hugged her curves perfectly, and her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She looked breathtaking. Over her shoulder, through the wide archway, I could see the dining room. The table was set for two. The food was cold. The candles had completely melted down to the silver holders.

She had waited for me for hours.

A sharp, painful twist of guilt hit my chest, fast and hard. I immediately pushed it down, burying it under a thick layer of anger. She shouldn't have tried, I told myself. She knows the rules. She signed the contract.

"Take my coat," I ordered, my voice echoing in the quiet hallway.

It was a cruel command. I knew it. I was treating my wife like a maid in front of my mistress. I waited for her reaction. Usually, this was the part where her large, expressive eyes would fill with tears. This was the part where her lower lip would tremble, and she would ask me why. She would ask me why I was doing this, why I couldn't just love her.

I braced myself for the crying. I braced myself for the heavy guilt that would follow.

But the tears never came.

Instead, Camilla shifted her weight against me, wrapping her arms tighter around my waist. She let out a soft, mocking laugh.

"Oh, Maxwell," Camilla purred, looking at Fiona as if she were a piece of trash on the floor. "You really should hire better help. She just stands there staring. It’s a little creepy, don't you think?"

I didn't answer Camilla. My eyes were locked completely on Fiona.

Something was wrong.

Fiona didn't look angry. She didn't look sad. In fact, as I watched her, I saw a physical change happen right in front of me. The tension in her shoulders suddenly dropped. The desperate, hopeful light that always swam in her eyes, the light that annoyed me because it demanded things I couldn't give flickered, dimmed, and completely died.

Her eyes went completely blank. Empty. Dead.

It was like watching someone turn off a switch inside her soul.

"Well?" Camilla snapped, stepping forward slightly, her arrogance growing. She reached up and touched her own lips, making sure the bright pink lipstick was visible. It was smeared slightly at the corner of her mouth, a deliberate mess she had made in the car to make it look like we had been kissing passionately. "Are you deaf? He told you to take his coat. Or are you too busy playing dress-up in that cheap red thing?"

My jaw tightened. I opened my mouth to tell Camilla to shut up—she was going too far, even for my twisted plan.

But before I could speak, Fiona finally moved.

She didn't run away crying. She didn't scream or throw a vase at my head.

She simply turned around and walked away calmly. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor.

"Hey! Where is she going?" Camilla huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "She is so disrespectful, Maxwell. You really need to put her in her place."

I ignored Camilla, my heart suddenly

beating a little faster. I watched Fiona walk into the small half-bathroom located just off the main hallway. The door was left open. I could hear the sound of a drawer opening and closing.

A few seconds later, Fiona walked back out.

Her face was completely smooth. There was no trace of the heartbreak that had been there just two minutes ago. She walked right up to us, stopping just a foot away from Camilla.

I tensed, preparing to step between them. If Fiona tried to slap Camilla, I would have to stop her.

But Fiona didn't raise her hand to strike. Instead, she held out her right hand.

Dangling from her fingers was a small, white, damp hand towel.

Camilla frowned, looking at the towel in confusion. "What is this? I didn't ask to wash my hands."

Fiona’s voice, when she finally spoke, didn't sound like her at all. It wasn't soft, and it wasn't pleading. It was flat, hollow, and chillingly calm.

"It's for your face," Fiona said quietly.

Camilla blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Your lipstick is smeared," Fiona stated, her dead eyes locked onto Camilla's confused face. "You made a mess on the right side of your mouth. It looks sloppy. If you are going to parade around in my house as my husband's side piece, you should at least look presentable. Wipe your mouth, Camilla."

Camilla’s mouth dropped open in pure shock. Her face turned a deep, embarrassed shade of red. She instinctively reached up to touch the smeared lipstick, realizing she looked foolish instead of seductive.

I stood completely frozen. My breath caught in my throat.

This wasn't my Fiona. My Fiona was soft. She was emotional. She cared too much.

Fiona didn't even look at me. She didn't glance at my coat, and she certainly did not reach for it. She just dropped the damp towel right onto Camilla's expensive designer shoes.

"Have a good evening," Fiona said. The words were polite, but the tone was absolute ice.

Without another word, without a single backward glance at the ruined dinner, the melted candles, or the man she had loved for three years, Fiona turned around and walked up the grand staircase. She didn't look back. She didn't rush. She just walked away, disappearing into the dark shadows of the second floor.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the hallway.

"Did you see that?!" Camilla finally screeched, kicking the wet towel away from her shoes. "She insulted me! Are you just going to let her talk to me like that?"

I slowly turned my head to look at Camilla. Suddenly, her loud voice, her cheap perfume, and her fake smeared lipstick made me feel physically sick to my stomach.

"Get out," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

Camilla froze. "What? But... Maxwell, we had plans. You said we were going to—"

"I said, get out, Camilla," I snapped, my eyes flashing with a sudden, violent rage that surprised even me. "Call your driver and get out of my house right now."

Camilla swallowed hard, terrified by the look on my face. She didn't argue. She turned on her heel, pushed the heavy oak door open, and ran out into the pouring rain.

I stood alone in the grand foyer. The cold wind blew through the open door, chilling me to the bone.

I slowly turned to look at the dining room. The beautiful red dress, the quiet dignity, the dead, empty look in her eyes...

I had spent three years trying to push her away. I had spent three years trying to make her stop caring, trying to kill the love she had for me so I wouldn't have to feel guilty anymore.

I looked at the white towel lying on the floor.

I had finally succeeded. She was gone. The light was dead. I won.

So why did it feel like I was the one who had just been completely destroyed?