Chapter 4
1679 Words
Max's
The cemetery was quiet in a way that made the world feel suspended, like the world knew better than to intrude.
I preferred it that way.
I stood under the old elm tree, hands in my pockets, staring at the headstone I visited less than I should have and more than I admitted.
ALEXANDER ST. CLAIR
Beloved husband and father
1971 – 2014
A neat, polished lie.
He was beloved, yes. But not by everyone in that house.
And definitely not by the woman who survived him.
The wind pushed across the grounds, lifting the edges of my coat. I ignored the sting in my eyes the way I had learned to ignore everything else that tried to soften me.
“You’d laugh if you saw what's happening now,” I muttered. “The way they run around pretending the world will collapse if I breathe wrong.”
I rubbed a hand over my jaw, trying to unclench muscles permanently locked in tension.
The older I got, the more I saw of him in the mirror, everything except the warmth that died the day he did. The day I stopped being anyone’s son and became an inheritance to be managed.
I glanced down at his name again, “I’m handling it,” I said quietly. “I don’t know if I’m doing right. But I’m trying.”
I took one last steadying breath and stepped back. The cold seeped into my bones, but I welcomed it. It was something to brace against.
On my way out of the cemetery, Andrew hurried from the car with my coat in hand, draping it over my shoulders before I could tell him not to. I didn’t need the warmth, but I let him do it anyway.
“Sir,” he said softly, matching my pace. “Your grandfather’s office called. The family expects you at the estate this evening.”
I stopped mid-step, letting his words settle like stones in my chest. The St. Clairs didn’t call unless it was serious. I glanced down at him, face unreadable. “Reason?”
“They didn’t say. Only that it’s important.”
My fists tightened inside my pockets. The trees whispered overhead, like they were mocking me for feeling helpless all over again.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I didn’t need to check the screen. Only one person texted me with that particular brand of timing.
I pulled it out anyway.
> Eleanor St. Clair
“Dinner at 7. Don’t be late.”
The formality clawed at something deep inside my ribs. Whatever was left of “mother” had vanished the day my father’s heart stopped.
I stared at the message until the warmth behind my eyes settled into something colder.
Then I slid the phone back into my pocket.
---
By evening, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.
I parked in the circular driveway of the St. Clair estate, and sat for one full, measured breath. The sun was disappearing, throwing long shadows across the stone columns and manicured hedges. The building looked impressive to most people.
But on the inside, it was a monument to control.
The butler opened the door before I reached it.
“Good evening, Young Master,” he greeted, bowing slightly.
I nodded and stepped inside. Everything smelled the same, the polished floors gleamed under my steps, the portraits of ancestors scowling from every wall was a study in generational intimidation.
Eleanor waited at the end of the hall, still and poised enough to blend with the portraits.
“Maximilian,” she said, voice smooth as silk, “we were beginning to worry. Traffic?”
I shrugged out of my coat, masking my irritation. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, Mother.”
She nodded faintly and guided me to the main parlor where the rest of them were gathered. She sat next to Grandfather who occupied his high-backed chair at the end of the room, his cane beside him.
Adrian, her brother, sat in his usual armchair, swirling his whiskey with practiced boredom.
Valerie, my twin, lounged nearby like a queen on her throne. Her husband Raymond sat rigidly beside her, as though being noticed by the family might be fatal. Her eyes gleamed with that familiar superiority.
I noticed the empty chair where my father should have been. Eleven years later, the absence still throbbed. He had been the one who’d made this family human.
“Maximilian,” Grandfather called and gestured, “Sit.”
Even at seventy-four, his presence filled every space. His blue eyes bore into me as I walked towards the seats.
I lowered myself into the chair across from him, studying the room.
When everyone pretended to settle, the room thickened with expectation.
“You’ve been… difficult,” he began. “Reckless. Smart, brilliant, yes. But reckless.”
I arched a brow. Reckless how? I hadn’t done anything… recently. I leaned back, letting my gaze sweep the room. “And you’re concerned because…?”
“St. Clair's blood does not tolerate recklessness,” he said. “You’ve done well with the company, Maximilian. Profits are strong and shareholders satisfied, but the future requires more than numbers.”
“What exactly are you asking?”
Eleanor’s voice followed, soft but sharp enough to slice. “Stability, Maximilian. A wife. Someone to stand beside you, to secure the family’s legacy.”
I froze, the words landing like stones in my chest. They weren’t here to discuss strategy or reports. They’d summoned me for this?
Valerie’s laugh filled the room, bright and cruel. “How poetic. Our genius brother being forced to settle down for the throne.”
I ignored her, letting the old fire of defiance ignite. The audacity wasn’t surprising, the timing was.
“So the solution to my recklessness,” I said, “is a wife.”
“The right wife,” Valerie corrected, gleaming with malice. “You have just three months. Choose poorly, and someone else may inherit your chair.”
“Valerie!” Eleanor cautioned.
“What?” Valerie lifted a hand in mock innocence, her eyes never leaving mine. “Everyone’s thinking it, I'm just the one brave enough to say it out loud.”
Meaning this wasn’t sudden. They’d been planning it, without me.
And I had three months.
The familiar ache returned, the hollow in my chest that had begun the day my father died. Alone with Eleanor, I had learned early: strength was measured in restraint, in masking what you felt. Emotion became leverage, vulnerability a liability. And still, the fire burned inside me. I would not be another pawn.
Eleanor placed a hand gently on Grandfather’s arm. “This is for the family, Maximilian. Do not let personal preference jeopardize decades of work.”
How ridiculous to think marriage could affect the company’s decades of operations.
“It’s not about preference, Mother,” I said, voice steady, but the tremor beneath my words gave away nothing. “It’s about control.”
Valerie laughed. “Don’t be dramatic. Think of it as a strategic alliance, one you desperately need.”
Raymond cleared his throat, glancing at Grandfather for approval before speaking. “Your commitment would reassure the shareholders—”
I cut him a sharp look that shut him up.
Grandfather’s grip tightened on the cane as he leaned forward,“I will not drag this any further. Three months, Maximilian. The clock is ticking.”
My pulse thudded — hot, slow, controlled.
I could feel the shift in the room, the tension humming through the air. Valerie basked in the drama.
“Then I suppose the meeting is over.” I stood and turned to leave, my eyes switching over each face on my way out. The agendas were practically written on their foreheads.
Adrian remained quiet, sipping his whiskey as if this were his routine. He never involved himself in the family matters.
I glanced at Eleanor, but she quickly looked away.
I made it halfway to the hallway before her voice stopped me.
“Maximilian.”
Something in the way she said my name scraped across old wounds.
I turned back.
Her expression was cool, but her fingers trembled slightly against her clasped hands.
“You cannot keep resenting me,” she said. “Not forever.”
A hollow laugh escaped me.
Her composure strained as she stepped closer, “Your father made choices. Hard ones. We all…”
“Is that why you watched him die?” The room fell out from under me the moment the words left my mouth. For a second, I couldn’t even breathe, but I held my face still. If I let myself feel even an inch of what I’d just thrown at her—I’d shatter right there.
Silence detonated through the room.
Eleanor’s lips parted and for a heartbeat, I saw the guilt flash through her eyes. Then, just as quickly, she masked it. “You don’t understand what happened.”
“No,” I said softly, the memory flashing hot and jagged behind my eyes — the monitors going off, my father laying emotionless, me shouting for help while she sobbed silently beside him. “I don’t. Because you never told me.”
Her hand lifted toward me, but her fingers froze mid-air before she lowered them slowly, carefully, as though hiding the tremor.
“Maximilian,” she whispered, but whatever came next wasn’t something I was willing to hear.
Without another word, I turned and walked out. Every step felt like pushing through concrete.
I felt seventeen again.
Helpless, furious, drowning in a grief that never had anywhere to go.
By the time I reached the front door, my chest felt like it might split open.
I stopped, my hand on the doorknob and let the truth settle inside me like a blade:
She wanted to justify herself, but I… I just wanted answers.
And I was done letting this family script my life.
Whatever came next, I would choose it myself.
For once.
- Writer
