Jax
The silence in the apartment is heavy. It’s not the peaceful silence of a library; it’s the ringing, pressurized silence that comes after a bomb has gone off.
We walk in, and for the first time in the history of knowing him, Max doesn't immediately hang up his keys on the magnetic strip. He drops them on the console table. They clatter loudly, a jarring, dissonant sound against the marble.
He doesn't take off his shoes. He doesn't check the thermostat. He just walks into the living room, ignoring the coat he’s still wearing, and stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the city lights. He is vibrating. I can see it from here—a fine, high-frequency tremor running through his shoulders, like a machine that’s been run past its redline.
I lock the door, leaning my forehead against the cool wood for a second. The ground is steady, but my stomach is still doing somersaults.
"I need a minute," I say, my voice raspy. "I need to... I need to get the boat off me."
Max doesn't turn around. He just nods, a jerky, mechanical motion.
I head straight for the bathroom. I look in the mirror. I look like hell. Pale, sweaty, with a scopolamine patch still stuck to my neck like a badge of shame. And the taste... God, the taste.
I rip the patch off. I brush my teeth. I brush them twice. I use the heavy-duty antiseptic mouthwash, gargling until my eyes water, scrubbing away the taste of bile and ginger chews and Catherine’s expensive champagne. I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing at my skin as if I can wash away the feeling of Catherine York’s judgment.
When I finally feel human again—or at least like a human who hasn't just vomited on a Chanel shoe—I walk back out.
Max hasn't moved. He is still staring at the skyline, his arms wrapped tight around his chest.
"Max?" I ask softly.
He takes a shuddering breath.
"I terminated the relationship," Max says. His voice is flat, devoid of inflection, reporting the damage like a surgeon calling a time of death. "I executed the nuclear option. I publicly humiliated her. I severed the tie."
"You told the truth," I say, walking over to him. "There’s a difference."
"Is there?" Max asks. He turns to face me. His eyes are wide, dark, and filled with a conflict that tears at my chest. "She is my mother, Jackson. She is the architect of my life. Even if the architecture was flawed... she built the walls. And I just... I just demolished the house."
He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect part. It’s a gesture of pure distress.
"She called me broken," Max whispers, his voice cracking. "She stood there, in front of the Senators and the Board Members, and said she had to pay someone to fix me. To make me 'palatable'."
"She was wrong," I say fiercely, stepping into hisspace. "You aren't broken, Max. You never were. You’re a masterpiece. She just didn't know how to read the manual."
Max’s jaw tightens. "And the circus she orchestrated... having that drunk fossil call you Jennifer. It was an insult. She allowed it. She created an environment where you were reduced to a... a blurry shape. Where you were a joke."
"Hey," I say, reaching out to cup his face. His skin is ice cold. "I’ve been called worse. My drill sergeant called me 'Private Puke' for six weeks. 'Jennifer' is practically a promotion. It’s biblical-ish, remember?"
Max doesn't smile. He looks at me with such intensity it makes my breath hitch.
"I am proud of you," I tell him, thumbing his cheekbone. "Do you hear me? I am so damn proud of you. The receipt in the butter? That was legendary. Alistair was practically weeping with joy."
Max lets out a shaky breath, leaning into my touch. "It felt... necessary. But the data suggests I should feel relief. Instead, I feel... untethered. I feel uncalibrated."
"That’s normal," I say. "You’re grieving, Max. You’re grieving the mom you deserved but didn't get."
I pull him closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
"Listen to me," I say, locking eyes with him. "If this is too much... if the wedding, the spectacle, the chaos... if it's too much, we can stop. We can call it off."
Max freezes. "You want to cancel?"
"No," I say quickly. "I want to marry you. More than anything. But I will wait. I will wait five years. I will wait ten. I will wait until Catherine buys another airline and forgets who we are. As long as I don't have to legally change my name to Jennifer, I’m yours. On your timeline. On your terms."
Max stares at me. The vibration stops. The panic in his eyes recedes, replaced by a desperate, hungry need.
