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“Chloe?”
He took a step forward, and she held up a shaking hand. “I’m…fine.” Her heart beat so hard it felt like every thump set off a violent shaking inside the chambers. “Just…” The voices rose to shouts outside. She couldn’t make out more than Max’s name, but it was enough to keep her pulse going.
Max lurched forward and grabbed her arms before she realized that the floor was getting wavy beneath her feet. When she leaned straight into him, he shifted and tucked his hands beneath her knees to pick her up. “Breathe, Chloe. Jesus, I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No! Panic attack.” She managed to draw a deeper breath and the scent of his shirt wound through her like opium. “I’m fine.”
He laid her down on her bed, and began touching her. Her forehead, her cheek, the pulse beneath her jaw. Then he set his ear to her chest. She couldn’t believe his head didn’t bounce right off with the force of her heartbeat. But he kept stroking her shoulder and making soft shussing sounds, and eventually Chloe could breathe without strangling on her own adrenaline. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, horrified.
“Are you okay? You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry.” Regret swelled up in her, pushing tears to her eyes. She didn’t want to be this person. A person people screamed at and chased. A person who had panic attacks and lived like a hermit. A freak in a traveling sideshow with circus cars that seemed to follow her everywhere. “I’m sorry. You can leave if you want to.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Chloe lay in the dark, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling, and she told herself it was going to be okay. Max would come back and he’d make a joke, and he wouldn’t care about having his name on television. He’d stay with her tonight, and tomorrow he’d hold her hand and watch the press conference. He’d be there for her when the final shoe dropped.
She knew the fact that she was telling herself this meant that it wasn’t going to happen. If it were going to happen, she wouldn’t be holding so hard to the fantasy.
And when Max returned with a glass, even in the dim light, she could see the way his eyes shifted nervously to the window. The way he stuck his hands in his pockets as she sipped. He looked at the door, then down at his watch. Finally, he sat heavily on the bed and held his head in his hands.
While her apartment had felt secret and cozy with Max in her bed, it wasn’t. It was a cave. A box. A trap she couldn’t escape. And Max looked far too big within its confines.
“Chloe.” He lifted his head. “I’m making this worse.”
“It’s my fault. It’s only been a month—”
“But part of it’s me.”
“Why?”
He ran a hand through his hair, setting it into crazy lines. “Genevieve Bianca.”
“Yeah.” Chloe laughed. “What the heck was that about?”
“She, um… The truth is…I dated her.”
“Genevieve Bianca? The heiress?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious? That’s crazy. When did you date Genevieve Bianca?”
His eyes slid to meet hers before darting away. “We broke it off about nine months ago.”
Nine months ago. “Oh,” she breathed. “I see.” Genevieve Bianca. Good Lord. That woman was thin and fashionable and so rich she was famous just for that. And everyone agreed that she was remarkably nice for an heiress, if a bit of a magnet for users and troubled playboys.
Max wasn’t either of those things. Chloe curled her hands to fists. “She was one of those women.”
He didn’t answer.
“She was one of those women you stayed with just so you could help her.” And that was when it hit her. Chloe drew in a ragged breath and sat up so quickly that the room spun. “Oh, my God. I’m one of those women!”
Despite her shock, she half expected him to protest, to offer at least a token denial, but he didn’t. He just sat there, staring at her lap.
“I’m one of them.”
Finally, Max shook his head. “No, not at all.”
