Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Hey.”
She sets the tray on the table. “I brought lunch for you, Miss Amelia." She pauses disapprovingly. “Since you didn’t come down.” She pauses as her eyes take in the canvas on my easel. "Good heavens, Amelia, that’s really beautiful.” Her voice is heartwarmingly full of awe. I glance at the dragon, its wings half-formed but already vivid with color and movement.
“Thanks,” I say, shrugging. “It’s taking forever, though. I'm exhausted.”
“It will be worth every second in the end,” Mrs. Harrow, bless her heart, pipes up loyally.
I go over to the tray to see what she has prepared. A thick turkey sandwich with her special cranberry spread, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a small bowl of sliced mango and strawberries. The fruit looks as vibrant as a summer market, but my stomach twists at the sight. I haven’t been hungry in weeks, not really.
Mrs. Harrow moves forward and pulls a bulky envelope from under the tray. “I almost forgot. This came for you.”
My pulse spikes, and I snatch it greedily, my fingers trembling. “A magazine?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She chuckles. “Yes, indeed.”
I tear into the envelope, the glossy cover catching the light as I pull it free. Mrs. Harrow’s still watching, curiosity in her lined face. “I don’t get why you bother with these, love. Young people nowadays don't really bother with physical magazines anymore, do they? You could read it all online. I’m twice your age and even I don’t subscribe anymore.”
I barely hear her. My whole focus is locked on him. Max, staring out from the page, his blue eyes piercing even in print. He’s in a tailored navy suit, his jaw sharp, hair tousled just so. The headline screams at me: Young Titan: Max Carver’s E-Commerce Empire Hits the billion mark. My breath catches as I sink into the chair and devour the image. He’s more striking than ever, a man carved from ambition and grit, worlds away from the youth I knew.
Mrs. Harrow lingers, her gaze probing. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Ring if you need anything, Miss Amelia.”
I’m too lost in the pages to answer. The door clicks shut, and her footsteps fade.
The interview unfolds his success story—how he clawed his way up, the early years of doubt and failure, and the triumph of his vision. But he’s guarded, his answers are clipped and give very little personal information away, but the interviewer pushes: You’ve got it all—a beautiful wife, a son, an empire. Life must be perfect.
Max’s response is curt: Yes, I’m very fortunate.
The word is like a cold claw in my chest. Fortunate. I trace his face with my fingertip, the ache in my heart swelling until it’s a physical pain. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall.
Enough wallowing, Amelia. Everything’s worked out well for him. He is happy. Let him be.
I force myself to snap the magazine shut and grab the sandwich, cutting it in half with deliberate precision. The bread is soft, and Mrs. Harrow’s homemade cranberry spread should have added the right amount of tart flavor to the sandwich, but it’s all ash in my mouth. I chew, swallow, force another bite, my movements mechanical. But as I chew, the tears begin rolling down my face of their own accord. I swipe them away angrily.
For God’s sake! Eat. Just eat. He belongs to someone else now.
I finish half the sandwich, and push the tray aside. My gaze drifts to the magazine. Grabbing it, I clutch it to my chest like a secret I can’t bear to release. My heart fills with a mix of unbearable longing and loss. My head bows with the terrible weight of it.
“Oh, Max,” I whisper brokenly. “I know you’ve moved on, but I still can’t let go.”
Slowly, I walk over to the library nook in the corner of the room. The shelves are stuffed with rows of books and a growing pile of magazines—Forbes, Business Week, Fortune,—fifteen issues, each with Max’s face or name somewhere inside. I carefully put the new magazine on the top of the pile and return to my easel. The dragon’s scales will be a refuge from my pain.
I start to work and eventually, the pain recedes.
A sharp knock startles me, and I turn to face the door with surprise. Mrs. Harrow is back, her face apologetic. “Your father wants to see you, Miss Amelia.”
My brush stills, and a chill creeps up my spine. “Now?” I ask, frowning.
She nods. “Yes.”
I leap to my feet. “Is he okay? Did he eat his lunch?”
“He barely touched his food, but that’s normal these days. He’s had all his meds this morning, slept a bit, and now he’s asking for you.”
I nod, my stomach in knots. Dad’s been a ghost these days, preferring solitude as the cancer tightens its grip. If he’s asking for me, it’s serious.