At five in the evening, Spencer Miller invited Maxwell King to a lounge for a quick drink. He expected a flat-out rejection, which would have given him the perfect excuse to call up Vivienne King instead.

To his surprise, Maxwell sent back only two words: "Address."

Spencer’s plan went up in smoke, and he frantically fired off the location.

Seven in the evening. A private booth at the lounge.

Spencer glared at Maxwell with open resentment, crunching on an apple as if he were chewing Maxwell’s own neck. Maxwell sat in a leather armchair, ignoring him. He poured himself a drink, downed it in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

"If you want to ask my sister out, just do it," Maxwell said, his voice raspy. "Stop using me as your middleman."

They were used to trading barbs, but Spencer just let out a dismissive, "Pfft." Before he could fire back, he watched Maxwell pour another glass—and then another. One, two, three, four…

Spencer finally realized something was wrong.

Just as Maxwell reached for his sixth pour, Spencer snatched the glass away, scowling. "What’s with you? Is life that bad?"

Maxwell didn't deny it. "Hand it over."

"Cut it out. You’re not getting plastered on my watch; I’m not hauling your dead weight home." Spencer shoved the glass aside and tossed a pack of cigarettes toward him. "Here. Smoke this instead."

Spencer only gave him the pack because he knew Maxwell didn't smoke. Outside of mandatory professional mixers, he wouldn't touch the stuff. He was like a stuffy old man—rigid, predictable, and utterly boring.

But Spencer had miscalculated.

Maxwell pulled a cigarette from the pack with practiced ease, clamped it between his lips, and tilted his head to light it. The ambient light caught his profile, casting his features into sharp, cold relief. A bead of red cherry glowed against his lips as he inhaled.

He exhaled a long, heavy cloud of smoke, leaned back, and draped an arm over his brow. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes dark and unreadable—a look that was at once dangerously weary and devastatingly charming.

Spencer was genuinely floored by the display. He mentally filed the movement away, planning to mimic it next time he tried to impress Vivienne.

He nudged Maxwell’s leg with his boot. "What’s the deal? Spill it. I promise I won’t laugh."

The secrets had been rotting in Maxwell’s chest for too long. He didn’t mind telling Spencer. "I got married the other day. You know that, right? And then—"

"Wait," Spencer interrupted, his eyes bugging out. "You what? Say that again."

"I’m married."

Spencer sat frozen, his jaw hanging loose. His voice cracked. "Married? Since when? How do I not know about this?"

Maxwell looked at him, genuinely confused. "I didn't tell you?"

"…No."

"Oh. I guess I was just too happy at the time. Must’ve slipped my mind."

Spencer was speechless. "Forgotten? You forgot to tell me you got hitched?" He shook his head, struggling to compute. "Who is she?"

Maxwell tapped a bit of ash from his cigarette. "Guess."

"I’m guessing… I don't know!" Spencer suppressed the urge to curse. "Was it an arranged thing? One of the girls from the Adams family? The Green daughter? Wait—I know! It’s the second daughter of the Xu family, isn't it?"

Maxwell shook his head. "None of them. It wasn't arranged. I just… I wanted her."

The moment the words left his mouth, a name flashed through Spencer’s mind. It wasn't that he was fast; it was just that for years, there had only been one woman Maxwell ever cared about.

"The girl you chased down the mountain, stayed the night with, and rented out the entire Wonder Gardens for?" Spencer lowered his voice. "The one who’s still… tied up with Cameron Hughes?"

Under Maxwell’s lethal glare, Spencer quickly corrected himself. "The one with Ms. Arianna Stone, right?"

Maxwell nodded.

Twenty minutes later, after hearing the full, messy play-by-play, Spencer was slumped against the sofa, eyes glazed, looking like a man who had just seen a ghost. He blinked, trying to organize the chaos. "So, you tricked her into marrying you, but she doesn't actually like you, and you saw her tangled up with Cameron Hughes again this afternoon?"

"She isn't 'tangled up' with him," Maxwell said, cutting him off sharply.

"Then what would you call it?"

"Cameron Hughes is being a shameless pest, harassing her."

Spencer rubbed his temples. "Buddy, we’re past the point of self-deception here. They were sitting at the same table having dinner!" He practically shouted, his voice jumping an octave. "And don't tell me you aren't jealous."

Maxwell didn't deny it. He let out a low sigh, his lashes sweeping downward, masking a profound sense of isolation. "I’m just wondering if I’m the one with the problem."

"…Are you kidding me?" Spencer’s eyes widened. "What possible problem could you have? This has nothing to do with you! Has someone brainwashed you?"

Maxwell remained eerily calm. To Spencer, that calm felt like a precursor to a mental break.

Maxwell finished his drink and leaned back, his collar loosened, exposing the sharp, taut line of his throat. He toyed with the empty glass, his usual air of cold, aristocratic restraint replaced by a reckless, debauched energy. The shadows swallowed his features as he stared into the dark.

"I watched her date Cameron for an entire year," Maxwell murmured. "You wouldn't understand what that feels like."

"That third year of college? I was supposed to go abroad. I delayed it by a year."

Spencer was already struggling to digest the drama, but this was a bombshell. "Damn. So that’s why you bailed on the overseas program? Because of Arianna?" He paused, horrified. "Wait, why? Why suffer through that? Watching them together… man, do you have some kind of hidden masochistic streak?"

Maxwell didn't have the energy to entertain his nonsense. "There was no other reason. I just wanted to see her."

"I was terrified that if I left, I’d never see her again."

"Why wouldn't you see her?" Spencer blurted out. He stopped himself, the realization hitting like a physical blow. If Arianna and Cameron had actually gotten married, if they’d settled down for good—he would have lost her.

That was why Maxwell was questioning his own sanity. His reaction to Cameron wasn't just spite; it was terror. Cameron was the man who had nearly walked down the aisle with her.

The night wore on, with Spencer soaking up every drop of the tea.

Just as they were settling into the conversation, the door to the booth swung open. A woman in a red slip dress strolled in, glass in hand, and glided toward them before dropping into the armchair beside them.