She didn't say anything.
Not when Max talked about his father like it was just another story to laugh at. Not when he shrugged off the weight of being cut off from his family like he was used to abandonment, like disappointment came built into the surname.
Max had always known how to smile through a mess. It was something he'd learned young. Between his father's sharp silences and his mother's brittle expectations, he figured out early that being fine was easier than explaining why he wasn't.
But lately, the mask felt heavier. Like it didn't fit quite right.
He hadn't expected much from life, not really. He played his part, lived under the weight of the Velasco name, wore the tailored suits, kept his jaw sharp and his laugh easy. That's how people liked him: effortless, untouchable.
Then came Althea. He struck the match himself. Maybe she didn't see that part. Maybe she thought he was just helping out, that he got involved for the thrill, for the show, for some performance of charity. But Max knew what he'd done. What it had cost. His last name didn't carry the same shine anymore. His father had made sure of that.
But it wasn't the money he missed. It was the quietness of watching his family fall apart without a sound. The loss that happened behind closed doors, over ignored calls, cancelled meetings, frozen accounts. It was waking up one day and realizing he had no real place left in the empire he was born into.
And still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Because Althea hadn't asked him to save her. He chose to. She didn't know that most nights, he stayed up wondering if she'd ever look at him and see anything other than obligation. She didn't know that her silence after his father's threats was louder than any slap. She didn't owe him comfort, he never expected it, but some part of him ached anyway.
He was stitching together strength out of nothing but tired hands and stubborn pride. He didn't say it because… what was the point? He wasn't supposed to crumble. Not in front of her. Not when she was already piecing herself back together.
So, he let her believe he was fine. That he was untouchable. That it didn't hurt.
But every now and then, in the quiet, he wondered: if he fell apart completely, no clever comebacks, no curated calm, would she stay?
Or would she quietly close the door and let the empire bury him?
He didn't blame her if she did.
—
Althea's phone alarm went off at 4:47 a.m. -an ungodly shriek loud enough to wake the dead and possibly scare off half the building. Her head snapped up, heart pounding before she remembered: the spreadsheet, the lawyer emails, the things she'd told herself she'd handle in daylight. Today.
She rolled out of bed, wrapped in quiet dread, and crept toward the kitchen. Moonlight painted glossy rectangles on the marble floor. She felt hollow and exhausted.
Then she saw him. Max. Fast asleep with his face pressed into the marble, laptop open, dozens of papers and coffee cups scattered like casualties around him. He'd somehow dozed off mid-scroll, his shirt, bunched under his head in sad creases.
Lilith sat beside him, tail flicking, judging him like he was a minor irritation in her feline empire.
Althea stared at him. She didn't know how to offer comfort when someone needed it, because comfort had never been offered to her. She didn't know how to be held, because she had learned to hold herself. And now, sitting across from Max, watching him pretend like he wasn't hurt, she realized just how lonely that made her.
She poured herself a glass of water, set it on a coaster, whispered something undignified about corporate warfare, then went around him. He was curled in a fetal posture, laptop still humming softly. His hair fell across the edge of the table, and she briefly thought she saw freckles dusted over his cheek from beneath.
Her heart clenched, not at his vulnerability, but at how rarely he let anyone see it.
She scanned the table and spotted the iron board leaning against a cabinet. The shirt he'd meant to wear tomorrow to that board meeting lay tangled at his wrist.
He'd need it. So. She did the only logical thing. She carefully lifted the shirt off the table. Gently. Lilith meowed with disapproval. Althea smiled.
Moments later, opaquely half-asleep in her apartment's tiny laundry room, Althea ran the iron over the shirt, smoothed out collar lines, any faint wrinkle, the little crease at the cuff. This shirt belonged to him. She wasn't sure why she cared enough.
Back in the hall, she placed the freshly pressed shirt on the chair beside him, neatly folded, like a gesture in slow motion.
She hovered a moment, quiet, unsure. Then she found a blanket from the couch pile. It felt absurdly domestic to put it over him, to tuck it under his arm, to ensure just enough warmth for comfort. But she did anyway.
Maybe she just needed to know someone was cared for. And what scared her than anything was the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was incapable of offering the very thing she had always longed for.
She turned to leave when the laptop screen glowed again, half-open. Something flickered.
With adrenaline rising, she leaned closer. The screen displayed a document titled: "Solace Entertainment – Confidential Merger Terms." Another tab showed a spreadsheet titled "Valuation_2025_Velasco Offer." Words like Offer Accepted, Equity Stake Transfer, and Performance Contingencies lit up.
Her breath hitched. She blinked.
Serrano's entertainment division, her family's division, was being merged with Velasco's. Not a benign deal. Merged, not partnered, that meant controlled, owned.
And Max had the file open. As if he was mid-edit. Clarity collided with fear: Was he orchestrating this? Did it involve her family's legacy? Was her own name going to disappear off the company letterhead?
Her chest felt tight. With trembling fingers, she clicked out of it. Accidentally scrolling back two rows, revealing the name Althea Solace in the Performance Guarantees field. Something about her knowledge of media image, public acceptance rating, Velasco household compliance.
Blood pounded in her ears. She realized she'd triggered a popup chart on screen: "Projected Media Risk Score. Velasco Family: RED" in bold red letters. Action: Monitor Althea Serrano stability index. Stability index.
She gasped. This was not just a merger. This was surveillance, management, control.
She retreated like someone touched by a shock electric arc, closed the laptop with trembling hands, slid it away.
She looked back at him; peaceful, unaware. The way his chest rose and fell. Tears burned behind her eyes. Without another thought, Althea slipped away. The files left behind. Her breathing ragged, overwhelmed.
I'm being watched.
End of Chapter 32.