The Velasco penthouse was oddly silent that morning, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Althea stood in front of her mirror longer than necessary, her fingers hovering over her earrings. She hadn't visited her parents' house since the wedding; not properly, anyway. A text here, a forwarded news article there, her father's name mentioned on briefings. But a real visit? This was the first.
She stepped out of the car. She didn't tell Max. She didn't need to. This wasn't his business. It was hers. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't want him to know how much this was affecting her.
It was the smell that hit her first.
Not the flowery, sweet aroma of fresh marigolds or the musky perfume her mother always overused. Althea stepped into her parents' house and was instantly ten years old again, standing awkwardly in a cotton pink dress with arms folded while her mother gave her "perfect daughter" lectures over a pot of soup.
The house hadn't changed. Same lace curtains, same cloying air freshener, same suffocating silence.
Her mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that had probably seen one too many splashes. "Althea," she said with too much warmth in her voice. "Look at you. So skinny."
Althea blinked. She hadn't expected hugs or fanfare, but that line? Classic. "Good to see you too, Mom."
Her mother didn't respond, only ushered her toward the table like she was some unexpected guest from the Velasco palace. Althea sat. Her legs stuck to the vinyl seat like always.
"I made your favorite," her mother said, placing a plate of food in front of her. "Potato curry. With chicken. Like you used to love."
Althea looked at the plate. "Thanks," she said, poking the potato with her spoon. She could feel it. Something was off. Not just the food or the suspicious kindness. The whole energy in the room was curated, too neat. Too… transactional.
Her mother led her to the dining table, already set with steaming bowls of food. Chicken curry and fried rice with few more dishes. A spread so generous it could have fed a dinner party.
"I thought you'd like something warm," her mother said.
Althea blinked. "Thanks." She sat down. "Did you cook all this?"
Her mother gave a small laugh. "Of course. You're my daughter. You think I wouldn't cook for my own child?"
Right. That was new.
They ate in near silence, the clinking of utensils filling the air like misplaced applause. Her mother kept talking, about the neighbor's new maid, a cousin's upcoming wedding, even a remark about how well Max had been handling things "despite everything." But there was something careful about it all, like she was maneuvering around something sharp.
It wasn't until her father entered the room that the air changed. He nodded at her once, took his seat at the head of the table, and began to eat as if nothing unusual was happening. As if his daughter hadn't just married into the family they were supposedly merging with. As if the world wasn't sideways.
Althea cleared her throat.
"I saw something in Max's documents. About a merger between Velasco Corp and Serrano Entertainment."
Both parents paused, though subtly. Her mother reached for the water jug like it had suddenly become urgent. Her father, after a beat, said, "It's not finalized."
"But it's happening?"
He looked at her, and for a second, Althea swore she saw something almost proud in his eyes. "It was bound to happen. The Serranos and Velascos have been circling each other for years. Your marriage just... facilitated things."
Facilitated. Like she was a steppingstone. A convenient bridge.
Her voice stayed steady, but barely. "So I'm just a symbol. An offering."
Her father leaned back. "You should be grateful the Velascos even agreed. After the scandal, most families would've backed out entirely. But Max stood by you. You're lucky he did."
The words hit her harder than she expected. Not because they were cruel, but because she knew they were true. Max had stood by her. Without asking for anything in return. She didn't speak for the rest of the visit.
When she returned to the penthouse, the silence was thick. The lights were off. Even the hallway lights that Max usually left on for her, he called it her "breadcrumb trail", were dimmed. The living room was empty. The kitchen untouched.
And it was raining. Again. The sky was throwing its little tantrum while she wandered from room to room, calling his name once before stopping herself.
He wasn't home. Her steps found their way into his office. It was technically off-limits, not that he ever said it, but he was weirdly possessive about the space. Still, her hands opened the door before her brain could catch up.
It smelled like him, cologne and coffee. Papers were neatly stacked, books half-read and bookmarked with receipts. His chair was pushed in. His laptop closed. She skimmed through the desk drawers but found nothing. No merger documents. No suspicious sticky notes. Just pens, some candy wrappers, and a very disturbing amount of green tea sachets.
She closed the door and stepped out, feeling vaguely guilty. Maybe she was the villain here, after all. The sound of the elevator made her freeze. A moment later, Max stumbled through the door, hair soaked and shirt clinging to his frame.
"You look like a half-drowned raccoon," she said before she could stop herself.
He blinked water out of his eyes. "Nice to see you too."
"What happened to your car?"
"Broke down. Battery or alternator, maybe." He kicked off his shoes. "Had to walk five minutes in the rain. Tragic."
Althea raised an eyebrow. "Five minutes won't kill you."
"Tell that to my lungs. They're writing their will."
She sighed and handed him a towel from the closet. He took it, rubbing his hair while mumbling something about catching a cold and needing tea.
They ended up in the kitchen, side by side, boiling water while Althea tried to act normal. Max yawned and leaned against the counter, still damp and slightly dramatic.
"You know," he said, glancing at her, "if you're gonna keep stealing my strawberries, you might aswell make an insurance."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't steal them. I pay with my presence."
"Is that what this is? A rent situation?"
She smirked. "You're lucky I'm not charging you for my aura."
He chuckled, but it faded quickly. "So. You wanna ask why I was on a call this morning?"
"I assumed it was about the latest gossip. Are you finally joining a boy band?"
He smiled, but it was tight. "BTS won't take me in."
"Can't disagree on that." Althea chuckled. Max didn't say anything else.
Max leaned back against the counter, mug in hand, the steam softening the edges of his already-drowsy features. His damp hair flopped over his forehead, and he didn't bother fixing it. Althea didn't bother pointing it out. It would've felt too gentle.
"You didn't answer my question," he said eventually, voice low.
Althea glanced at him over the rim of her mug. "Which one?"
"Why you didn't ask about the call."
"I figured if it was important, you'd tell me." She blew on the tea. "Or not."
Max watched her, eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious, just searching. "That's new."
"What is?"
"You not pressing me for information. You usually act like I'm hiding state secrets if I breathe near a closed door."
Althea gave a small laugh, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I guess I'm learning how to mind my business."
Max looked away, his thumb tapping against his mug. "I don't want you to feel like this is business."
She didn't answer. The silence wasn't cold. Just… quiet. Like both of them were trying to avoid stepping on something fragile neither of them could name.
He reached for the sugar jar. "You seem off."
"Maybe I'm just tired."
"Maybe you went to your parents' place."
Her eyes snapped to him, but Max didn't look up. Just stirred his tea slowly.
She hesitated. "How did you—?"
"You wore earrings. You only do that when you're walking into a battlefield."
Althea almost smiled. "Didn't know you were keeping track of my accessories."
He shrugged, taking a sip. "I keep track of anything that might shake you."
She blinked. That wasn't the kind of line Max usually threw around, not without a joke following close behind. But he didn't add anything else. Just stood there, stirring his tea like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy. And she hated that it made her chest ache.
"You know," she said quietly, trying to shift the weight in the air, "I still don't like green tea."
"You drink it anyway."
"Only because you make me."
Max turned to look at her. "You don't have to force yourself to..."
"I know." She traced the rim of her cup. "Sometimes I think we're just two people trying really hard not to drown in the same storm."
Max put his cup down gently; the clink louder than it should've been in the stillness. "Is that all we are to you?"
Althea didn't look up. "I don't know. But I think if I let myself get loose… it'll hurt when it turns out it's not."
Max was silent for a long moment. When he did move, it wasn't to argue, or defend himself, or pull her in.
He just stepped a little closer, enough that she could smell the rain still clinging to his skin. Enough that her breath caught, just once, and she had to place her cup down too, if only to stop her hands from trembling.
He raised his hand, slowly, like he might brush her hair back, maybe just touch her, just once.
But she stepped back before he could. Not far. Just enough. Enough to say not yet.
Max's hand stilled midair. His eyes met hers, searching again, but this time softer. He nodded once and let his hand drop.
He took a step back, as if he already knew the weight she was carrying. "Just tea."
Althea gave a weak smile. "And sugar. Don't forget the sugar."
His smile returned, quiet and warm all at once. "Always."
They stayed there a while longer, in that tender distance. Close enough to feel the pull, but far enough not to fall. Neither of them ready to name whatever this was. But maybe that was okay. Some things didn't need names to be real.
End of Chapter 33.