The first thing she registered was softness. A bed, to be precise. Not her own. Sheets smelled like some ridiculously expensive detergent and something subtly familiar. Bergamot, coffee and—
Althea's eyes flew open.
White ceiling. Soft blue curtains. Clean walls. Familiar shelf full of unread books arranged like they were props in a furniture store. No plants. Max didn't trust himself not to kill them.
Oh god. She sat up too fast, heart thudding in a rhythm more dramatic than a bad telenovela. The shirt she was wearing- her own, thank god, stuck slightly to her back with sweat.
Why am I in his bedroom? What the hell happened last night? Had she— No.
She pulled off the blanket in a panic, checking everything like a forensic scientist in a crime drama. Still fully clothed. No smudged lipstick. No sore muscles. No signs of wild passionate betrayal of boundaries and sanity.
Then her eyes landed on the bedside table.
A chocolate bar. Her favorite. Taped on top was a tiny square yellow sticky note.
"I'm sorry." Just that. In Max's stupidly neat handwriting, like he'd practiced each curve with a ruler. The corners of her mouth lifted despite herself.
Althea exhaled and swung her feet off the bed. She padded out into the hallway, her limbs still loose with sleep and confusion. The apartment was silent. Unusually so. She passed the glass coffee table, the puzzle still unsolved. The only light came from the living room window, where sunlight spilled in like it owned the place.
And there he was. Fast asleep on the couch, one leg dangling off, tie loose and askew like he'd lost a fight with it, hair doing its best impression of a bird's nest. Faint snoring.
Althea let out a small, involuntary laugh. The relief that swept through her was shamefully vast.
He hadn't done anything. He hadn't touched her. And clearly, he'd spent the night here. On the sofa. Probably after tucking her in like she was some feverish toddler.
Why are you so stupidly decent, Maximilian Velasco?
She stepped forward just as Max stirred, groaning. His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the light. He blinked up at her with the dazed confusion of someone trying to remember what year it was. Then suddenly he jolted upright. "Wait—you're awake. Althea, are you okay?"
She raised a brow. "You're the one drooling on upholstery."
"I wasn't drooling," he said, wiping his mouth quickly.
"You were," she said. "You looked like a dehydrated cat."
Max groaned and rubbed his face. "Thank you. Really boosting my self-esteem right now."
She crossed her arms, pretending not to notice the way her heart was beating louder than necessary. "Why did I wake up in your bed?"
"You passed out on the car ride," he mumbled. "You were cold. My bed was closer. I swear I didn't do anything weird."
"You didn't touch me?"
"I would rather choke on a USB cable than cross your boundaries."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's… oddly specific."
"I considered it once when my Zoom call froze mid-presentation."
She chuckled before she could stop herself. He looked up at her then, the joke slipping from his face. "Althea, I'm sorry."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For yelling. For scaring you. For making you feel like you can't trust me." He rubbed his hand on his neck, gaze dropping. "You shouldn't have had to deal with that. I shouldn't have let you walk into that house without knowing everything."
She looked at him for a long beat.
"I forgive you," she said, softly. Max looked like he wanted to sag with relief but held it in like a responsible adult. Althea walked over and perched on the edge of the coffee table across from him.
"But I want to know what's going on," she said. "The real version. No more weird vague lines or half-jokes."
He nodded, suddenly serious. "Okay."
She waited. Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared at them like they were the ones who'd caused all this mess.
"My father… he's planning something."
Althea tensed. "Something like what?"
"Something big. Public. Something that could ruin you, or use you. I don't know the exact details yet. But I know he's been trying to collect dirt on you. Anything to stage a scandal or power shift. If he controls the narrative, he controls the outcome."
Her voice came out colder than she expected. "And you knew."
"I didn't know how far it would go," Max said quickly. "But once I figured it out, I started trying to delay things. Redirect attention. Misfile documents. Whisper different narratives to different ears in the boardroom."
"You were sabotaging your own family?"
He gave her a dry smile. "It's a Velasco tradition to sabotage your loved ones. I just redirected the target."
Althea let out a breath. It felt like a hundred questions were crawling up her throat at once, all trying to escape first.
She settled on: "Why?"
"Because I won't let them use you."
There was a strange silence in the room after that. Thick, but not hostile. Just… heavy. Althea looked down at his hands. Almost without thinking, she reached out and touched his. Just once. Light, deliberate.
His hand twitched under hers but didn't move away. Max's breath hitched slightly, but he didn't look up. His mind was spiraling too fast to meet her gaze.
"How long will you keep stalling them?" she asked.
"I'm good at being annoying," he said. "It's my primary talent."
She smiled faintly. "No. That's your second talent."
He tilted his head. "What's the first?" Althea met his eyes. "Making things worse and then trying to fix them with chocolate." He looked deeply offended. "That's slander."
"True slander."
A beat passed. Then two. The air between them didn't shift, but it deepened. Thickened. Became something unspoken but electric.
Max looked down at their hands, where hers still hovered over his. "Althea," he said, almost a whisper. "I really am sorry."
"I know," she murmured.
"And if it means anything... I'm not doing this just to keep you safe. I mean I genuinely—"
"Max," she interrupted, gently. He stopped. But she didn't move away. Didn't roll her eyes. Didn't shut the door he had cracked open.
It was enough to quiet him. To calm whatever panic his heart had started thudding out. She looked down, her voice softer now. "Next time... just tell me. Before I find things out on my own."
"I will," he said, and he meant it. They sat in silence, not uncomfortable, not uncertain. Just... still. And in that stillness, for the first time in a long time, something real lingered between them. Something warm. Something slow.
Something that felt like the beginning of almost.
End of Chapter 39.