#part 5.2

The limo hits some bumps in the road, and Maxwell hits his head on something weirdly shaped. He comes to a few seconds later, realizing he’s been dozing off on his brother’s shoulder. Bertrand isn’t too fussed, he’s too busy reading something on his iPad. How Bertrand could read in a moving vehicle, he will never understand. He switches it off, uttering something about ‘needing coffee and do you want some?’. But Maxwell knows that his older brother is just being gentle on him, too gentle that it makes his mind race thinking about the worst possible case scenarios. Could all of Ramsford have burned down? Did anyone they know die? Did he get somebody pregnant?

Or maybe it’s just because Bertrand had found him with semi-wet clothes and damp, red, eyes – this sad, sad being that entered through the doors of their house in the capital.

Maxwell shakes his head no to the coffee, then shoves a hand in his pocket to make sure its still there. He traces its rounded edges, feeling its carvings press indents into his skin. And it’s a little bit comforting. He takes it out and looks at this cartoony miniature of the Eiffel Tower, bronze, with “Paris” written across the length of it in big bold words.

He and Nadia had laughed at the tackiness of it all. And yet they wore matching t-shirts proudly saying “Bonjour!”.

So, she bought one of the pocket-sized Eiffel Towers when he wasn’t looking.

Maxwell rolls his shoulders and straightens up, getting stiff in the seats. Bertrand preferred the limo when traveling to Ramsford because of that much needed leg-room, but the carpets and the plush seats made Maxwell feel like the air is being crushed out of the space. Bertrand clears his throat and scoots near the mini-fridge, looking for the cold-brew cans they kept stocked in there with the champagne.

They weren’t going to talk about it.

It must be dragging close to 10 am by now since they left at dawn, and Nadia’s probably already in New York. He can sleep away the rest of the day, judging by how nicely Bertrand has been treating him.

The thing is, Nadia knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t keep his promise. And so Maxwell found out through the other students living on her floor – Nadia left the day before. Her door was unlocked, the room left empty except for the furniture that came with it. And then he found it, the mini Eiffel Tower miniature, on the bed. He didn’t know if he wanted to cry or laugh as he picked it up. Nadia knew he thought the touristy trinkets were ugly.

What Maxwell realized in Paris is that he’s kind of really fucked. That Nadia is extraordinary, and he loves her.

“We’re almost here.” Bertrand says, sipping his coffee. He grimaces lightly, no wonder in need of a real cup soon. Maxwell nods, knowing that it’s a prompt for him to fix himself before meeting with the main house’s staff.

The limo turns down the road that leads to the vast manor he grew up in. The driveway is long and lined with trees, much like the main palace. He has time to brush back his hair – still feeling weird about its shortness – straighten his clothes, and rub the sleep away from his eyes.

After exchanging a polite welcome with the main house staff, Maxwell has disappeared off to his room in no time – and without any complaints from Bertrand at all, who simply asked him to be present at dinner at six. He tosses off his jacket and toes off his shoes, throwing himself on the bed face-down. His mother would always scold him about wearing outside clothes to bed. Maxwell squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for sleep to come – but it doesn’t.

Nadia never did say anything about not calling.

-

Nadia taps the metal ferrule of her brush repeatedly against the paint thinner can’s brim, shaking off the excess. She’s not sure how much time she’s sat there staring at the painting that never seems to be finished.

Back in New York, and she’s literally watching paint dry.

Sighing, she takes the brush again and scrapes it on the drying blob of blue paint, hardly picking up any pigment at first but eventually it gives and seeps through the strands, bright and blue. Blue.

Stop. Have a break. Nadia decides to leave the brush on the container beside the easel and stands up, feeling the strain on her back and her legs as she stretches. Quickly, Nadia opens her window to let the paint and thinner fumes out – she always forgets to, which is why she’s convinced that someday she would inhale too much and just drop dead. Then she cleans up all the candy wrappers (Gran will find out soon enough that she ate all the decorations for the gingerbread house), turns off the lights, and finally collapses on her bed, limbs splayed out – and she sighs, letting her eyes close.

It’s illogical how she hasn’t been able to sleep yet after spending a long-haul flight watching all the romcom movies available and crying. Crying is exhausting. Turns out dramatic airport goodbyes were just for movie screens – and thank god for that. A sharp pang of guilt shoots through her for lying to Maxwell. But he’s stubborn, and Nadia knew he would still try to see her off anyway.

She rolls over and sniffs the soothing smell of fresh sheets, the same old brand of detergent that her grandma always used. Their grandparents’ apartment in New York is small, but it had just enough space for the four of them for when she and Kai visited over the break. It had a small balcony for an herb garden that only their Grandpa cared for. From outside, the light pollution of the city gives casts a bluish glow in tall shadows across her room. It’s closing in on five in the morning, the sunrise late in mid-December but she can see the faint colors of dawn starting to show in the sky.

Her phone rings underneath a pillow somewhere, its muffled sounds making her heart race the longer she leaves it. Her restraint snaps, and she jumps off her bed to rummage through her room for the damned phone. Finally, she finds it underneath an orange throw pillow. She tosses the pillow away and reads the caller ID.

-

You’re not being silly, Maxwell. All this pressure and expectations, they’re insane and being compared to your brother must hurt.

Maxwell picks at his cufflinks – gold with a monogrammed MB. Bertrand hadn’t mentioned that the six pm dinner would be with a fund manager, an estate agent, and the way too slick and smart Chief of Staff; essentially Bertrand’s right-hand man and the one he would sort of replace in the near future. He wouldn’t be taken off the payroll, of course, but he had always been critical of Maxwell and his lack of involvement in estate issues. They all formally wait in line to shake hands with the Duke and his brother.

But I know your brother loves you, and he’s proud of you and all of your achievements.

It still scares Maxwell how charming his brother could be. He lags behind Bertrand and watches him exchange fond greetings with their company. Bertrand turns towards Maxwell and beckons him towards them. His heart swells when Bertrand pats his back reassuringly as he shakes their hands.

He fits here. Right?

I know what it’s like to not feel accepted or competent – but Maxwell, this is your purpose.

Maxwell doesn’t try to dazzle them with whatever he learned that semester, it would be fruitless since these people have been doing this long enough to differentiate the fluff from substance. Instead he sits quietly for once, listening and trying to absorb as much as he could – to no avail. All he can think of was that call.

You’re amazing, intelligent, and caring, and you deserve much more praise. Your brother understands this more than anyone.

You’re starting to sound like my mother and it’s scaring me.

Why do you always joke?

But she laughed. Her laugh sounded like music to his ears, even though it was in bad quality, crackling audio over a phone. Maxwell is broken out of his trance when the first course is served. Bertrand could tell he’s still completely distracted – although thankfully not as miserable as when he had found him.

I can’t handle it, it’s getting too emotional. He reaches into his pocket again to feel the little Eiffel Tower. I didn’t know how I was supposed to let you go.

That’s why I made that decision for you.

Bertrand and the others launch into a deep conversation about estate issues. Maxwell picks at his food, focusing more on the sound of the clatter of silverware against china. Has it really been one whole semester?

Yeah. It was way too quick. I used to wonder a lot if coming to Cordonia was some huge mistake. Since, you know, I didn’t exactly fit in,

He’s not entirely sure that he fits in here too. He tries, he really does. And he wants to help Bertrand who seemed like he aged ten years from all the stress of being a duke.

But Maxwell liked to think of him and Nadia as pieces of the puzzle that come from two different boxes. They had somehow found each other and clicked perfectly. It’s nonsensical, but it happened. It’s where he fits in.

Then I met you and all that went out the window. I was right where I was supposed to be.

Maxwell keeps replaying that part in his head. He took a moment to answer, willed the seconds to slow down.

He remembered everything, it pressed at him, insistent and waiting.

I love you, Nadia.

Nadia yawned softly on the other line, and then all he could hear after that was her faint breathing. Maxwell is brought back to the present, and he closes his eyes to imagine her face under the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps in Paris – wondering what if.

End

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EPILOGUE

Maxwell steps outside the limo in some street that he vaguely remembers – he could only hope it’s the right one. He tells his driver to come back in a while and smooths down his black button-down shirt, the begins to walk up the strangely quiet street. Well, relatively quiet compared to the rest of New York.

He needed this peace after what just happened, waking up with his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton and a pounding headache. As the one morning person in the group, of course he’s the first to wake up – even though it’s already way past the afternoon. The boys back at their suite sleepily complained about all the noise he made while in the shower.

Ha! “Noise”. Excuse you, I was singing.

After Liam disappeared with the waitress, the rest of the boys decided to fuck off and blow some cash away at the nearest high-end club they could find. He doesn’t remember how they ended up at some rooftop party full of hipsters and catching wind of a familiar name in their conversations. Some rising star in the art world. An art show in Brooklyn. Here’s the address.

-

“Nadia! Hey!”

Nadia turns and spots her cousin, Kai, among the crowd. She quickly excuses herself to pass through all the people – it’s still crazy to think about just how much her work blew up.

“You made it!” She envelops Kai in a tight hug, and holds her at arm’s length. “So? What do you think?”

Kai scans the room with an appreciative look on her face. “Are you kidding? This is insane. I’m so proud of you.”

“Not the show!” Nadia gestures at herself. “Do I look okay?”

Kai laughs. “You look like an artist with a popping art show and not to mention a fat bank account after all this.”

“What?”

“She’s saying you look fine and that we promise to step in once you start unironically wearing… berets.” Damien suddenly claps a reassuring hand on Nadia’s shoulder, holding a drink on the other. His wrinkles his nose at someone who passes by wearing a bejeweled beret.

“You’re so judgmental!” Kai stifles a laugh with her hand.

Damien shrugs and takes a gulp from his drink. “So, who do I have to beat up this time?”

“Ugh, stop it.” Nadia rolls her eyes, but smiles fondly at Damien’s over-protectiveness. “His name is Steve and you guys have to promise me that you’ll be nice.”

Kai nods. “That’s mostly directed towards you, Damien.”

“I’ll be nice, alright.” Damien frowns. “I’m just saying- it’s weird that he’s an investment banker who also happens to be a baker, volunteers at animal shelters, and his name is Steve.”

“What do you have against Steves?” Nadia laughs.

“Yeah! Steves are generally nicer than Damiens!” Kai shares a conspiratorial smile with Nadia.

Damien downs the rest of his drink. “I didn’t ask to be ganged up on like this.”

Nadia’s phone rings and her whole face lights up. “Uh oh, I think he’s outside but he’s not sure which one it is.”

Kai shoots Damien a be nice glare as Nadia excuses herself to go to the entrance. Her heart pounds with excitement as she walks. A cold gust of wind greets her as she pushes open the door, and comes face to face with – Maxwell Beaumont.

She feels like all the air has been knocked out of her lungs as Maxwell looks back at her, shocked.

“…hi.”

FACTS THAT ARE DECIDEDLY NOT FUN BECAUSE THESE ARE JUST DISGUISED AUTHOR’S NOTES also I am sad

-        So it ended! FINALLY!

-        No joke it was so difficult to end this series despite it only having a few chapters. It went through rewrites upon rewrites and even me deleting a WHOLE alternate ending wherein Nadia doesn’t leave early.

-        They don’t end up together in both endings but I have greatly considered just throwing all my plans out the window and have Maxwell follow Nadia to New York. Ah… now wouldn’t that be nice.

-        Nadia literally slept on Maxwell lolol get it

-        If anyone would want to see the draft of the alternate ending I can drop you the google docs link.

-        The epilogue happens on the first chapter of both books where they’re BOTH in New York; Nadia has her art exhibit, and the TRR boys are at the “bachelor” party. Again, I changed what happened in each bc… I can.

 -        Big thanks to @pixieferry who motivated me endlessly to write and her unwavering support, and to @littlecrookedheart for basically greasing the stuck gears (this is a weird phrase) in my brain that finally got me to writing this ending, I appreciate all her help (even the kill someone and Andy cameo suggestions)

- Thank you also to everyone who stuck by this story. I’m so so so happy that I finished it, and I’m so grateful for your patience. This is the first and last fic I will post on this account because I made a separate blog for fics (that’s pretty empty as of now).