You haven't felt this alone in a long time. Not since your mother was taken from you and your father – not that he deserves that title – abandoned you. He left you, a young girl, alone on an island full of bloody pirates. Mr. Scott was your only companion and source of comfort throughout that time. He practically raised you. He taught you about the great literary works, maths, history, languages, and how, when you reached an appropriate age, to run your father's business and bring it out of the sludge filled pit he'd left it in. You don't love much, but you can say with full truth that you love Mr. Scott. You can probably count on one hand the things you love. Mr. Scott. Your mother. Your horse, Ainia – your swift warrior. Nassau, of course. And Max, though you royal fucked that up and never even got to tell her how precious she is to you.
The thing that's got you sulking in your lonely office drinking rum straight from the bottle is that you can count on two fingers those of the things you love which you still have. Well, probably one and a half seeing the way Nassau is in a constant state of tumultuous flux. You have Ainia, your stallion. Your father was beyond infuriated when you purchased your beautiful beast of a horse. Whingeing about how your should stop playing at being a man. And that a stallion was no proper horse for a woman. You could barely contain yourself when Ainia lunged at him when your father tried to approach him to take him from you.
Ainia has been a source of strength and freedom for you since you acquired him at 18 years of age. You remember the countless nights you would spend with him, riding up to the top of a high cliff a ways from the port where you would lie on the soft grass and look up the stars. That is where you could always remember her best. Recalling her soothing yet strong voice as she spun epic tales about the stars. Showing you how to draw the invisible lines between each bright spot to create a hero or a strong beast deserving of being immortalized in the heavens.
All this thought of stars draws you from your desk, full of manifestos and contracts and schedules, and your rum and its promise of a sleep with no dreaming, towards the door which leads out onto the balcony. Out of an old habit, one you really should have done away with by now, you look over to the room on the other side of the bridge. Max. You will always look for, even though you shouldn't. What your eyes find makes it feel like a weight has been dropped on your chest. Pushing through your ribs and sinking into your heart and them moving down to settle in your gut. But you can't look away. Your eyes ghost over the dusky skin of your love. Skin you know better than your own. You had spent countless hours committing to memory every dip and curve and scar and freckle. And then you had worshiped them all. You had never told her you loved her but you had hoped that she might feel it in the way you looked at her and held her and kissed her like she was your sun, moon, and start – your everything. The sight of her in such a state as she is in now would have brought you unimaginable joy before. Would have made your heart light and your belly heavy with need. But now it is just hollow pain because she is with Anne. Anne can see her skin. Anne can trace constellations on her smooth back. Anne can. Anne. Not you. Because you fucked it up and now Max, your Max, is not your anymore. She hates you. And you deserve it.
With that thought you turn away, knocking into the railing of the bridge, and retreat back your office as swiftly as you can. What you don't see is Max's gaze following you as you march away with your head bowed and arms wrapped tightly around your chest; trying to hold yourself together. You don't see the way her expression sinks and her eyes grow glassy before she throws up a wall and smiles at Anne. A smile only you would know is forced and fake. You don't know that her heart sinks too. Even as she looks over at Anne. Anne who craves her. Anne who needs her. Anne who wants her. Anne who protected her when she thinks that you did not.