Max is just days away from marrying Lavinia.
And I'm just days away from... from what?
I can't leave Max.
Not now, not after we...

"If you think I'm going to let my fiancé run off with some stupid American maid," Lavinia said, "Then you've got another thing coming, Max!"
Max felt the hopelessness of his cause, felt Elizabeth slipping farther and farther away. "But Lavinia, I don't love you. You don't even love me." Lavinia didn't seem to be listening. She's already turned her attention back towards her voluminous closets. "What?" she asked distractedly, holding up a navy dress and a back dress against her body and checking her reflection critically in the full-length mirror. "Oh, Max, do stop being tedious and hand me that comb, will you?"
Max looked to his left at the tortoiseshell comb and then back at Lavinia. He didn’t make a move. It was time to bring out the big guns. "Lavinia, I don't want to marry you," he said flatly.
This brought Lavinia's maneuvers to a halt. She turned to Max, threw both dresses on the bed, and came to stand in from of him. He could smell her harsh, too-sweet smelling perfume that clung to all of her clothing.
"Max," Lavinia said icily. "The invitations have been sent. The gifts have been received. Princess Stephanie has promised to come. And you will be standing with me at the alter on Sunday, whether you like it or not"