Maeve’s POV
Late night at Welch Industries. Most of the building's empty—just me and Caelen going over acquisition contracts in the conference room.
The city glitters below us through floor-to-ceiling windows. Midnight approaching and we're still drowning in paperwork like the overachievers we apparently are.
I've been here three weeks and still feel like I'm faking it. Like someone's gonna burst through that door and expose me as the orphan playing dress-up in her father's empire.
Imposter syndrome's a bitch with excellent timing.
But Caelen makes it easier. He doesn't treat me like fragile china, or like some trophy Alexander is showing off. He treats me like an equal, like I'm actually worth the time he's investing.
"The clause here," he points, our shoulders touching as we lean over the same document. His cologne hits me—that dark expensive smell that makes my head fuzzy. "Means they're trying to fuck us on backend profits. See it?"
I lean in closer. Focus on the words instead of the heat radiating from his body. Do see it—buried in subsection C, hidden in legal jargon designed to confuse.
"We counter with percentage-based distribution instead of fixed rates," I say. "Forces them to share risk."
A warm flush spreads through my chest. “Scary good,” not “good for a beginner.” I try to ignore how much his approval matters and force myself to look back at the contract.
We've been working for six hours. Coffee cups everywhere—at least eight between us, all in various states of empty. Chinese takeout containers scattered across the table because we ordered delivery around hour two and ate while reviewing contracts.
My ass is numb from this conference chair. My eyes are burning from staring at fine print. But I don't want to leave.
Somewhere around hour three, the conversation shifted from business to personal. Not intentionally—just happened naturally, the way things do when you're exhausted and your filter stops working.
"How'd you end up with Alexander?" I asked, stretching to ease the tension in my shoulders.
He leaned back, coffee cup cradled in scarred hands. "Started in foster care... Aged out at eighteen with nothing except a chip on my shoulder and anger issues."
I know that story. Lived a version of it myself.
"Military next," he continued. "Marines... Did two tours overseas." The scar on his jaw suddenly made sense. Not a bar fight. A war wound.
"Then private security after discharge. Bodyguard work, mostly. Protected people who had everything while I had nothing." His smile is sharp. "Ironic as fuck. But it paid well and I was good at it."
"How'd you meet my father?"
"He hired me to protect him during a hostile takeover attempt. Someone wanted him dead—corporate espionage shit that got violent. I kept him alive through six months of death threats and assassination attempts." He shrugs like it's nothing. "Impressed him enough he offered me a permanent position. That was eight years ago."
Eight years of building himself from nothing into Alexander Welch's most trusted advisor. From foster care to the top of New York's power structure.
Survival. Same story I'm living, different details.
"Your turn," he says. "How'd you survive the Dareth marriage?"
Survive. That's the perfect word for it, because it was life or death.
"Honestly?" I trace the rim of my coffee cup. "I don't know. Kept thinking it was temporary. That my Kael would come back. That the cold shoulder was stress, not strategy."
"You made excuses for him."
"For two months straight." Bitter laugh. "Waited up every night. Cooked meals he wouldn't eat. Wore lingerie he wouldn't touch. Told myself I was crazy, that I was the problem."
Caelen's jaw clenches. "He was the problem. All of it."
"Yeah. Took me long enough to figure that out."
We sit in comfortable silence. Finding common ground in survival, in building ourselves from nothing, in refusing to stay broken.
"You ever feel like you're pretending?" I ask quietly. "Like eventually someone'll figure out you don't belong?"
He's quiet for a moment. Considering. "Every day for the first ten years. Then I realized—everyone's pretending. The difference is some people admit it."
I look at him. Really look.
I look at him. The scar, the dark eyes that see through bullshit. The way he's present in a way Kael never was.
I'm starting to feel safe around him. Not the performance of safety Kael offered, but something real that doesn't require me to shrink myself.
"You make this easier," I say. Voice softer than intended.
"This?"
"Everything. Being here. Being me." Raw honesty. "Figuring out who the fuck Maeve Welch is supposed to be."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. "You're already her. Just took you a minute to realize it."
At some point—maybe hour four, maybe five—I started taking a closer look at Caelen. Really taking a closer look beyond "fake fiancé" and "father's right-hand man."
Started noticing the way he explains things without condescension. How he remembers my coffee order without asking. That he stands slightly behind me in meetings, close enough I know he's there but not crowding.
Started noticing I feel safe around him. Actually safe. Not the performance of safety Kael offered—real safety that doesn't require me to shrink myself.
But as I stare at the contract, Kael's face flashes in my mind. My smile must have faded, because Caelen's expression hardens.
"Don't you dare think of that asshole," he says, his voice firm. Of course he noticed. The man misses nothing.
I blink. "What?"
"I can see it on your face. You're thinking about him. About whether he meant it, whether he's changed, whether there's anything left worth saving." He leans forward. "There's not. He's a weak traitor who chose family approval over you."
Weak traitor. Brutal but accurate.
"It's not for me to decide," Caelen continues. "But such an incredible girl deserves much better than someone who'd use her like a credit card and toss her aside when the bill came due."
Incredible girl. Not woman—girl. Like I'm something precious he's protecting.
The air shifts. Charges with something electric and dangerous.
We're close. Close enough I can count his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, feel the heat radiating from his skin.
His hand covers mine on the desk. Electric. Every nerve ending firing like I've touched a live wire.
I should pull away. Create distance. Remember I'm technically married and this is strategy and getting involved would complicate everything.
I don't move.
"Maeve." My name in his voice sounds different. Important. Like it means something beyond just identification.
"I should go," I whisper. Voice barely working.
"Should you?" His thumb traces my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. Setting every nerve on fire.
"I'm technically married."
"Technically," he agrees. Doesn't move his hand. "I'm not implying anything, but you're also technically married to me."
True. Engaged officially. Mrs. Rhys in a few days at the party.
The tension between us could detonate. One move, one wrong word, and we'd be crossing lines we can't uncross.
I force myself to pull away, standing up to put distance between us. It feels wrong to want this, to want him, when I'm still legally bound to Kael.
"You know this isn't real," I manage, needing to say it.
"It's strategy." His smile is dark, knowing, like he sees right through my bullshit.
"Goodnight, Caelen."
"Goodnight, Maeve."
I leave before I cross that desk and finish what we started. His eyes follow me to the door, heavy and full of everything we're not saying.