Caelen’s POV
I've been watching. It's my job—reading situations, catching details others miss, piecing together puzzles from fragments most people ignore.
I saw Kael Dareth enter Welch Industries yesterday. Security footage timestamped 10:47am, right when I was across town dealing with the acquisition merger.
Saw him heading to Maeve's office. Carrying papers—probably the divorce documents finally. About fucking time.
Good. Get that asshole out of our lives permanently.
What bothers me: He was there for an hour. Sixty full minutes according to building security logs.
How long does it take to drop off papers? Five minutes, tops. Sign, witness, done. Unless they were talking.
Or doing something else.
The thought makes jealousy burn through my chest like acid. Irrational, possessive, completely out of character for someone who prides himself on control.
I try to ignore it. Focus on the acquisition contracts spread across my desk. Numbers that should demand attention.
They don't. My mind keeps circling back to those sixty minutes.
What if Kael tried something? What if he hurt her again? Used that Princeton charm, those pretty lies she used to believe?
Maeve's tough—tougher than she gives herself credit for. But Kael knows exactly how to break her. He's done it before with surgical precision.
The protective instinct is overwhelming. Almost primal. I want to call, check on her, make sure that bastard didn't pull any manipulative bullshit.
But I can't smother her. Can't be the controlling asshole who tracks her every move.
She's not mine to protect. Not really. Our engagement started fake—strategy to destroy the Dareths and give her leverage.
She's never said it's become real for her. Even if it has for me.
And fuck, has it ever.
I fell for her three months ago. While watching from a distance, following Alexander's orders to keep tabs on his newly-found daughter.
Watched her wait for Kael every night in that penthouse. Watched her cook meals he wouldn't eat. Watched her slowly break under the weight of his family's cruelty.
Should've been clinical. Professional surveillance, nothing more. Report back to Alexander, document everything, maintain objective distance.
Except somewhere between watching her refuse to break and seeing her finally leave, I stopped being objective.
Started noticing details that had nothing to do with the assignment. The way she'd bite her lip when reading contracts at 2am. How she'd make terrible jokes to herself when stressed. The stubborn set of her jaw when Victoria Dareth would tear into her.
She was magnificent even while being destroyed. Especially while being destroyed.
Then I met her in person. That night at the Dareth estate when she ran from Kael's study, mascara streaked, world shattered.
Drove her to Alexander's penthouse thinking it'd be routine. Extract, deliver, mission accomplished.
Instead, she looked at me with those green eyes—hurt but not broken, furious but not defeated—and I realized I wasn't mistaken about what I'd been feeling.
This wasn't some distant admiration or protector complex. This was real. Terrifying and real.
Every day since has made it worse. Better. More complicated.
Working late nights, watching her brain work through corporate warfare like she was born for it. The way she challenges me, matches my energy, doesn't need me to be anything except honest.
Last night in her apartment when she broke down, said everything felt wrong—I wanted to tell her. Wanted to say I love you, have loved you since before we met, will love you long after this fake engagement becomes real or doesn't.
Didn't. Because timing matters and she's still figuring out who she is without Kael defining her.
But the sex was different. She was different. Present in ways she hasn't been before. Like something shifted.
Except there was guilt too. Flickering across her face when she kissed me. Hidden behind the passion but there.
Something happened yesterday. I just don't know what yet.
Late afternoon meeting with Alexander. His office, top floor, view overlooking Manhattan like we own the city.
We basically do at this point.
"We need to finalize the provocation," Alexander says, pulling up financial documents on his screen. "Dareth's circling the drain. Time to push them under."
I nod. We've been planning this for weeks—the final move that'll destroy the Dareths completely. Poetic justice for what they tried to do to Maeve.
"Gia's parents," I say, leaning back. "They're the key. If we can get them to pull out publicly, announce the Dareths lied about finances—"
"Already handled." Alexander's smile is sharp. Predatory. "Had a very enlightening conversation with them this morning. Once they learned the truth about the Dareth finances, they were extremely cooperative."
The plan's elegant in its simplicity. Gia's parents will announce publicly they're ending the engagement merger because the Dareths knowingly misrepresented their financial situation.
Just like Victoria predicted Maeve would do. The irony's poetic. Using their own playbook against them.
"Timeline?" I ask.
"Press conference tomorrow. Gia's standing with them, dissolving the engagement. The bankruptcy filing goes public simultaneously." Alexander studies me. "You seem distracted."
Fuck. He notices everything too. Runs in the family apparently.
"Just thinking through contingencies," I lie. Smoothly. Years of practice.
"Contingencies." His tone says he doesn't believe me. "Or thinking about my daughter?"
Direct. Brutal. Classic Alexander Welch.
"Both," I admit. Honesty's easier than maintaining the facade. "She was off last night. Something's wrong."
"You care about her." Not a question. Statement of fact.
"Yes." No point denying it. He already knows. Probably knew before I did.
"Good." He turns back to his screens. "She needs someone who gives a shit. God knows Dareth never did."
The meeting continues. Details, timelines, coordinating with lawyers and PR teams. The systematic destruction of a dynasty.
Should be satisfying. Is satisfying on principle. But I'm distracted. Can't stop thinking about those sixty minutes.
About Maeve's face last night—vulnerable, breaking, guilty. About how she kissed me like she was trying to prove something.
About how she felt different. Like she was choosing me instead of just going along with strategy.
Or like she was trying to erase something. Someone.
My phone buzzes. Text from Maeve: "Dinner tonight? My place?"
My heart does something stupid. Actual flutter like I'm some teenager instead of a grown man who's seen too much shit to be affected by a text.
I reply: "Absolutely. 7?"
"Perfect."
I stare at the word. Perfect. Nothing's perfect. Everything's complicated. But maybe that's the point.
Maybe perfect isn't flawless—it's real. Messy. Honest even when it hurts.
Alexander's still talking about asset liquidation and criminal charges. I'm nodding, responding appropriately, but my brain's elsewhere.
On Maeve. On those sixty minutes I can't account for. On the guilt I saw last night. On whether I have the right to ask or if I should let it go.
On whether loving her means protecting her privacy or demanding honesty. On whether our fake engagement has become real for her the way it has for me.
On whether I'm setting myself up for the same heartbreak I've been protecting her from.
Something happened yesterday. I just don't know what.
Yet.