Moonlight Maladies and Midnight Mistakes

Despite the earlier drama, Mae finds herself settling into a productive rhythm with Joanna's Mother's Day piece. The Parrish family doesn't make a massive fuss over the holiday, but all the children make an effort to send their mother something special. This year, Joanna has dropped enough hints to sink a ship that she expects a gift from Mae as well.

There is no competing with the other Parrish siblings' offerings—yachts, sets of jewellery worth more than some small nations, luxury spa acquisitions. And while Mae technically has access to Eli's black card, she isn't quite brazen enough to make that sort of exorbitant purchase for her mother-in-law.

She steps back from her easel, studying the ink wash painting with a critical eye. The piece captures Joanna shown from behind, cradling a baby in her arms. She's found inspiration in one of the family albums Joanna had tearfully pored over last week, waxing nostalgic about "simpler times when my babies were just babies." The infant in the reference photo had been Eli, if you could believe it—all chubby cheeks and innocent eyes, not a trace of his current arseholery in sight.

Satisfied with her progress, she nods to herself. After gathering her used brushes and the pile of empty plates that have accumulated on her desk alongside the palettes crusted with dried paint, she tucks her water bottle under her arm and slips out of her workroom with catlike stealth. It is two in the morning, and she isn't keen on attracting Mr. Perpetually Brassed Off's attention.

He's left her alone after their little spat, which isn't surprising. Chasing after her has never been Eli's style. She deposits the plates in the sink, gives her hands a wash, and turns to retreat to her bedroom—only to nearly swallow her tongue at the sight of a disheveled redhead hovering in the kitchen doorway.

Silvia looks like a wreck. Her makeup is smeared like abstract art, her hair has achieved a level of frizz that defies physics, and her eyes are bloodshot red. Mae wonders if the experience has been that earth-shattering. It must have been, given that clean-freak Eli—who won't let anyone but his specifically assigned laundress touch his clothes—has allowed Silvia to wear one of his freshly pressed dress shirts over her decidedly rumpled state. The same Eli who'd once binned a perfectly good shirt because Mae had sneezed on it.

She absently massages her chest where the ache has taken root. The sound of her normal crashing down isn't just distant thunder anymore—it is a full-blown storm on her doorstep. "Do you need something?" she asks, proud of how steady her voice remains.

"Water, actually," Silvia croaks, her polished accent somehow intact despite sounding like she's gargled gravel.

"Right," Mae reaches for a fresh bottle from the fridge, placing it on the kitchen island. "Breakfast's served at seven, but if you're peckish now, help yourself." She gestures toward the fridge, already plotting her escape. The longer she looks at Silvia, the more her own dinner threatens to climb up her throat.

"Wait." Silvia's fingers catch her arm, her grip strangely strong for someone who's been drowning in sofa cushions earlier. There is something wild in her eyes that Mae can't quite read—something that makes her instincts scream danger. "You're Mae?"

"In the flesh." She yanks free from Silvia's grasp as if handling a tetchy cobra, maintaining her faux smile.

Silvia's brows draw together, her pretty brown eyes narrowing. "Eli's wife?"

"On paper, at least." Mae crosses her arms, more shield than defiance. "I know who you are, and you needn't worry. You two can do whatever you like—I won't get in your way."

Silvia's frown deepens momentarily before her face transforms into something that belongs more in a nature documentary about predators. Her smile is all teeth and triumph. "Well," she purrs, "I'm glad you aren't quite as thick as you look."

Right. So Silvia is a proper cow—they were a match made in whatever posh hell had spawned the lot of them. Mae doesn't dignify that with a response, simply turning toward the stairs with as much dignity as she can muster. She's nearly made it to freedom when she hears the telltale creak of a door opening from upstairs.

Their sleeping arrangements are mercifully separate—her room to the left, his to the right, the landing between them like some sort of demilitarized zone. The sound of his door opening sends a shiver down her spine. He is likely awake and irritated, as he is by any disturbance to his precious routine. But she's already weathered Hurricane Silvia downstairs; she isn't about to stand there and take whatever cutting remarks Eli has stored up.

If this is her new reality—watching her peace shatter like fine china—she'll adapt. That's what Mae does. That's what Mae has always done.

A large, warm hand catches her arm before she can reach her door, and she finds herself spun around with infuriating ease. Her back meets the solid wall as Eli secures an arm around her waist, his fingers splaying across her hip. "Bit late for a midnight wander, isn't it?"

The scent of his cologne wraps around her like a second skin. But all she can think about is how these same hands have likely been all over Silvia. The thought makes her stomach turn, and she jerks away. Eli, clearly not expecting rejection, loosens his grip enough for her to slip free.

"You don't get to have both," she says, proud of how steady her voice remains despite her racing heart.

Eli tilts his head, regarding her with a condescending look. "What?"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" She crosses her arms in defiance.

He steps forward, and she finds herself backing up until cool wallpaper presses against her shoulders. Eli cages her in, one hand braced beside her head while the other catches her chin, thumb tracing along her jaw in what might have been a tender gesture if not for the dangerous glint in his eyes, "So you're still laboring under the delusion that I'm shagging Silvia."

Eli's thumb stills on her jaw. His fingers slide to her nape, threading through her hair before gripping it with pressure—not enough to hurt, just enough to draw her attention to him.. Mae lifts her chin, refusing to cower. This is one line she won't let him cross. Eli might be a right bastard, but he hasn't strayed during their marriage, likely due to being married to his work more than her. It is one thing to be cheated on by her husband, quite another to have him try to bed her right after his mistress.

"Listen carefully, wife." The word drips from his lips like venom in honey, his breath ghosting across her ear. "I'll say this once, since you seem to be laboring under some pathetic delusion. I shouldn't have to explain myself to you, but bloody hell, you're making this more difficult than it needs to be."

His arm brackets her against the wall, the fabric of his shirt brushing her skin. "Silvia was absolutely plastered. Couldn't string two sodding words together, much less remember which bloody hotel she'd booked. What was I meant to do, leave her passed out in some dodgy pub?"

The corner of his mouth lifts in a cruel smirk, "I suppose you wouldn't understand the concept of friends, would you? Too busy hiding away in your little art cave like some sort of recluse, huffing paint fumes."

His grip tightens in her hair, a silent warning. "So let me make this crystal clear, darling. I'm not shagging Silvia. And you don't get to give me lip about it, because like it or not, you're mine." He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper that makes her skin prickle. "Your family signed you over to me, didn't they? Best not forget that."

His thumb traces along her jawline again, steel in his voice, "Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Mae's thoughts scatter like startled birds. The entire situation feels absurd. Eli has never bothered to explain himself to her about anything, let alone defend his actions with such intensity. And Silvia? The woman has oozed possessiveness downstairs. But why would she lie? Unless... her mind races through the possibilities, deliberately ignoring his caveman proclamations of ownership. She knows this isn't some romantic declaration— Eli simply has his trousers in a twist over her defiance. But what is the actual play here? 

Eli's lips find her pulse point, the contact shocking her out of her spiraling thoughts. "Bloody hell, Mae," he murmurs against her skin, "I've told you to stop disappearing into that head of yours when I'm talking to you."

She pushes against his chest with her elbows, though it is like trying to move a brick wall. "I don't know what game you're playing, but Silvia—"

"Silvia," he cuts her off with a sharp nip at her neck, "was off her bloody face in some dodgy pub. She called me barely coherent. Whatever rubbish she's spouting, take it with a heap of salt." His hips press forward, making his arousal unmistakably clear. "Now shut it, or I might reconsider my options between the sloppy mess in the guest room and my wife who's being remarkably chatty."

Mae falls silent, her world tilting on its axis. Perhaps her peace isn't as shattered as she's thought. Everything that has seemed so clear an hour ago is now wrapped in layers of uncertainty. But Eli's intentions are unambiguous as he presses her against the wall, his touches more demanding than usual.

So she surrenders to it, keeping her thoughts to herself even as he claims her with more intensity than she's ever experienced.