Of Morning Mayhem and Malicious Maliah

The shrill sound of Eli's alarm pierces through Mae's consciousness like an unwelcome intruder. Her body jerks instinctively, sending her head crashing into his chin with enough force to make them both curse. She'd forgotten she'd stayed in his room—an occurrence that usually follows their more energetic encounters.

"For fuck's sake," Eli grunts, rubbing his jaw. "Are you trying to give me a concussion?"

Mae squints at the offensive device displaying 6:00 AM in harsh red digits. Saturday mornings are sacred in her book, but apparently her husband—Mr. I-Run-Ten-Miles-Before-Breakfast—has other ideas. She shoots the alarm a betrayed look, as though it has personally conspired against her weekend plans of sleeping until a civilized hour.

Every inch of her protests as she attempts to move. The previous night's activities have left their mark, though she has to admit—strictly to herself—that Eli has earned his smugness this time. She'd even allowed him his version of cuddling, which mostly consists of him sprawling across her like some possessive cat marking its territory.

Locating her discarded shirt from where it has landed during their midnight tangle, Mae tugs it over her head. The hem hits mid-thigh, modest enough for the short journey back to her room. She is already plotting her escape back to her blessed bed when Eli thwarts her plans, "Don't even think about hibernating in that disaster zone you call a bedroom. We have somewhere to be."

She turns to face him, brain still fuzzy with sleep. "What... where... why?"

"Have you suddenly developed an obsession with interrogatives?" His lip curls with a hint of disdain. "Because I must say, it's not your most charming quality."

Too exhausted to deal with his morning snippiness, Mae retreats to her room, locks the door, and dives back under her covers. The bed welcomes her like an old friend, and she is just drifting off when thunderous knocking jolts her awake again.

Mae burrows deeper into her cocoon, but the rattling of a key in the lock—because of course he'd use his master key.

"Go away," she mumbles into her pillow fortress. "It's the weekend. Do something normal, like drown in the sink."

"Wouldn't that be convenient for you?" The edge in his voice should have warned her, but sleep has dulled her survival instincts.

"Extremely," she agrees, still floating in that hazy space between dreams and reality.

The shock of ice-cold water hitting her face has her shooting upright with a strangled gasp that quickly devolves into violent coughing. Water burns its way down her windpipe, each hack sending spots dancing across her vision.

"Rise and shine, darling," Eli's voice cuts through her misery as she continues to splutter and gag. "Places to go, people to see."

Then, because he's a pretentious peacock, he surveys her room like it is a health code violation, ignoring her choking state. "Do you ever let the staff clean in here? Or do you enjoy living in this dump?" He dismisses his own questions with an impatient gesture. "Irrelevant. Get dressed. We have a meeting with Mr. Declan. Your sister will be joining us—apparently you know the man."

Mae wipes her mouth, throat burning. God, she despises him. "And what exactly am I meant to contribute? I'm hardly versed in corporate politics."

"And isn't that a disappointment? Twenty-five years old. No job, daddy's princess who spends most of her day drawing and painting like a toddler. Time to grow up, Mae. This is a crucial deal—try not to cock it up by retreating into that head of yours. I won't have my reputation tarnished because of one poor investment."

"You could leave me here," she suggests, massaging her neck. A suspicious warmth creeps through her body—brilliant timing for what feels suspiciously like a fever. The universe really is having a laugh, forcing her to face Maliah while potentially ill. She'd been so careful about avoiding her family, and now Eli's ruining everything!

"Wouldn't that be convenient?" His smile holds all the warmth of a winter storm. "Unfortunately, your days of playing hermit are over. Between Theron's wedding and the upcoming social season, people are starting to wonder why Eli Parrish's wife is such a ghost. I need someone presentable on my arm."

Mae swings her legs out of bed, ignoring how the room seems to sway. She is hardly what society would consider "presentable," but arguing with Eli's like trying to negotiate with a stubborn statue— pointless and likely to give her a headache.

She drags herself to the bath, the fever making her movements sluggish. The scalding water does little to ease her discomfort, but at least it washes away the remnants of sleep. She brushes her teeth mechanically as she feels the fever worsen, prompting her to fish out three paracetamol tablets from the medicine cabinet. She knocks them back with the cup of tea that Matilda, bless her soul, must have left on her bedside table.

The white dress she selects is a safe choice. A classic cut, modest length, nothing that would draw Eli's nitpicking. She applies just enough makeup to mask her pallor. Her stomach twists itself into pretzel-like knots, but she knows there is no escaping this obligation. Eli's like a bulldozer when he wants something—he wouldn't care if she was at death's door, so long as he got his precious deal with Mr. Declan.

When she descends the stairs, she catches him barking orders at one of the maids about tidying her room. Mae rolls her eyes, making her way to the kitchen where she grabs a plain yoghurt. She spoons it down quickly while Eli finishes whatever business he is conducting on his laptop. His grey eyes sweep over her, "Well, at least you've managed to clean up properly."

She doesn't bother responding—the yoghurt is already protesting in her stomach. Instead, she grabs her handbag and a flask of lemon water she'd prepared to help with the nausea. The car journey ahead isn't going to be pleasant.

During the drive, Eli launches into a detailed monologue about why Declan is such a "big fish" and how he'd recently relocated to Kensington after his stellar performance heading the American branch. She nods at appropriate intervals, occasionally asking questions to show she is paying attention, even though her head feels like it is stuffed with cotton wool. "How does Maliah know him?" she manages to ask between sips of her lemon water.

"Childhood connection, apparently," Eli says with a dismissive shrug. "At least that's what the Viper claims." 

Mae can't help the snort of laughter that escapes her—it is a rather apt description of Maliah.

Eli glances at her then, his expression oddly intent, as though he is seeing something new. But before she can analyse that look, his phone rings through the car's Bluetooth system. The caller ID displays 'Silvia'.

Eli rejects the call without so much as a flinch. Mae watches the screen dim, remembering through her fever-addled brain that Silvia is, in fact, still a thing that exists in their world. When Silvia's name flashes across the display a second time, Mae takes another sip of her lemon water, "You might as well answer it," she mutters.

He quirks an eyebrow at her suggestion but merely declines the call again. The sleek car pulls up in front of one of those ridiculously posh hotels that cater to London's elite—exactly the sort of establishment that would welcome arrogant toffs like themselves. A valet appears almost instantly to whisk away their vehicle.

Mae's glad she'd opted for sensible ballet flats. Her balance is precarious enough without adding heels to the equation. She'd have likely face-planted into the marble flooring otherwise.

"I need to use the loo," she announces as soon as they step off the lift.

Eli's expression darkens with annoyance, but he waves her off. "A waiter will show you the way. Try not to get lost."

Mae follows the waiter's directions and barely makes it to the ladies' in time to empty her stomach of what little yoghurt she'd managed to keep down. There is an odd lightness to her head now—perhaps the fever is finally breaking? Or maybe her hands are just too cold to tell properly.

After touching up her makeup, Mae follows another waiter to their designated table. She can see who she presumes to the back of Mr. Declan's head and Maliah's unmistakable mane of blonde hair from across the room.

"Ah, there she is, my better half," Eli announces, making her cringe inwardly. "Mr. Declan, allow me to introduce—"

But before Eli can finish his introduction, Mr. Declan has already risen from his seat. There is something familiar about those cerulean blue eyes of his. "Mae," he breathes her name out like its something precious.

She catches Eli's frown in her peripheral vision, but her attention is quickly diverted as Mr. Declan envelops her in an enthusiastic embrace. His towering frame—he has to be well over six feet—completely dwarfs her, and she finds herself buried in his chest.

"Oh my God, Mae, it's been ages! I barely recognized you." He releases her, and she sways slightly, the fever making everything feel a bit surreal.

"Um, pardon me, but I don't quite..." she trails off, trying to place his face.

"It's me, Jamie! Remember? I used to practically live at your family's estate. The four of us—Evander, Maliah, you and me—we'd build these ridiculous blanket forts. Good times, those."

Mae's first coherent thought is simply: Huh.

Maliah rolls her eyes dramatically. "Seriously, Mae, you don't remember Jamie? The puppy who used to follow you around everywhere? Took a bee sting for you once? Used to compose the most atrocious poetry about your 'forest green eyes'?"

"Oh," Mae says, the memory finally clicking through her haze. "Oh, yes. I remember now. You look nothing like the Jamie from back then. Sorry," she manages a nervous laugh. "What on earth did they feed you in America?"

"Mostly burgers. Mum absolutely detested it," he says with an exaggerated wink. "But the heart wants what it wants."

The corny line startles a genuine laugh from Mae.

Maliah's eyes orbit her skull again, "For heaven's sake."

Eli clears his throat, clearly not appreciating being relegated to the background. "So, I see you're well acquainted with my wife." He emphasizes 'wife' as though everyone at the table might have somehow forgotten her marital status.

Mae slips into the seat beside Eli, and Jamie settles back into his chair. "Yes, I heard about the wedding. Terribly sorry I couldn't make it. The Chamberlains did send an invitation, of course, but I was rather tied up at the time. It's delightful seeing you again though."

"I swear, if you start waxing poetic about my sister again..." Maliah looks revolted by the prospect. Mae is still trying to wrap her head around Jamie apparently having composed poetry about her features. Maybe he'd been partially blind as a child.

Jamie laughs good-naturedly. "Rest assured, I'll do nothing of the sort. And you're just cross because I never composed any verses for you." The jab makes Maliah's cheeks flush pink with embarrassment. 

Under the table, Eli's hand finds her thigh, his grip unnecessarily tight. He gives her an odd look, tilting his head slightly as if trying to solve a puzzle. She responds with a questioning tilt of her own, but his only answer is to press his other hand against her other thigh. Was he… was he trying to gauge her fever through her legs? The notion is so absurd she has to bite back a laugh.

"So tell us, Jamie, what's lured you back here?" Mae asks, grateful for any distraction from Eli's peculiar behavior.

The question seamlessly guides them into business territory, and Eli's posture relaxes marginally—evidently satisfied with her performance as the attentive spouse. He finally abandons his bizarre thigh-examination and focuses on charming Jamie, who is proving remarkably amenable to whatever they are orchestrating.

While the men delve into market projections and profit margins, Maliah leans closer to Mae with a quintessential Chamberlain smile—all teeth and charm. "How shrewd of your dear husband, wielding you like a chess piece. It's why I declined, you know? Tragic that such exceptional genetics were wasted on someone with the emotional range of a dense brick."

Mae can hardly dispute such an astute observation.

"Do enlighten me," Maliah continues, her voice honeyed with fake concern, "how's matrimonial bliss treating you? Must be exceptional since you've been avoiding family obligations, declining every social engagement, pretending our correspondence doesn't exist."

"If you're so intimately acquainted with his tendencies," Mae replies, matching the tone, "surely you realize your absurd propositions won't succeed through such an inadequate intermediary as myself."

Maliah sneers, "A fair assessment. Though it's rather beneath you, isn't it? This determined estrangement from your own blood."

"Consider it my life's ambition. One I intend to pursue most diligently," Mae responds, sipping her lemon water to combat another wave of nausea.

"Watch yourself," Maliah murmurs, "You think you can hide behind your little Parish paradise indefinitely?"

Mae leans back in her chair, observing as Eli and Jamie shake hands—evidently sealing whatever deal they'd orchestrated. Her head is positively swimming now. She rises carefully, maintaining her composure through sheer force of will. "If you'll excuse me, I need to visit the powder room."

She manages to make it to the ladies' without incident, locking herself in a stall before emptying what feels like a month's worth of lemon water into the toilet. When she emerges, still dizzy, Maliah is examining her reflection in the mirrors.

"What's this then? Are you..." Maliah's brows arch before she lets out a high pitched laugh, "Oh, how utterly absurd of me. The very notion of you being pregnant is laughable. No, he's simply dragged you here while you're ill, hasn't he? Quite the considerate husband you've landed yourself."

Mae grips the marble countertop, willing the room to stop its infernal spinning. "Maliah, I really can't do this right now."

In one fluid motion, Maliah's heel connects with the back of Mae's knees, sending her crumpling to the immaculate tiles. The cool floor offers blessed relief against her burning forehead.

"Don't presume to dictate terms to me, you insufferable little wretch!"

Mae lets out a weak groan, pressing her cheek against the blissfully cold floor. "Any chance you could do that again and properly knock me out this time?"

Maliah takes a step back, her facade cracking slightly, "What in God's name is wrong with you?"

"Nuclear explosion in my skull. And you're being dreadfully loud," Mae mumbles.

Maliah's polished veneer gives way to something approaching concern? Terror? as she hauls Mae upright, propping her against the wall. "Right. Listen carefully—I'm fetching help. I absolutely refuse to be implicated if you decide to expire in this bloody powder room. You may be pathetic, but even you don't deserve to meet your end in a lavatory."

"How terribly thoughtful of you to make that distinction, Lia," Mae murmurs, her vision swimming.

"Don't you dare call me that."

"Oh, do piss off. If these are to be my final moments, I'd rather not have your face be my last earthly vision." She keels over, retching nothing but bile.

Maliah retreats with remarkable speed, her heels clicking against the marble tiles like gunshots. Mae slumps sideways, consciousness slipping away like water through her fingers.

She comes to awareness in fragments—first, the sensation of being lifted, then the scent of Eli's cologne. His arms are secure around her, but even through her fever-addled state, she can feel the tension radiating from him.

"...inexcusable,"

"Sir, should I call Dr. Harrison?"

"Obviously. And Jenkins? Do try to keep her conscious until you reach the house. I won't have her choking on her own vomit in the back of my car."

"How considerate of you," Mae manages to mumble.

"Ah, there's that enchanting wit." His tone suggests he finds it anything but, "Try not to expire before I return home. The paperwork would be tedious."

She might have responded with something, but the effort of keeping her eyes open proves too much, and her consciousness dissolves into nothing.