Eli's head pounds like the morning after a bender, even though he's been sober for days. His body feels leaden, muscles aching as though he's run a marathon in his sleep. The heat is oppressive. He's drenched in sweat, stripped down to just his boxers beneath the duvet.
With considerable effort, he pushes himself upright. The cool air hits his skin like a blessing, and he runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the dampness. He'll need a proper shower to feel remotely human again. The bedroom is bathed in the muted golds of sunset, which is... concerning. His internal clock is precise as a Swiss watch; he hasn't slept past six AM in years.
He reaches for his mobile, clicks it on.
Tuesday, April 29, 2025
What the actual fuck?
The last clear memory he has is of the weekend. Sunday morning specifically—his vegetarian breakfast of quinoa with poached eggs and avocado, clearing his inbox while Nathan handled those terminations, the video conference with the Singapore office. Then... nothing.
No, not nothing. Mae. He remembers searching for Mae, irritated that she hadn't made an appearance all day.
He'd found her in the kitchen, taking a break from her paint-splattered haven she called a studio, those large green eyes widening at his entrance. She was mayhem made flesh—dark hair escaping its messy bun, face smudged with various shades of paint, dressed in one of his old Oxford shirts he's sure was meant to be binned. The sight had done something curious to his chest, something he attributed to annoyance at the time.
What had followed was... well. He'd tackled her like a feral creature, intent on showing her exactly what happened when she neglected him for her other pursuits, reducing her to incoherency. And he had—quite spectacularly if he recalled correctly. The memory of her trembling beneath him still fills him with pride.
Movement catches his attention. A lump under his duvet that he hadn't initially registered. He pulls back the covers to reveal Mae's sleeping form curled beside him. The sight's ludicrous enough to make him question his current grasp on reality. While their nocturnal activities occasionally result in shared sleeping arrangements, Mae typically retreats to her own room come morning.
She shifts in her sleep, frowning slightly as though sensing his scrutiny. Her hand moves absently, patting around until it finds his thigh. Without opening her eyes, she tugs the duvet back over him, mumbling something unintelligible about "keeping warm."
"Mae,"
One eye cracks open, glazed with sleep. "Eli?"
Then she's suddenly touching him again. Hands moving across his chest, beneath his jaw, testing his forehead, "Am I cold or are you warm?"
"Do you mind making sense?"
"Think you're good to go," she mutters, clearly operating on some different plane of consciousness. Then, to his bewilderment, she leans over and presses a kiss to his temple, pats his head like he's a well-behaved puppy. "There, there. Sleep tight. No more nonsense out of you."
Before he can formulate a scathing response to this indignity, she's already burrowed back under his duvet, claiming the space as though she belongs there. Which, he supposes reluctantly, she sometimes does.
Clearly, he won't be getting any coherent answers from his half-conscious wife. And after the last incident involving water to the face, he's not keen on forcibly waking her. A shower then, followed by coffee strong enough to kill lesser mortals. Maybe then this surreal situation will start making sense.
Mae remains dead to the world when he emerges from his shower, vigorously toweling his hair. She's managed to cocoon herself entirely in his duvet, leaving nothing visible but a tuft of dark hair against his pillow.
He encounters Matilda on his way downstairs—or more accurately, his former nanny's granddaughter who shares the old woman's remarkable ability to materialize exactly when needed.
"Master Eli, are you feeling better?" she inquires as he makes his way to the coffee machine, desperately seeking caffeine.
He pours himself a generous measure, noting the subtle tremor in his hands with displeasure. "Better from what, exactly?"
"The fever," she states matter-of-factly.
Ah. That would explain the significant gap in his memory.
"Fill me in," he says, settling against the counter with his coffee. If he's going to piece together this lost time, he might as well start with the most reliable source of information in the house.
"I'm afraid I won't be much help there, sir," Matilda responds, methodically wiping down the counter. "I only brought fresh linens and supplies when needed. Madam handled your care, as was proper."
"As was proper?"
"Well, yes. Though I did offer to take over when it became clear you weren't exactly..." Matilda trails off, suddenly very interested in an imaginary spot on the counter.
"Exactly what?" Eli narrows his eyes.
She glances at him, clearly weighing the merits of continuing this conversation. "I'm not entirely sure you'd appreciate hearing the details, sir."
"Try me." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request.
Matilda straightens her shoulders, steeling herself for whatever she's about to reveal. "You were rather... vocal about your objections to any assistance that wasn't from Madam. Something about 'strange women' trying to touch you. Declared quite adamantly that you were a married man and wouldn't stand for such impropriety." Her lips twitch. "Madam found it terribly amusing. I don't think I've ever seen her laugh quite so hard—she was in tears, actually."
Eli downs his remaining coffee in one scalding gulp. "You're lying."
"I wouldn't dare, sir." her voice quivers slightly, as if she's fighting back amusement. "If it helps, you were very faithful in your delirium."
"Get out."
He doesn't wait to see if she complies, already storming toward his study. He has work to catch up on—far more important matters than whatever nonsense Matilda had spouted just now.
Though he can't quite shake the image of Mae laughing until she cried. He's never managed to make her laugh like that while in his right mind— Eli halts that train of thought. Blasted hell, what's wrong with him? Was he meant to be some sort of performing monkey now, existing for his wife's entertainment? She could go sod off for all he cared.
Except.
That reflection in the car window haunts him. The way her entire face had transformed when he'd dubbed Maliah a viper, how her eyes had danced with barely suppressed mirth at his declaration of warfare against her siblings. He wants to kick himself for noticing these details.
When his grandfather had loomed over him with the death sentence of "marry a Chamberlain or kiss your inheritance goodbye," Eli had been presented with precisely zero viable options. He'd been absolutely livid when they'd foisted the younger daughter on him—the disappointing spare rather than the golden heir. No bloody use at all, he'd thought at the time.
So he'd done what any rational CEO would do, treated anything Mae-related like toxic assets, avoiding all contact until the moment at the altar. A vastly pathetic act of rebellion in hindsight, like a child holding his breath until he turned blue.
Then he'd actually seen her.
Oh, he'd been sent photos alongside her decidedly unimpressive dossier—academic records that screamed mediocrity, a personal life that read like a manual on how to be thoroughly unremarkable, and whatever other nonsense his mother had compiled. But Mae in person?
She'd stood there in ivory silk that somehow turned her ordinary features extraordinary. He'd dismissed those photos in her file, too busy fuming about his grandfather's ultimatum to care about appearances. But he'd found himself noticing things he shouldn't, like the way her dark hair fought its careful styling, how her skin seemed to glow against the silk, those forest-green eyes cast downward throughout the ceremony. Something about her struck him as a surprise, like finding unexpected value in what he'd written off as a poor investment.
Not that it mattered. No amount of aesthetic appeal could compensate for being forced into this farce of a marriage. So he'd been peeved about the whole affair. He'd suffered through the laughable vows, and when he'd bent to kiss this woman who still hadn't met his eyes, he intended it to be perfunctory—a mere formality.
Instead, he'd found himself oddly arrested by the softness of her lips, the light scent of vanilla that clung to her skin. It had been... not entirely unpleasant.
Later, he'd deliberately buried that memory beneath several glasses of excellent whisky, choosing instead to wallow in his newly shackled state. He'd given her academic records another once-over, convinced that she must have graduated solely on daddy's coin.
So when he'd encountered her again in their wedding suite, he'd been just drunk enough to want to hurt her. To crack that serene mask and see what lay beneath. Like pressing bruises just to feel something, he'd laid out every degrading thought, treating her like some commodity they'd acquired. And Mae just sat there, letting his words bounce off some invisible shield, that blank expression firmly in place.
It had driven him mental, that emptiness in her eyes. As though his barbs meant absolutely nothing to her. So he'd gone even lower, calling her "easy on the eyes" before claiming her mouth in a kiss that was meant to shock, to wound. Her startled words asking him what the bloody hell he was doing had been surprisingly musical—all posh vowels wrapped in indignation—even as he'd asked himself the same bloody question.
But then she'd melted into him, and for fuck sake—the sounds she'd made, the way she'd breathed his name... He'd temporarily forgotten he was supposed to hate her. Forgotten everything except—
No. Best not revisit that memory.
So he'd tried to hate Mae. He'd given it a proper go, treating it like any other corporate objective. And he'd failed most impressively at it. Because how does one hate someone who moves through their life like a ghost, asking nothing, demanding nothing? She's unambitiously content with her art supplies and her quiet corners, reading his moods with uncanny accuracy and adapting accordingly.
The reality of marriage to Mae had been jarringly anticlimactic. Nothing in his life had really changed, save for acquiring a silent flatmate who occasionally shared his bed and left paint smudges on his pristine furniture. A flatmate he'd noticed things about that he shouldn't—like how her nose scrunches when she's confused, or how her eyes catch the light like cut emeralds when she's truly amused.
Not that he fancies her. He doesn't. Eli Parrish doesn't do sentiment, that's always been beyond his emotional capacity. Romance, with all its messy declarations and vulnerability, might as well be quantum physics to him. Oh, he understands the mechanics of desire well enough—the physical aspect has never been an issue. But that whole business of laying oneself bare emotionally? Utterly foreign territory.
He's watched Lirael and William, the way they orbit each other like besotted satellites, finishing each other's sentences and sharing those meaningful looks that make him want to retch. Even Theron and Delphine, for all their antiques, have moments where they go soft around each other in ways that make absolutely no logical sense to him.
It's not that he's completely emotionally stunted—he loves his family, even when they're being absolute prats (which is approximately ninety percent of the time). But romantic love? That's always been a puzzle he can't quite crack.
He'd given it a go with Sylvia. Mimicking the expected behaviors, saying all the right things at the appropriate moments. Sylvia had eaten it up, swooning at his displays of affection. But while she'd been nattering about their profound connection, he'd been mentally reviewing quarterly reports.
When the marriage arrangement had forced them apart, he'd been more annoyed about having his experiment interrupted than heartbroken about losing his supposed true love.
The fact that he'd felt absolutely nothing when it ended—no crushing despair, no desperate urge to fight for their "love"—had been rather telling. Just irritation at having to settle for what he'd assumed would be a duller model. The whole thing had been an imminent failure, marked in red ink across his personal ledger of attempted human connections.
But then the Silvia had thrown everything off. She'd rung him, three sheets to the wind and barely coherent, and suddenly his world tilted sideways. Not because of Silvia—he'd simply done what any decent chap would do, offering sanctuary to an old friend who couldn't string two words together. No, it was Mae's reaction that had completely derailed him.
She'd just stood there in their sitting room, watching him with that inanely blank expression, like some sort of living statue observing the weather. Those eyes that usually sparked with hidden wit had been utterly empty, revealing nothing of what was churning behind them. And somehow, inexplicably, that emptiness had made him feel like he'd committed some cardinal sin, even when he bloody well hadn't.
When she'd finally spoken, it had been worse. The quiet acquiescence, that she's leave them alone delivered with all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list. Not a single word of protest, not even a flicker of discontent at the prospect of her husband potentially carrying on with another woman. As though she expected nothing better from him, as though she had no pride whatsoever in her position as his wife.
The whole thing had short-circuited his brain, leaving him furious. What sort of woman just accepts potential infidelity with such detachment? He might not have wanted this marriage initially, might have resented being strong-armed into it, but he had his principles. Before Mae, yes, he'd had his share of women. Even during his time with Sylvia, he'd wandered—partly because Sylvia wasn't his wife, and partly because maintaining that façade of romantic devotion had been exhausting. But since marrying Mae? The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Not once. And here she was, acting as though he was some sort of faithless cad who'd jump at the first opportunity to cheat on her.
It had felt wrong on a visceral level he couldn't quite explain. Why should it bother him that she'd just accept whatever he chose to do? Why did make him want to grab her by the shoulders and demand she show some bloody backbone? He'd stomped off for a cold shower, more rattled than he had any right to be.
When he'd finally cornered her that night, the situation had somehow managed to become even more disturbing. Mae'd started nattering on about not wanting him to touch her after he'd been with Silvia, like she'd already written the entire sordid affair as fact in her mind. The logic had been enough to make his head spin. She wouldn't fight to keep him faithful, wouldn't even question his supposed infidelity, but she'd draw the line at him approaching her afterward?
The fact that she'd just assumed he'd stray, that she'd accepted it as inevitable—it had triggered something uncomfortably close to hurt, though he'd swallow his grandfather's entire vintage port collection than admit to such nonsense.
And the Declan meeting, that had been pure spite. He'd known Declan had connections to the Chamberlains, that much had been in the briefing, but he hadn't bargained on the man having been Mae's bloody childhood sweetheart. And he certainly hadn't noticed she was running a fever that morning, too caught up in his own vindictive impulses. Something nasty had possessed him, an ugly need to force some kind of reaction from her. Make her feel even a fraction of the rebarbative confusion that had been boiling under his skin since the Silvia incident. Force her to actually bloody participate in their marriage instead of just accepting whatever came her way with that nettlesome blank expression.
The entire thing had been childish. A demented revenge for the way she'd made him feel—though what exactly she'd made him feel, he couldn't bloody well name. And wasn't that just grand? Eli Parrish, who could dissect complex merger agreements without breaking a sweat, reduced to acting like a petulant schoolboy because his wife's passive acceptance of his worst possible behavior had somehow managed to make him feel like the villain in the story.
It had backfired abominably, of course. But what came next—well, that was something else entirely.
He'd known the Chamberlains were difficult. Anyone who was anyone in London's upper circles knew about Evander's temper, Maliah's sharp edges. He'd assumed Mae's determined hermit act was just her way of avoiding them. A sensible business strategy, really, minimizing exposure to toxic assets.
Then she'd said it. Just one word, when he'd asked about physical abuse. "Sometimes," she'd murmured, eyes fixed firmly outside as if she was discussing nothing more significant than a minor discrepancy. As though Maliah using her for target practice was some trivial inconvenience, as though Evander's death threats over favors were perfectly acceptable sibling behavior.
It gnawed him from the inside. Because while he and Mae might not have the most conventional marriage, might maintain a comfortable distance most days, she was his wife. His responsibility. He provided enough, didn't he? Letting her have her artistic pursuits, didn't question her spending habits or peculiar hours. He wasn't some careless tosser who'd let others lay hands on what belonged to him.
Then Evander's words had crackled through the speaker again, Shame she got cold feet about the whole thing—if I'd been there... Well, let's just say I wouldn't have stopped at one kick.
The gall of these people, threatening what was his. And that aggravating woman, had still tried to advocate for their half-siblings. "They're like me," she'd said, as though that explained everything. As though he should understand the complexity of being the disposable piece in someone else's game.
Eli won't claim to understand what goes on in that head of hers. But he knows something about protecting assets, and Mae, despite spending most of her time doing absolutely bugger all except painting, has somehow become a surprisingly valuable piece in his life. She's an asset, in her own peculiar way. She keeps his mother positively giddy, maintains the proper society wife appearance when required, and doesn't create the sort of drama that plagues other typical marriages. In fact, she's turned out to be perfect for his lifestyle in ways he hadn't anticipated. He shudders to think what would have happened if he'd ended up with the headstrong Maliah, or even Sylvia—neither would have managed what Mae does so effortlessly, too busy trying to bend his life to their whims instead of finding their own orbit around his.
His fingers slam against the keyboard with unnecessary force as he punches in his login credentials, brassed off at himself for wasting valuable time pondering over Mae.
Mae, who's apparently nursed him through a fever—and wasn't that just fucking great? He's always been peculiar about fevers. Even as a child, he'd only tolerated his mother's presence during those rare episodes of illness. His mother, who'd be oddly snuggly and affectionate after he regained his senses.
And what sort of absolute pillock gets sick in spring anyway?
With a frustrated grunt, Eli opens his inbox, almost relieved to find it overflowing with demands for his attention. Right then. Something else to focus on besides whatever the bloody hell was happening.