Theron stretches lazily in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "At least we know Mae's got a temper underneath all that. Was starting to worry, you know, always wearing that perfect little smile. Don't get me wrong, she's lovely, but this?" He waves his hand vaguely at where the phone conversation happened. "This makes far more sense. She's not cross with us or you. She's pissed off at dear old dad." He nods sagely, like he's just solved some grand mystery. "Refreshing, actually."
Their mother's still got that Look that makes Eli's jaw clench.
"Oh, don't give me that look, darling," she says with too much sweetness when Eli glares at her.
"Whatever scheme you're cooking up in that head of yours, Mother, drop it," Eli says sharply. "Mae's not to know we heard any of this. I mean it." While he might lord his position over Mae occasionally, he's never actually gone out of his way to violate her privacy. His occasional reminders of their power dynamic were merely preventative measures. Needless to say, Mae's more likely to raid the kitchen for leftovers than plot any sort of uprising.
"For heaven's sake, Eli," Lirael rolls her eyes, "none of us are stupid enough to mention this little eavesdropping session."
"Where's Mae, anyway?" their mother asks, fiddling with her jade pendant. "What made her dash off?"
"The cheese was too much for her delicate sensibilities," Eli responds dryly.
A meaningful is shared between his mother and Lirael at this mundane tidbit of information. Eli drains his glass, already plotting how to root out his father-in-law's spies from his vetted staff. The sheer audacity of Norman bloody Chamberlain, questioning his character while running his own covert surveillance operation.
"What's this silent communication you two have going on?" Theron asks, eyeing Lirael and their mother suspiciously.
"Nothing your primitive male brain would comprehend," Lirael says primly, pushing herself up from her chair. "I think we've had quite enough excitement for one evening. You've got quite the cleanup operation ahead of you." She gestures vaguely at the landline.
"It's not entirely terrible," their mother muses, adjusting the glasses on her face. "Mae's always gallivanting off on her own in that car of hers. I've told her countless times to take a driver—heaven knows what could happen. But does she listen? Absolutely not. Stubborn as a mule, that one. At least Norman's got someone keeping an eye on her, even if his methods are..." she waves her hand delicately, "somewhat unconventional."
Eli grunts noncommittally, filing away this new information about his wife's solo adventures. He'll have to have a word with Jenkins about that.
"Don't think you're getting away with this, brother dear," Theron says, his grin shark-like. "I'll find out exactly what the Chamberlain duo did to warrant your corporate crusade. Delphine's quite resourceful, you know."
"Maliah's a viper," Eli drawls. "Good luck getting anything out of her."
Theron's grin only widens, clearly taking this as a challenge.
After his family finally clears out, Eli lingers on the patio, letting the evening air cool his thoughts. He's not sure how to face Mae after all this— a foreign sensation for someone who prides himself on always knowing exactly how to handle any situation. But she's managed to completely derail him with one simple accusation about his character, and he's still trying to find his footing.
He eyes the decanter, contemplating something stronger than wine. The night certainly calls for it.
:::
Mae isn't sure what possesses her to bait Eli like that. There's something hilarious about watching his frustration build, vexed by blank spaces in his memory, by all the absurd declarations he'd made while delirious.
She's plotting ways around the backup video situation (and possibly escaping the biochemical warfare masquerading as cheese) when her father's call shatters her good mood. Now she's left sorting through a mess of emotions she'd rather keep locked.
Norman Chamberlain excels at complicating simple things. He treats fatherhood like a part-time hobby, popping in and out of their lives with grand gestures and dramatic declarations. The first time she'd ever stood up to him was refusing his walk down the aisle—a small rebellion that had scandalized half of London. How terribly tragic for his reputation.
The thing about her father is his infuriating ability to sprinkle just enough genuine care among his neglect to keep her guessing. He'd step in when things went too far— like when she was eleven and Evander, triggered by a servant's spilled tea, had shoved her down the grand staircase. She'd broken a rib, and her father had shown real anger then, a startling departure from his usual jovial façade.
The peace that followed lasted precisely three months, four days—not that she'd counted. Evander and Maliah simply learned to be more creative. No more broken bones or visible marks that might attract their father's attention. Instead, they mastered the art of invisible torment. Maliah's nails found flesh when no one was looking, Evander's violence disguised as sibling roughhousing. Books had a peculiar habit of finding her head whenever she tended to drift into daydreams.
Then there was the destruction of any social connections, whispered rumors in school corridors. After all, who'd want to associate with the walking reminder of their family's shame? The living proof of Norman Chamberlain's infidelity? Never mind that their mother had already fucked off with her tennis instructor before Mae's mum entered the picture. But why let facts interfere with a perfectly good vendetta?
Sometimes Mae wonders if he knew about the ongoing torment. If he did, perhaps he'd filed it under "not broken enough to warrant attention." Or maybe he genuinely hadn't noticed— tracking thirteen offspring across London probably required more attention span than he possessed.
His latest revelation about having her followed, about planting spies in the Parrish household— it should infuriate her more than it does. But there's something almost sweet about it, in a twisted sort of way. His version of care might involve espionage and privacy violations, but it's more attention than she'd expected from someone who occasionally forgot which child belonged to which mistress.
Mae presses her fingers against her temples, feeling a headache building. How exactly is one meant to process this? Her father running surveillance on her marriage because he didn't trust her husband—the same husband he arranged for her to marry? The same husband who's currently waging war against her siblings because they'd been tossers to her?
Mae watches the staff erase the evidence of their earlier rampage. The gentle tinkling of broken ceramics being swept away fills the air. She should probably rejoin the others on the patio, where Eli's family continues their cheese appreciation society meeting while updating each other on their lives.
The Parrishes fascinate her, in their own way. For one of Britain's wealthiest families, they're almost... pedestrian. No backstabbing over inheritance, no secret love children lurking in shadows. Sure, Eli approaches life like he's got scaffolding where his spine should be, but he genuinely cares for his siblings. Lirael ruled Tech Parrish while Theron trained as manager at the main branch, neither plotting the other's downfall. Even Joanna runs her business without using her children as pawns.
It had taken time, but they'd folded her into their ranks with surprising ease. Beyond Joanna's initial frost, which had melted considerably, no one had mentioned the great marriage switcheroo. No snide comments about getting the spare Chamberlain. The normalcy of it all sometimes leaves her waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Right now though, her mind's too crowded with her fathers revelations to maintain her usual mask. And that cheese... God, that revolting cheese.
"Madam, would you like some hot chocolate?"
Mae glances up to find Matilda studying her with an eerily perceptive gaze. "Bit random, isn't it?"
"After that phone call, I believe you could use the comfort." Despite being barely older than Mae, Matilda runs the household with silent efficiency. She reads moods like a fortune teller while maintaining the emotional range of a teaspoon. Mae would admire this talent more if she wasn't mildly irritated that someone else had witnessed her father's performance. Still, Matilda can keep secrets, so Mae accepts.
She settles at the kitchen island, nursing her hot chocolate while Matilda does her evening ritual of storing leftovers and preparing for night staff. The routine feels almost meditative.
Until Eli appears, wearing an expression like a lemon tart had been shoved down his throat. He stares at her, sighs deeply, then keeps staring. She should probably bait him about the video, wind him up before graciously agreeing to delete it. Instead, she asks about snacks—they can always summon more if needed. She pointedly ignores how odd it is to find him lurking in kitchens these days. But then, Eli's been full of surprises lately.
He heaves another sigh worthy of a Victorian heroine and storms out. Matilda makes a sound that in anyone else might be called tutting. Mae focuses on her hot chocolate, grateful to avoid another confrontation. All she wants is sleep— she's been inexplicably exhausted lately. Maybe Eli's fever is catching after all.