To prevent his mother from completely losing her mind, Eli herds everyone toward the second-floor patio. The staff has already arranged an elegant spread, crystal decanters of wine from his private cellar catch the ambient light, alongside that wretched Stilton that Mae insists smells like something's decomposing in the garden. True to her claim of changing out of grass stained clothes, she returns in a fresh cream jumper and tailored trousers, but positions herself as far from the cheese board as physically possible while remaining part of the gathering.
The city lights beginning to sparkle across the London skyline as Eli endures what feels like an eternity of his mother's fussing and his siblings' relentless commentary about his brush with mortality.
"Didn't even take leave for his own honeymoon," Theron muses, swirling his wine with unnecessary flourish, his navy suit jacket already discarded over a nearby chair. "But one fever and the great Eli crumbles."
The conversation eventually drifts to safer waters—Lirael's increasingly elaborate baby shower plans and Theron's ongoing wedding drama. Apparently, Delphine's chosen shade of cream clashes catastrophically with their color scheme, a crisis that has somehow spawned seventeen separate email chains.
His mother, perched elegantly on the wrought iron chair, can't seem to stop nattering on about Mae's painting. "You should see how the ladies at the club reacted," she preens, her fingers tracing patterns on her wine glass. She seems oblivious to Mae's subtle retreat indoors, the lingering scent of cheese proving too much for her. Eli notices her quiet departure, though his family remains engrossed in their chatter.
Theron's attention keeps dropping to his phone screen as Delphine apparently requires constant updates about whatever fresh wedding crisis has emerged. But this time, his expression shifts, a Look crossing his face.
"Speaking of which," Theron starts, setting his phone face-down on the glass table, "something's been bothering me. Has something kicked off with the Chamberlains? Evander and Maliah specifically?" He glances up, his casual tone too studied to be genuine. "Delphine's friendly with Maliah, and apparently she's been on quite the tear about Mae lately. Something about ignored calls and vanishing investors?" His eyes narrow slightly in the dim light. "Though last I checked, Mae's not exactly in a position to influence investment portfolios."
There's silence from his mother and Lirael, their curious eyes gleaming with interest at this morsel of gossip. Eli swirls the burgundy liquid in his glass, debating the merits of sharing this bit of family drama. Mae's business is her own, but…
"They deserve what's happening to them." He finally speaks
"I'm sure they do," Lirael says with a quirked brow, "But some context might be lovely."
"Evander and Maliah damn well know what they've done." He takes a sip of wine, letting the rich notes settle on his tongue. "And I've barely made a dent in what I plan to do."
Theron lets out a low whistle, loosening his silk tie. "Barely? According to Delphine—and mind you, she's got front row seats to this spectacle— Maliah's spa project is barely a float. Every investor suddenly developed cold feet overnight." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "And wasn't it Evander's showroom that mysteriously lost its prime Mayfair location? Something about the lease being bought out by an anonymous holding company?" A knowing smirk plays at his lips. "Del says he's been mental about it, can't secure another decent spot anywhere in Central London."
"Their import license for that fancy French skincare line got revoked too," Lirael adds thoughtfully, "Quite the coincidence, that."
Eli reaches for the decanter, topping up his glass.
"Eli," his mother shifts forward, addressing him sharply, "What aren't you telling us?"
Before he can formulate a vague response, Theron's face splits into a grin. "Isn't it obvious? They did something to Mae. Our ice prince got his knickers in a twist because he's besotted." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "I mean, did you see him earlier? Throwing himself about like some romance novel hero, making eyes at her like we weren't even there—"
"I don't make eyes," Eli cuts in sharply. "And I certainly wasn't throwing myself about. You lot waltzed in unannounced—"
"Did you just collectively blame us for nearly running over you and Mae?" Lirael gasps mockingly.
"Yes, darling, we do apologize for interrupting your frolicking," his mother adds with poorly concealed delight.
Eli briefly contemplates the merits of evicting his entire family from the premises. "I wasn't frolicking—"
"Why were you chasing her then?" Theron prods, clearly enjoying this far too much.
"None of your bloody business," Eli grunts, downing his wine in one go. The vintage, while excellent, lacks the fortifying punch of whiskey that dealing with his family requires.
The landline phone's sharp ring cuts through their banter, which is a rare occurrence, as the house phones are reserved for staff communication or his mother's lengthy gossip sessions with Mae. The yellow light on the sleek device indicates someone inside has already picked up.
Eli studies the unfamiliar number on the digital display before pressing the intercom button, his family's chatter dying down as voices filter through the speaker.
"—MAE, my darling girl! My little da Vinci! Bloody hell, it's been ages, hasn't it?" Norman Chamberlain's distinctive voice fills the evening air.
There's a short pause. Then—
"Father." Mae responds, crisp and cold, a tone so devoid of emotion that Lirael's brows shoot up in surprise. They've never heard Mae speak like this—the Mae they know is unfailingly polite, accommodating to a fault. The contrast is jarring.
Norman sighs dramatically. "Still in a strop, are we? Bloody hell, poppet, you've got your mother's talent for holding grudges. Been cross with me since the wedding, haven't you?" There's a rustling sound, like he's settling into a chair. "Wouldn't even let your old man walk you down the aisle—do you know what that did to my reputation? Half of London thought I'd finally gone round the bend!"
Eli's fingers tighten around his wine glass. This feels distinctly like treading into private waters, but his curiosity—and his family's blatant interest—keeps him from cutting the connection. Theron's vibrating with glee, while their mother has positioned herself closer to the speaker, as though proximity might yield more gossip.
"Father," Mae says with the same artic quality to her voice, "have you done anything worthy of walking me down the aisle?" A pause, then, "Enough nonsense. What do you want? Because if you're hunting for another marriage contract to thrust me into, I'm afraid this one's got another four years on the clock."
"Flipping hell," Theron breathes, looking like Christmas has come early. "Was Mae always packing this much venom?"
"Should we even be listening to this?" Lirael asks, though she makes no move to leave her seat, "It's rather invasive."
"Hush, all of you," their mother snaps, batting away Eli's hand when he reaches for the speaker button.
"There you go again!" Norman exclaims haughtily, "For the last time, buttercup, you weren't some consolation prize for Maliah. Have you met your husband? Well, obviously you have—probably know him better than I do now—but my god, the man's got all the warmth of a bloody iceberg. Brilliant chap, remarkable, really, but can you imagine him paired with Maliah?" He lets out a bark of laughter that has Eli's jaw clenching. "Two bullheaded forces of nature? They'd have murdered each other within a week! Maliah still calls him all sorts of creative names after that incident at the Avoy—wouldn't help her up after she slipped, apparently. Called him a 'sociopathic spreadsheet with legs,' if I remember correctly. Nearly pissed myself laughing at that one!"
Eli watches with mounting irritation as Theron nearly chokes on his wine, clearly delighted by this unflattering description. Even Lirael's shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"Is there a point to this call?" Mae interrupts her father's reminiscing,
"Always so direct, my little tempest. Can't a father ring his favorite artist for a chat?" Norman says it like Mae's injured his dignity, though Eli feels it's mocking at best, "Now that you mention it... bit of a sticky wicket with your brother and sister. You know me—not one for hovering about like those helicopter parents. But they've been bloody well camping on my doorstep, Mae love, can't reach you apparently." A pause, followed by the distinct sound of ice clinking against crystal. "And word has it, you're the reason everything's imploded. Might want to explain that one, darling? Because I must say, I didn't know you had it in you to raise such magnificent hell."
His mother straightens in her chair, giving him a pointed look. "Well, if you can't say it out loud, we might as well hear it straight from the source. Hardly a privacy issue now, is it?"
Eli stares at his mother, momentarily stunned by her leap in logic. The woman who'd raised him to be a shark is suddenly channeling playground rules about eavesdropping.
"Don't have the faintest what you're on about," Mae responds, "And while we're here, might want to climb down from that parental high horse. Bit rich coming from someone who thinks Father of the Year means remembering our birthdays every other decade."
"Darling, you're breaking my heart." Norman dramatically sighs again, "Got quite the mouth on you nowadays. More like your mother than I thought—"
"You were shagging Roscoe's mum while her corpse was still warm," Mae interrupts, "So perhaps lay off the dead wife reminiscing. As for your current predicament—I didn't ask Eli to do anything. But if he's decided to put Maliah and Evander through the wringer, I'm hardly going to stop him. They're your golden geese, Father. You sort them out."
Theron's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Lirael seems to be mentally rewriting her entire assessment of her sister-in-law. Their mother, on the other hand, looks giddy. Eli hasn't a clue on the reasoning behind such an expression.
"Come now, darling, don't be difficult. Your siblings—"
"My siblings," Mae says, "can get bent."
Theron nearly inhales his wine. Lirael lets out an undignified snort. Eli's disturbingly proud of his wife.
Norman's laughter booms through the speaker, rich and uninhibited. "Well, can't say I didn't try! My word, Mae, if I'd known getting you brassed off would be this entertaining, I'd have done it ages ago." Ice clinks against glass. "Right then, I'll leave your siblings to sort themselves. But tell me, how's life treating you? Haven't chatted in while. Is Eli living up to his fearsome reputation? Managing him all right, are you? Bit of an arse, isn't he?" Another chuckle. "I'd say he's a rather smitten arse though, terrorizing your siblings on your behalf. How romantic! Always knew those pretty eyes of yours would ensnare someone—just like your mum's did to me. Absolute stunner, she was—oh, right, sorry poppet, touchy subject that. And just for the record, that thing with Roscoe's mum? I was grieving, alright? I'm not completely heartless!"
"The set of lungs on that man is impressive," Theron whispers, clearly entertained.
Lirael makes a disgusted face, "I knew he was rubbish, but Mae actually grew up with this?"
His mother, oddly silent, wears an expression that sets off every warning bell in Eli's head.
"Every second you speak," Mae presses, "what little respect I have left just... evaporates. Please stop talking. Stop pretending you care." And Eli notes that the statement isn't said inflection lessly. It has something heavy in it, like Mae's disturbed by her father asking after her health and wellbeing.
"What a ghastly thing to say! Of course I care—you're one of my three precious daughters. You'd think I'd have more girls amongst the thirteen offspring I've sired so far. Peculiar how my swimmers seem to favor boys, isn't it?" Norman muses. "And I care so much, I've got a special branch in Chamberlain Enterprise dedicated to your safety—yours, Maliah's, and Sera's. Heard all about that hotel incident, by the way. Maliah mentioned you fainting with fever, which turned out to be an overdose?" He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Bloody reckless of you, that. Would've been devastated if you'd gone and died from such a blunder. But judging from your current volcanic temperament, I assume you're on the mend?"
"Hold up—you've been stalking me? How—what—"
Norman barrels on as if Mae hadn't spoken. "Even before that, that Silvia woman turned up at your doorstep, didn't she? Lord, I thought that was it—the day the scoundrel succumbs to his baser instincts and breaks my baby girl's heart. But apparently she was booted out at dawn. A surprising turn of events, really—"
"This is mental," Mae sounds rankled, as one should at such revelations. "You've got bodyguards following me? That's—wait, have you got spies in the house as well?"
Eli's brain stutters to a halt. Norman bloody Chamberlain, that lunatic, had not only stationed people to tail Mae but had somehow managed to infiltrate his staff. His vetted, extensively background-checked staff.
"Well, you can't honestly think I'd let you waltz into the lion's den without backup, now can you?" Norman sounds pleased with himself. "Eli's brilliant with business, credit where it's due, but husband material? Please. Man's got an entire redwood forest lodged up his arse. Had to make sure he wouldn't try anything untoward with my girl."
"That's—" Mae starts, then pauses. The silence stretches for a moment. "That's oddly thoughtful."
"Bloody hell, wasn't she ready to verbally eviscerate him thirty seconds ago? Why's she agreeing with the nutter?" Theron wilts at this plot twist.
Meanwhile, Eli's having an existential crisis about how complacent he's become, sitting here listening to a phone conversation that's repeatedly insulted his character, his marriage, and his entire household security system.
"Right?" Norman brightens audibly, clearly encouraged by this crack in Mae's armor. The ice in his glass clinks with renewed enthusiasm. "See? Your old man does think things through occasionally. I must say, watching you handle the Parrish heir has been intriguing. Didn't think you had it in you, poppet— playing the quiet wife while he dismantles your siblings' lives. That is some masterful manipulation."
"I'm not manipulating anyone," Mae says flatly. Eli can practically hear her eye roll through the phone. "Believe it or not, Father, some people actually do things of their own accord. And call off your bloody hounds— it's creepy and entirely unnecessary."
Norman hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "Of course you would say that, dear."
"I feel like something's happening here," Lirael muses, popping another piece of cheese into her mouth as she studies Eli's increasingly rigid posture. "But I'm missing vital context."
"Same," Theron agrees, his eyes bouncing between the phone and his older brother
Eli pointedly ignores their glances. His siblings can stuff their amateur detective work where the sun didn't shine. Whatever's happening between him and Mae is nobody's bloody business, especially not these gossip-mongering vultures he calls family.
"Whatever," Mae says with detachment again. "None of this undoes what you did."
"Love you too, dear."
"You throw that word around so easily," Mae scoffs.
"Bye bye, Mae bear. Let's chat again soon, yes? You're wonderful to talk to."
"Let's not. And call off your stupid guard dogs." Then the line goes dead with decisive finality.