•James Beaufort•

•Present•

"Whatcha staring at?" Her long, manicured-flowery nails snap in front of me, wanting to break my reverie but I can't manage to take my eyes off her.

My head spins. It fucking spins.

She slumps her shoulder in defeat, giving me a long unpleasant look before she stands next to me, her eyes landing back at her phone. I couldn't help but look at her texting a girl named 'Poppy' who sent her a photograph of a heavily calligraphed picture with 'Rubix' written in the middle of it.

Looking up, I notice she has her hair cut a little over shoulder length, unlike the long ponytail she used to have in school but mostly I'm glad that she didn't run away at the very sight of me like the little mouse she once was.

The door dings open on the seventeenth floor and my hands are already on her hauling her back, not letting her walk out.

What am I seeing? How is that even possible?

I put a brake on my train of thought to clear my head.

"Hey!" she screams and I fiddle with the button, messing and immobilizing the elevator. Her pretty doe eyes bulge out at me as I have her against the wall, my body standing between her and the exit.

"Maeve," I call out, my heart wrenching at the realization of how fucking long it has been since I let it out of my lips.

She pinches her eyebrows. "I think you have the wrong person."

I am still bewildered at her presence and her perfect American accent knocks away my comprehension of her even further. "How?" I barely whisper, thinking of the night when my whole world turned upside down. "How are you here—"

She pushes me and I buckle back, taken aback. There's something different about her. "How dare you put your hands on me?" she grunts, greeting me with such unfamiliarity that it hurts.

Instead, I refocus my attention on her to have another considerable glimpse of her. Maeve back then was a 'calming silence' in contrast to the Maeve now who is a 'raging storm' as she stands before me. There's not a single stroke of my charcoal stick that failed to grasp her beauty when I drew her in my book.

It suddenly occurs to me that I can't remember the last time I drew anything at all.

Maeve stalks past me, steaming with anger and my gaze follows her like a lost puppy. She's graceful and careful when she moves in her expensive clothing that clings to her body perfectly, her full lips pouting at the control panel while she works on them.

Why is she behaving like this? "Maeve?"

She spins toward me and I register the fact that she no longer has tenderness in her eyes. "My name is not Maeve," she shouts in exasperation. "Can't you hear? Or are you that dumb?"

"You're lying," I counter back, unable to understand her behavior.

Expelling a tired breath, she switches her attention back to the control buttons.

Unable to take her bullshit anymore, I snap and grab her arm, trailing her back at me. "Look at me," I tell her.

"Stop with your silly little acts. It's outdated and doesn't impress girls." A crease forms between her brows and I smirk, foreseeing her next move. She bites her lips, lifting her feet to knee me in the balls and I hasten up my reflexes, grabbing her knee just in time, beaming at the fact that she's not so different after all.

My girl hisses at her failure.

"I thought we were past that a long time ago." I bring her closer to me in a desperate attempt to draw our sweet little secret to the surface.

I'm surrounded in her rosey smell.

Maeve grunts, not so pleased, and she takes a stride back, rearing her right hand up and whips me across the face, my neck twists and I feel a sting on my cheek, barely two fingers below my eye.

Stupified, I glare the fuck back.

The doors of the elevator open dramatically and a man in a black suit and white shirt appears, looking alert as his eyes dart between us. Maeve walks to him still infuriated. "Keep him here, Ezra, and call the cops," she says with authority that I didn't see coming. Her steps halt and she twirls around, casting me a menacing look. "I'll make you regret for messing with me,"

And she stalks off, her hair bouncing all around her. Ezra stands guard and I run my index finger at the spot where she hit me, the gash of blood painting my finger.

Whatever games she thinks she is playing, I'm getting started as well.

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