𝑱𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆

Lara Fabian

2:22 ───♡──── 4:25

"𝙹𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙹𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚜 𝚎𝚝 𝚓𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝. 𝚀𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚒 𝚝𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚓𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚞 𝚖'𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚞 𝚖'𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚍é𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚜."

Weeks passed, and Maeve Harding Shelby was no longer the woman anyone recognized. The once vibrant, sharp-witted lawyer who could stare down anyone with her piercing green eyes seemed to have evaporated, leaving behind a hollow shell. Little by little, Maeve had slipped out of the Shelby business. She missed meetings, avoided gatherings at The Garrison, and dodged Polly's attempts to reach her.

At first, it seemed like Maeve was just busy-her work as a lawyer often kept her occupied. But Polly wasn't a fool. Every time she called Maeve's office, it was Ava's voice that greeted her, polite but firm. "Mrs. Harding isn't in today," she'd say. Not "Mrs. Shelby." Just "Mrs. Harding." Polly noticed the subtle shift, and though she said nothing, it gnawed at her.

When Polly went to Maeve's house, Margaret opened the door, the children playing quietly in the background. "She's not here," Margaret said, her voice soft but guarded. "She's... she's been at the church a lot lately." Polly peered past her, trying to see some trace of Maeve, some sign that this was just a misunderstanding, but the home felt too quiet, too still.

Maeve was gone in every way that mattered.

At home, Arthur was trying everything. He'd taken over with the twins-feeding them, bathing them, even telling them bedtime stories in his gruff voice. He cooked, he cleaned, he stayed up late waiting for her to say something, anything. Every Sunday, he walked with her to church, holding her hand as if that simple act might tether her to him, to their life. But Maeve barely looked at him. Every touch, every glance, seemed to make her want to recoil, and he felt it.

God, he felt it like a blade twisting in his chest.

Maeve tried. She tried to look at him, to meet his gaze, but everything pressed too heavily on her. Knowing what she knew-what she had seen-made it unbearable. She couldn't cry in front of him, couldn't let him see how shattered she was. Just knowing they shared the same space made her chest ache in ways she couldn't explain. Arthur, her first love, her first kiss, her first everything, had become the source of her deepest heartbreak.

One day, she made a decision. She packed a small trunk for herself and the twins. She needed to leave-not forever obviously-even if she wanted to, she loved him too much, just for a little while. London was far enough to breathe but close enough to return. When she told Arthur, he stared at her, his expression blank, waiting for an explanation that never came.

"I need to go," she said, her voice quiet but steady as she buttoned her coat. The twins were already bundled up, playing near the door. "Just for a week. Rosie's there, and I haven't seen her in ages."

Arthur said nothing, but she saw the way his jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.

"You don't have to worry," she added, her tone sharper than she intended. "I don't think anyone even knows I'm a Shelby anyway."

His shoulders flinched at the words, but he didn't respond. Maeve turned away, unable to face him any longer, and opened the door. The cold air hit her face like a slap, but she welcomed it. She gathered the twins and left without looking back, her heart pounding in her chest.

Polly stood outside Maeve's office that same day, staring at the door with Ava's nameplate just beneath Maeve's. She knocked once, twice, before Ava opened it, her face carefully composed. "Mrs. Harding isn't here," she said again, her voice polite but detached.

Polly narrowed her eyes. "Not Mrs. Shelby?"

Ava blinked but didn't respond, and Polly took it as confirmation of what she already feared. "Tell her I'm looking for her," Polly said firmly before turning and leaving. She didn't know what was happening, but she'd seen this before. Maeve was slipping, sinking into the same darkness that had claimed her after Jamie and Ewan. Polly had pulled her out of it once before, but now it felt different.

At home, Arthur sat in silence, the sound of the twins' laughter already gone. He stared at the chair Maeve had left behind, his chest tight with worry and guilt. He didn't know what to do, how to fix it. All he knew was that she was gone, and it felt like the world had tilted off its axis.

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It had been several days since Maeve arrived in London, and the city's sharp rhythm felt like both a respite and a disruption. She was staying at Rosie's apartment, a modest but elegant space just at the edge of London. Maeve had paid for it, ensuring her younger sister had a safe haven close enough to Oxford to attend her music classes but far enough from the chaos of Small Heath and its shadows.

The apartment reflected Rosie's personality. The bookshelves were crowded with sheet music, novels, and little trinkets she had collected over the years. Soft light filtered through lace curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. Sammy and Aiden Brought an energy to the space that could make it feel simultaneously chaotic and serene. Their tiny laughs filled the air as Rosie played with them, her joy evident as she juggled between being their aunt and a child herself.

Rosie, nearly twenty now, was a stark contrast to her sister. She was unburdened by the weight Maeve carried and blissfully oblivious to the darker realities of their lives. While she knew their family was entangled with gangsters, she didn't know the extent of it. Maeve had made sure of that. Rosie had grown up with dreams and music, and Maeve intended to keep it that way. She didn't need her sister to know what it truly meant to be tied to the Shelbys or the blood that stained their hands.

The sisters spent their days catching up, playing with the children, and stealing moments of simplicity. Maeve marveled at how different Rosie's life had become-a life of textbooks, piano recitals, and warm evenings in the city. But as much as she tried to immerse herself in this world,

Maeve couldn't fully escape the heaviness inside her.

One afternoon, Maeve told Rosie she was heading to the store. Rosie was sprawled on the couch, a book in hand and Aiden curled up asleep next to her. She waved Maeve off with a laugh, joking about picking up sweets on the way back. Maeve smiled faintly, grabbing her coat and stepping out into the brisk London air.

The streets near Rosie's apartment were quiet, lined with tidy rows of buildings and the occasional shop. It was a stark difference from the grime and noise of Small Heath. Maeve liked the anonymity of it, the way people passed her without a second glance. It was the kind of quiet that should have felt safe. But as she made her way back with a small bag of groceries, a strange feeling prickled at the back of her neck.

She glanced over her shoulder. A group of men lingered on the opposite side of the street, walking at an unhurried pace. They looked ordinary enough-well-dressed, with neutral expressions-but something about their presence made her uneasy.

She quickened her steps, keeping her head down but her senses sharp.

The feeling didn't go away. By the time she reached the block before Rosie's apartment, it was unbearable. She stopped abruptly and turned to face them, her heart steady but her mind racing. They slowed, their movements calculated. One of the men, older with a thick mustache and sharp eyes, stepped forward. He wore a finely tailored coat and carried himself with an air of importance.

"What do you want?" Maeve's voice was calm but cold.

The man hesitated, then offered a small, disarming smile. "I'm looking for Bridget Harding."

Maeve stiffened at the mention of her mother's name. "You've got the wrong girl," she said curtly, turning on her heel to leave.

"I'm sorry," the man called after her, his tone casual but deliberate. "I got confused. I'm looking for Maeve Harding."

She froze mid-step, her hand tightening around the grocery bag. Slowly, she turned back, her green eyes narrowing. "Go on."

The man inclined his head slightly, almost like a bow. "Victor," he said, his accent crisp and faintly French. "I'm here on behalf of your grandfather."

Maeve's expression didn't shift, but her mind reeled. "My grandfather's dead," she said, her voice steady. "Tuberculosis." The words came out like stone, solid and unmoving. "You've got the wrong girl."

Victor didn't falter. He held her gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He extended it toward her. "If you're certain, then I'll take my leave," he said. "But I ask that you call this number. It's important."

Maeve didn't move at first, her eyes flicking between him and the paper. Finally, she stepped forward, snatching it from his hand without a word. The paper was crisp and bore nothing but a single number in precise handwriting.

Victor tipped his hat slightly, his demeanor polite and firm. "I'll leave you to your day, Miss Harding. Until we meet again."

With that, he turned and walked back toward a sleek black car parked down the street. A few other men, clearly with him, fell into step behind. They were dressed similarly-sharp coats, polished shoes-and carried themselves with the quiet confidence of men who were used to power.

Maeve stood frozen for a moment, watching them disappear. Her mind churned as she tucked the paper into her coat pocket. His manner, his words-they had something. And the mention of her grandfather, a man her mother had described as long dead, sent a cold shiver down her spine.

She turned and walked briskly back to Rosie's apartment, her mind racing. She hadn't told Rosie anything yet-not about her mother's family, not about the man on the street, and certainly not about the strange connection to her past. For now, she would keep it to herself. She needed to figure out what this was.

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The small house in London was quiet, the kind of silence that only came when children were fast asleep. Maeve Harding stood in the kitchen, the soft glow of a single bulb casting long shadows against the walls. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the phone mounted on the wall, its heavy black receiver cool in her palm.

She glanced toward the hallway, listening for any sign of stirring from Rosie or the children. Nothing but silence. Satisfied, Maeve dialed the number Victor had scrawled on a slip of paper, her fingers moving deliberately, though her chest tightened with unease. She didn't know what she was expecting on the other end of the line, but she braced herself anyway.

The phone rang, each tone dragging out the tension. Maeve swallowed hard, staring out the small window above the sink as if the night sky might offer some clarity. When the line finally connected, she closed her eyes for a brief moment, summoning steadiness.

"I was told to call this number," she said, her voice calm, though her grip on the receiver tightened. "A man named Victor gave it to me."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Not static-just the kind of quiet that felt heavy, deliberate. Maeve frowned, leaning slightly closer to the phone. "Hello?" she asked, her voice sharper. "Is anyone there?"

The silence stretched on, long enough that Maeve considered hanging up. But then, a voice crackled through-deep, accented, and edged with a mixture of shock and hesitation. "Yes," the man said finally, his tone uneven. "I'm here."

Maeve's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features. The voice carried weight, something she couldn't place but felt in her chest. "And who are you?" she asked after a pause.

The man on the other end seemed to hesitate again, as though searching for the right words. "My name is Jacques Rousseau," he said. "I... I believe I'm your grandfather."

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, though Maeve's expression remained neutral. Her free hand gripped the edge of the counter, grounding herself. "Victor told me to call," she repeated, her tone guarded now. "He said nothing more than that."

Jacques exhaled softly, the sound barely audible over the line. "I know who you are, Maeve. And I know about Rosie." His voice tightened slightly, laced with something Maeve couldn't quite decipher-relief, perhaps, or sorrow. "I've known for some time."

Maeve's fingers tapped lightly against the counter, her thoughts racing. She didn't ask how. Not yet. Instead, she waited, letting the silence settle again.

"I thought you were lost," Jacques continued, his voice quieter now, more controlled. "For years, I thought..." He trailed off, clearing his throat. When he spoke again, his tone was more measured. "But it's better we speak in person. There are things I cannot explain over the phone."

Maeve's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't like mysteries, and she liked being kept in the dark even less. But something in Jacques's voice-steady but threaded with a raw edge-made her pause. "Where and when?" she asked simply.

Jacques gave her an address in the heart of London, a place that sounded far too grand for someone like her. He added, almost as an afterthought, "Bring Rosie, if you can."

The request surprised Maeve, but she didn't show it. "All right," she said after a beat, her tone even. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Jacques echoed. And then, without another word, the line clicked dead.