Maeve got into her personal clothing designer’s store, a small, exclusive boutique tucked away in a quiet corner of the city that only the wealthiest clientele knew existed. The store was elegant but understated, with soft lighting that cast warm shadows across the walls and plush velvet chairs arranged around a small seating area in the center.
Racks of suits and dresses lined the walls, each piece carefully curated and impeccably tailored, the kind of clothing that whispered of wealth rather than shouted it. The air smelled of expensive fabric and the faint, floral scent of the candles that burned on a side table, their flames flickering gently in the dim light.
Her designer, Hannah, was already picking the best suits for her, her experienced eyes scanning the racks with the precision of someone who had been dressing the elite for years. Hannah was a tall woman with sharp features and kind eyes, her own style a perfect blend of professionalism and artistic flair.
She had been Maeve’s designer for years, one of the few people who had earned the privilege of seeing Maeve without her armor. She knew the CEO’s measurements by heart, knew the way she preferred her cuffs and the exact shade of white that complemented her skin tone. She also knew, from years of friendship, when Maeve was pretending and when she was actually feeling something.
"No, I don’t want this color." Maeve refused the green color suit, her nose wrinkling slightly with distaste. She pushed the fabric away with her fingertips as if it had personally offended her. "It’s not appropriate for the dinner I’m attending tonight."
Hannah immediately took the suit off her, draping it over her arm without a word of protest. She had learned long ago not to argue with Maeve’s instincts. The woman knew what she wanted, and she knew what she didn’t want even more clearly. Arguing with Maeve about clothing was like arguing with a hurricane about which direction to blow—pointless and exhausting.
"How about something beige?" Hannah suggested, holding up a lighter option. The fabric was soft, a warm neutral that would have looked elegant on almost anyone.
Maeve thought about it, her brow furrowing slightly. She tilted her head, studying the suit with the same intensity she usually reserved for financial reports. "I’m not sure... Maybe something lighter but powerful?" She said, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty that was rare for her.
She was a woman who made decisions in seconds, who could close a billion-dollar deal before lunch, but choosing a suit for this dinner felt impossibly important. She needed to project strength without aggression, confidence without arrogance. She needed to look like someone Kamilah would be proud to have at her side.
Hannah nodded, her expression thoughtful. She disappeared into the back room, the soft rustle of fabric and the click of hangers echoing through the quiet store. Maeve could hear her moving around back there, pulling pieces from racks and examining them with a critical eye. A few moments later, she returned with a suit draped carefully over her arms.
"This..." Hannah presented the suit with a flourish, holding it up so the light caught the subtle sheen of the fabric. "Antique white color. Best for gatherings and classic events."
Maeve looked at it, her eyes tracing the lines of the fabric. The suit was elegant, tailored to perfection, with a subtle sheen that caught the light. It was the color of old ivory, the kind of white that had aged into something richer and more sophisticated than pure white could ever be. It was timeless, the kind of suit that would look just as appropriate in a boardroom as it would at a formal dinner.
She nodded and tried it on, stepping in front of the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the fitting area. The fabric hugged her frame with a precision that emphasized her height and commanding presence.
The color was a calculated choice; it was light enough to appear approachable and refined, yet the stark, pristine quality of the white screamed authority. It was the attire of someone who didn’t need to shout to be heard—someone who owned every room they entered.
She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, her expression was shifting into one of predatory focus. She knew exactly what this look would project to the Worthingtons: that she was the apex predator in the room, a woman of status who was entirely out of their league.
But more importantly, she wondered how Kamilah would react to it. Would she see the irony in the color—the very shade of a wedding dress—or would she simply see another layer of Maeve’s arrogance?
"This is it," Maeve said, her voice quiet but certain.
"Perfect," she murmured, her gaze was locking onto her own eyes in the mirror. She wasn’t just dressing for a dinner; she was dressing for a battle. She wanted to be a beacon of strength for Kamilah, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the Worthington home.
She handed her credit card to Hannah without looking at the price tag, her mind already drifting toward the clock. 7:30 PM. She would be there exactly on time—not a second late, and not a second early to give the Worthingtons time to breathe. She wanted the impact of her arrival to be absolute.
"Well, I see that you’re in a good mood today, Maeve. I’ve never seen you smile like this." Hannah said, preparing the suit for her. Hannah had been her designer for years now, and she had grown to tolerate her presence. More than tolerate, if she was honest. Hannah was one of the few people she considered a friend.
Maeve paused, her hand lingering on the fabric of the suit. The observation made her realize just how visible her shift in mood had become. For years, her identity had been a monolith of ice and iron, but Kamilah was like a slow-burning fire, melting the edges of that composure without even trying.
She didn’t answer immediately, her gaze drifted toward the window, thinking of the woman who called her a ’manchild’ with a smile of pure contempt. The irony was that the most insulting woman she had ever known was the only person capable of making her feel this strange, exhilarating lightness.
She thought about the way Kamilah had looked at her in the car, the contempt in her eyes, the dismissive roll of her eyes as she walked away. Anyone else would have been crushed by such treatment. Maeve found it exhilarating.
"I’ve simply realized that some things are far more rewarding than corporate acquisitions, Hannah," Maeve replied, her voice trailing off into a thoughtful hum. She turned back to the designer, her eyes glinting with a possessive, focused intensity. "Ensure the rest of the pieces are packed and sent to my car. I cannot afford to waste a single minute of my time."
"If this meeting is very important, perhaps you should buy something as a gift..." Hannah suggested, her tone careful, as if she was testing the waters. She knew Maeve well enough to know that the woman rarely bought gifts for anyone unless there was a strategic reason. But this was different. This wasn’t about strategy. Read the latest chapters at novelping dot com.
This was about something far more personal. "I heard that Graff launched their most limited diamond necklace. Only eight of them exist. And I also heard that the Queen of England bought one, the Queen of Spain, the Princess of Arabia, and those powerful people. But only if you’re interested."
Maeve stopped mid-stride, her interest piqued. She didn’t care for the prestige of royalty or the status of princesses—those were mere titles. But she cared deeply about exclusivity. The idea that only eight of these necklaces existed in the world appealed to her possessive nature.
If something was rare, it deserved to belong to the most powerful person who could claim it. And in Maeve’s mind, nothing was more fitting for Kamilah than something that the rest of the world could only dream of owning.
She turned back to Hannah, her eyes are narrowing with a sudden, sharp resolve. "The limited Graff necklace. Arrange a private viewing immediately. I don’t care if you have to call the CEO of Graff himself; I want it ready for me to inspect within the hour."
She didn’t even ask for the price. To Maeve, money was simply a tool to acquire the things she desired, and right now, she desired a symbol of value that matched the depth of the debt she felt she owed Kamilah. She imagined the cold, brilliant diamonds resting against Kamilah’s skin—a glittering shackle of luxury that whispered, ’You are priceless.’
"I’ll stop by the boutique on my way to the mansion," Maeve added, her voice humming with anticipation. "Make sure it’s flawless. Anything less than perfection is a waste of my time."
"No..." Hannah said, her voice firm but not unkind. "You don’t get to tell me what to do because I am not your secretary."
And Maeve knew when Hannah said no, it was a no. They had been friends for years, since high school, and Hannah was used to Maeve’s nature and her impulses. She had learned long ago that the only way to handle Maeve was to stand up to her, to refuse to be steamrolled by the force of her personality. It was a delicate balance, knowing when to push and when to pull, and Hannah had mastered it.
"And I suspect you’re acting like this because of Ms. Kamilah Worthington, aren’t you?" Hannah suddenly said.
Maeve blinked, the sudden shift in power dynamics momentarily stalling her. Most people would have trembled at her tone, but Hannah was one of the few humans on earth who had seen Maeve before she became the ’Ice Queen’ of the Belvedere empire. To anyone else, the "no" would have been a firing offense; to Maeve, it was a rare, grounding reminder that she wasn’t just a CEO.
The mention of Kamilah, however, caused Maeve’s composure to flicker. Her expression shifted from dominance to a guarded, intense curiosity. She didn’t realize she had been so transparent, but then again, the way she was behaving—canceling international meetings and hunting for the rarest jewels in existence—wasn’t exactly subtle.
"You’re becoming far too observant for your own good, Hannah," Maeve replied, her voice dropping an octave. She didn’t deny it. There was no point in lying to someone who knew her soul’s blueprints. Instead, she leaned against the counter, her gaze becoming distant and hungry.
"It’s because I am always encountering news and people posting about you on social media." Hannah managed to answer.
"Yes. It is Kamilah." Maeve’s voice softened, almost a whisper. "She’s... Unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. She looks at me and sees exactly who I am, and she doesn’t even blink. It’s infuriating. It’s captivating."
She looked back at Hannah, a small, genuine smirk returning. "Now, since you’re playing the role of the voice of reason... Do you think a diamond necklace is too much for a first ’reconciliation’ dinner, or just enough to make the Worthingtons realize she’s completely out of their reach?"
Hannah scoffed softly and sat down, gesturing for Maeve to do the same. "Sit down for me for a minute, Maeve..." She said, and a staff member appeared with a bottle of wine, pouring them each a glass.
Maeve sighed, the sound a mixture of annoyance and reluctant fondness. She obeyed, sliding into the plush velvet chair with graceful, feline movements. She didn’t usually ’sit down’ for anyone unless it was for a board meeting or a strategic negotiation, but with Hannah, the rules of the corporate world didn’t apply. She accepted the glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling as she held the stem with a practiced, elegant grip.
She took a slow sip, the tartness of the wine was cutting through the adrenaline still coursing in her veins. She leaned back, her posture was relaxed but her eyes are still sharp, watching Hannah. In this moment, she wasn’t the CEO of Belvedere Corp; she was just a woman who was dangerously out of her depth with a woman she didn’t know how to love.
"I’m listening," Maeve said, her voice was humming with a quiet curiosity. She knew Hannah was about to give her a reality check—the kind of blunt honesty that Maeve paid millions to avoid in her professional life, but which she secretly craved in her personal one. "Tell me, in your professional and personal opinion... Am I being a ’manchild’ again?"
The use of Kamilah’s word made Maeve’s eyes twinkle with a self-deprecating amusement. She was genuinely intrigued to see if her closest friend saw the same flaws in her that Kamilah did.
Hannah sat on the opposite sofa and took a sip of her wine. "You were always a manchild. When did you realize you weren’t?" She teased.
Maeve let out a short, dry laugh, a sound that was surprisingly genuine. She looked down into her glass, the crimson wine reflecting the dim, luxurious lighting of the store.
The teasing hit home because it was true; Maeve had spent her entire life getting exactly what she wanted the moment she desired it. She had treated the world like a vending machine and people like pieces of art to be collected.
"I’m starting to realize I never did," Maeve admitted, her voice was low and devoid of its usual arrogance. She swirled the wine, her thoughts drifting back to the image of Kamilah’s eyes—those eyes that saw through every layer of her power and found something lacking.
She looked up at Hannah, her expression shifted into something more serious, almost desperate. "That’s the problem, Hannah. I don’t know how to operate in a world where my money and my name don’t work. I keep trying to buy her affection or surround her with luxury, but she just... Scoffs. She wants something I’ve never known how to give."
Maeve took another sip of wine, her jaw tightening. "But I will figure it out. I’ll learn how to be whatever she needs. Even if it means I have to burn down the person I’ve spent twenty years becoming."
"Hearing it from you, I can picture that she’s different among all the women you’ve dated. If that’s her personality, then the diamond necklace shouldn’t become the main gift," Hannah said, and continued smiling.
She had been a clothing designer for rich people for years. She had been in the lesbian clothing business for years, and she knew what a woman was thinking, whether masculine or feminine or whatever a woman was thinking; straight or not straight, she knew it all.
Maeve paused, the wine glass halfway to her lips. She looked at Hannah, acknowledging the expertise in her friend’s gaze. Hannah had an intuitive grasp of the female psyche that Maeve simply lacked; Maeve viewed people as assets or obstacles, while Hannah viewed them as stories. If Hannah was suggesting that the diamonds were a misstep, it was a warning Maeve couldn’t afford to ignore.
"Not the main gift?" Maeve repeated, her brow furrowing. The idea of not giving the most expensive, most exclusive item available felt counterintuitive to her. Her instinct was to overwhelm, to drown the recipient in value until they had no choice but to recognize the scale of her devotion.
She set the glass down on the marble table with a soft clink, her expression becoming thoughtful. She tried to imagine Kamilah’s reaction to a Graff necklace. She could almost hear the scoff, the way Kamilah would probably call it ’gaudy’ or ’a desperate attempt to buy a heart.’ The realization stung, but it was a necessary sting.
"Then what?" Maeve asked, her voice stripped of its CEO authority, sounding almost vulnerable. "What does a woman like that actually want? She doesn’t want status, and she currently doesn’t want me. What is the ’main gift’ for someone who views everything I have as irrelevant?"
"Sincerity." Hannah replied and put her wine glass down. "My wife and I have been married for seven years, and up until now, she still lights up in excitement every time I kiss her hand. She can’t stop melting at my forehead kisses, or the way I hold her every time we have sex. We even had two daughters from IVF procedure... When I first held my first daughter, I knew... I married the right woman, and she also felt the same way about me. Sincerity, safety, pure love without control or boasting..."
Maeve remained silent for a long time, the echoes of Hannah’s words settling over her like a heavy shroud. Sincerity. Safety. Pure love without control.
The concepts felt alien to her. Everything in Maeve’s life had been a transaction, a power play, or a conquest. Even her affection had always been entwined with the desire to own, to possess, to ensure that the other person had no choice but to rely on her.
The idea of a love that didn’t seek to control was not just unfamiliar—it was terrifying. It required a level of vulnerability that Maeve had spent her entire adult life erasing.
She looked at her own hands, the fingers are long and steady, the hands of a woman who could dismantle a company in a single afternoon. She wondered if those hands were capable of the kind of tenderness Hannah described. Could she hold Kamilah without trying to cage her? Could she look at her and see a person instead of a prize?
"Safety," Maeve whispered, the word tasting bitter and sweet at once. She thought of Kamilah’s trembling shoulders, the way she recoiled from her own family, the invisible scars she carried.
She realized with a jolt of guilt that while she had offered Kamilah the ’safety’ of her power and her wealth, she had never offered her the safety of a heart that didn’t demand something in return.
Maeve stood up slowly, her gaze refocusing with a new, different kind of intensity. She didn’t look like a CEO anymore; she looked like a woman who had just been given a map to a place she had never been.
"I don’t know how to do that," Maeve admitted, her voice raw and devoid of pretense. "But I’ll try. I’ll start by... Not making her feel like a piece of furniture I’ve purchased." She looked at Hannah, a flicker of a real, humble smile appearing. "Keep the necklace in the wings. I’ll buy it, but I won’t lead with it. I’ll lead with... Whatever this ’sincerity’ is."
"One suggestion, maybe she’ll like some flowers?" Hannah said before Maeve could leave.
Maeve paused at the door, the suggestion hanging in the air. Flowers. It was such a mundane, cliché gesture—the kind of thing people did when they lacked a real plan.
But as she thought about Kamilah’s current state—the coldness of the Worthington mansion, the sterile atmosphere of their arrangement—the idea of something living, breathing, and fragrant suddenly felt like the perfect contrast.
She didn’t just want ’flowers.’ If she was going to do this, she wanted them to be an extension of the sincerity Hannah had spoken of. Not a massive, ostentatious bouquet designed to intimidate, but something that felt thoughtful. Something that whispered of care rather than ownership.
"Flowers," Maeve repeated, a small, contemplative hum vibrating in her chest. She turned back to Hannah one last time, her expression softened. "Thank you, Hannah. For the wine, and for the reality check."