Chapter 13
Damon asked, "Afraid of what?"
Maeve said, "Afraid of people like Victor Boyle. He's rich and powerful. If he finds out I have someone by my side—"
Damon interrupted her. "Maeve."
She looked up.
Damon reached out and gently covered her clenched fist with his hand.
He wasn't grabbing, just softly covering. His palm rested against the back of her hand, letting his warmth seep through.
"I'm not some naive teenager," he repeated what he'd said that day. "And—"
He gave her a faint smile. "Don't forget, I am a lawyer."
Maeve froze for a second, caught off guard.
Then, she let out a sudden laugh, unable to hold it back.
She nearly laughed herself to tears, quickly turning away to wipe her eyes.
"What's so funny?" Damon asked.
Maeve said, sniffling, "You're something else. Even when you're being serious, you can't help but promote yourself."
"Just a professional habit," Damon replied.
They locked eyes across the table.
Lazy jazz drifted through the café, and sunlight spilled across the floor from outside.
Maeve unclenched her fist.
His hand was still there.
She didn't pull away.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Well. Go ahead and chase me."
Damon's eyes lit up.
"Okay," he replied.
Later, when Maeve thought back to how things started between them, she realized there was nothing dramatic at all.
It wasn't like those teenage crushes that made her heart pound, her face flush, and left her constantly worrying if she'd lose Damon.
It was more like bundling up in a coat still warm from the dryer on a freezing winter day. She felt cozy, loose, and safe.
Damon's way of pursuing her was low-key and unpretentious.
Every morning, he'd text her: [It's cold today, wear something warm,] or [It rained last night, the roads are slippery, drive carefully.]
On weekends, they'd head to the stables together, grab a meal, and go for a walk.
Sometimes, they wouldn't talk at all. They quietly walked side by side through the park, enjoying each other's company.
Damon never pried into Maeve's past or asked what she planned to do next.
He was simply there for her. Like a tree, silently standing between her and the wind.
*****
Twenty-six months after the divorce.
Maeve and Damon made things official.
There was no grand gesture or special ceremony that day. They walked along the river path, then sat on a bench, watching the lights twinkle across the water.
Damon gently pulled her hand out of her pocket and laced his fingers with hers.
"You're my girlfriend," he said. It wasn't a question.
Maeve looked at their intertwined hands and said, "Yes."
The wind drifted over from the river. Winter was almost over.
Maeve leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
For that moment, she wasn't thinking about anything.
She wasn't thinking about Victor, Kayla, the divorce papers, or the numbers in her bank account.
She felt good to be alive.
*****
Thirty months after the divorce.
Maeve's life was nothing like it used to be.
At work, she'd gone from translation director to vice president of Business Development for the Valus region. It wasn't just her language skills. She had sharp business instincts that far surpassed her translation abilities.
Everyone else had been after a major Terenese client for half a year, but she sealed the deal in just three meetings.
Her annual salary shot up to 300 thousand dollars.
She'd completed her MBA too.
She moved her father to the city and got him into a better hospital. After switching to a more advanced treatment plan, his cirrhosis was steadily improving.
Her brother had graduated and landed a job at a good firm, finally standing on his own two feet.
Maeve didn't need anyone else to provide for her anymore.
Her relationship with Damon moved along smoothly, with no rollercoaster drama, no soul-crushing heartbreak.
They met up two or three times a week. Sometimes, Damon would show up at her apartment and try his hand at cooking. Not that he was a master chef, but he always gave it his all.
He'd flip a stir-fry many times and somehow managed to break two eggs just trying to fry one. Maeve would sit at the dining table, watching him scramble around the kitchen, struggling not to burst out laughing.
"Are you sure you don't need any help?" Maeve asked.
"Nope. Sit tight," Damon replied.
Right then, the spatula clattered to the floor in the kitchen.
"I'm fine," Damon called out.
Maeve got up, walked over, and took the spatula from him.
"Out," Maeve said.
"But I was the one making it—" Damon protested.
"If you keep going, the fire department's gonna show up," Maeve teased.
Damon was helplessly banished from the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her handle the pan.
"I thought I was supposed to be chasing you," he said.
"Chasing me and cooking are two different things," Maeve replied.
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Do the dishes."
"Okay."
These were the days. Simple, everyday, and genuine.
Sometimes, Maeve would freeze for a moment, like when Damon was watering the plants on her balcony, or when they were pushing a shopping cart together at the supermarket.
Or on rainy weekends when he'd pick her up, and she'd sit in the passenger seat, watching the windshield wipers go back and forth.
She'd think, 'Is this truly my life? Is this real? Am I dreaming?'
But in the real world, some things wouldn't disappear no matter how hard she tried to ignore them.
*****
Thirty-two months after the divorce.
One weekday afternoon.
Maeve was in the middle of a video conference in her office when her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen. It was an unknown number. She ignored it.
Five minutes later, it buzzed again. It was the same number.
After the meeting, she called back.
"Hello, who is this?" Maeve asked.
A voice came. "Maeve?"
Maeve's blood ran cold for a split second.
That voice was Victor's.