48. Maeve #2
I’ve never owned shoes with this kind of intricate embroidery before.
It represents a type of elegance and craftsmanship you rarely see anymore.
Most people prefer designer heels with recognizable brand names, but this is a different category of expensive entirely.
The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself because it knows its own worth.
Once I’m ready, I take a deep breath and head downstairs.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile at the men’s reactions as I descend to meet them.
They’re all wearing classic black tuxedos for the evening—elegant, timeless, and of course they all look absolutely devastating.
They might be dressed identically, but each carries himself differently, each with his own distinct presence. I’m equally drawn to all three of them.
Maybe it’s fortunate this won’t last forever. I could never choose between them, and that kind of greediness never ends well.
“You always look so lovely, Maeve,” Elaine says, smiling at me with such warmth that I both hope for and fear the maternal affection I see there.
I would give anything to have a genuine mother figure in my life, but I don’t want her to care about me like that when I’ll just end up hurting her later when this “engagement” inevitably ends.
Ford offers me his arm and I slip mine through his, allowing him to escort me as Charles does the same for Elaine toward the waiting cars.
We’re attending the local production of The Nutcracker at the historic theater downtown, an elaborate old building that apparently the men funded to have properly restored a few years ago. Lydia tells me this during the car ride, because naturally the men would never mention it themselves.
“For god’s sake, would it kill you to ever tell me about the nice things you do?” I hiss at them once Lydia’s out of earshot as we exit the cars.
The theater is illuminated on the outside not with the traditional Christmas greens and reds I expected, but with soft white-gold lights and varying shades of blue.
They seem to be going for a winter theme rather than strictly Christmas, or maybe it’s simply lighting that’s more accessible—brighter and less color-dependent.
“It’s gorgeous,” I comment as we approach the entrance.
“What is?” Gabriel asks.
“The lighting.” I gesture toward the building. “I mean, I love all Christmas lights, but these yellow and blue tones are much easier for me to see clearly. It helps me appreciate them so much more.”
Ford makes a humming sound as we enter the theater.
The interior is breathtaking, decorated in rich burgundies and golds that I can only partially appreciate due to my color blindness.
But the architecture and historical details are still stunning, clearly lovingly restored, and I’m genuinely grateful the men provided the funding to preserve this cultural treasure properly.
There’s still some time before the performance begins, so there’s an opportunity to mingle with other attendees, several of whom I’ve met at previous social events. I’m terrible with names, so I mostly stay quiet and smile while the men, Lydia, and Ford’s parents handle the actual conversations.
Ford places his hand on the small of my back and leans close to my ear. “I’ll get us some drinks.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
While he’s gone, Hayden and Gabriel position themselves on either side of me like a pair of protective guard dogs. I suppose after what happened at the last party, none of them are taking any chances that some oblivious man who refuses to acknowledge my engagement ring might try to corner me.
Several minutes pass in polite small talk, and then I realize Ford still hasn’t returned. I frown and peer around Hayden’s broad shoulder toward the bar area. The line for drinks hadn’t seemed particularly long when he left.
But he’s not waiting in line anymore. Ford has drinks in hand, but there’s another woman there engaging him in conversation, placing her hand on his arm, laughing too loudly, invading his personal space in a way that makes my blood pressure spike.
I suddenly understand exactly how furious Hayden felt when he saw me talking to that man at the party. Ford can’t be seen flirting with another woman or it would make him look like a terrible fiancé, but honestly, I don’t care about logical reasoning right now.
Before I can stop myself, my stomach tight with unexpected jealousy, I find myself marching over there.
“Darling, there you are,” I say sweetly, threading my arm through his possessively. “Is this my drink?”
I make sure to display my engagement ring prominently as I pluck the glass from his hand.
“It certainly is.” Ford sounds thoroughly amused by my territorial display.
“Thank you so much for getting it, you’re always so thoughtful.” I turn to smile at the woman with saccharine politeness. “I was worried he might stop being so attentive once we got engaged, but he’s actually become even more considerate.”
“Well, you never know,” Ford plays along smoothly. “You might get cold feet before the wedding. Can’t risk that happening.”
“I am feeling a bit chilly in this theater,” I lie without hesitation. “Could I borrow your jacket?”
The woman looks vaguely familiar—I think I saw her at one of the other social events—but I can’t remember any details.
What’s more important is the way she clearly wants to say something catty, her mouth twisting before she apparently thinks better of it.
She forces a tight smile, tells Ford it was lovely seeing him, and walks away with obvious reluctance.
“Who the hell was she?” I ask in a low voice, my tone sharper than I intended.
Ford laughs with genuine delight. “I had no idea you had such a possessive streak. I like it.”
His voice is quiet enough that no one else can overhear, which means this can’t be for the charade.
Right? I don’t know anymore. Everything feels so confusing in my head.
I might be pretending to be his fiancée, but that territorial display was unnecessary for maintaining our cover. I just wasn’t thinking clearly.
I smile at him but step back slightly. I need some space to clear my head, but I can’t leave now. The performance is about to begin.
I return to the others as the only viable option. Liam is glaring in Ford’s direction for some incomprehensible reason, but I’ve given up trying to understand that man’s thought processes. I slip back between Hayden and Gabriel, sip my drink, and avoid conversation with anyone.
Clearly, I’m not managing to keep my emotions in check as well as I’d hoped.
The chime sounds to signal it’s time to take our seats, and I quickly finish the rest of my drink. Gabriel pauses as the others file toward the theater entrance, watching me with obvious amusement. “You’re supposed to savor that, you know.”
“I can’t bring it inside with me.” I set the empty glass on one of the small tables. “All right, I’m ready.”
He offers me his arm with a gallant gesture. “Onward, to the best seats in the house.”
I laugh despite my complicated mood. “We don’t have the best seats in the house. The people backstage do.”
They get to be right up close to all the beautiful action, helping create the magic.
Gabriel gets a thoughtful expression. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, and suddenly he’s tugging me down a side corridor—toward the backstage area.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, but we’ve already reached one of the backstage doors and Gabriel is strolling through like he owns the place.
“Something you should understand about wealthy people,” he murmurs in my ear as we slip through the dimly lit space, crew members rushing around us preparing for the first act.
“They always act like they belong everywhere, like they deserve everything, like the world is theirs by natural right. Now, that’s not true, but you’d be amazed what you can get away with simply by acting like you belong. ”
“But what if we get caught?” I whisper, and as if summoned by my words, a woman wearing all black with a headset appears.
“Excuse me,” she says sharply. “What are you doing back here?”
“My sincere apologies.” Gabriel extends his hand, allowing his accent to become more pronounced.
“I was one of the benefactors who helped fund the renovations. I wanted to give my lovely companion here a quick behind-the-scenes tour to show her that her money was well spent, before the performance begins.”
The woman—clearly the stage manager—looks torn. She obviously doesn’t want us in her backstage area, but we’re supposedly donors who helped restore this theater.
“Just be out of here before we call places,” she says after a moment of internal debate.
“Thank you so very much,” Gabriel says with genuine gratitude.
She hurries away, calling over her shoulder, “And don’t touch anything!”
I have to smother my laughter as Gabriel guides me to a spot near the main curtain where we can observe all the backstage activity without being in anyone’s way.
It’s magical, watching the dancers move gracefully in their elaborate costumes, seeing all the gorgeous detail work up close, everyone bustling around with focused energy.
Some people might think seeing behind the curtain would ruin the illusion, but for me it only makes everything more enchanting.
I’m caught up in the excitement that fills the entire backstage area.
“Places!” comes a voice over the intercom system.
“Places,” I hear various crew and cast members echoing to each other.
“That’s our cue,” Gabriel whispers.
I turn to him and kiss him softly before I can second-guess the impulse. “Thank you,” I whisper against his lips. “This was perfect.”
“Your happiness is perfect,” Gabriel replies quietly.
My heart clenches painfully at those words.
We sneak back through the theater and slip into our front-row center seats just as the curtain rises.
The Nutcracker is a ballet I’m familiar with—I think most people are—but with my love of Christmas, this particular production is definitely one of my favorite parts of the holiday season.
I was always disappointed that I couldn’t afford proper theater tickets in New York, but I tried to catch televised or streamed versions whenever possible.
Now I allow myself to be swept away by the story.
The idea of being whisked away by a handsome prince to a land of impossible wonders feels remarkably similar to my current situation.
As intermission approaches, I find myself wondering if, like Clara, I’ll eventually wake up to discover it was all just a beautiful dream.
A lovely dream, but ultimately not real.
“I need to find the restroom,” I announce as we all stand and stretch. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m addressing Ford primarily, although I know Hayden and Gabriel are also paying attention, so I’m not particularly surprised when I exit the restroom several minutes later and find myself being pulled into a shadowy alcove.
I’m not sure which one of the men it is, but one of them must’ve followed me.
A grin pulls at my lips.
Well, if this is just a dream, it’s one I have no intention of waking up from until I have to.