Maeve #3
For a second, I thought he might actually agree.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head slightly. “No.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course not.
“Let's talk about what's wrong,” he said. “I thought your day was going well.”
My eyes snapped open as I stared at him. Slowly, a feeling of suspicion began creeping its way into my irritation. “Are you getting minute-by-minute reports?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, only for a second. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly before settling again, and suddenly I knew.
My eyes widened. “Are you fucking serious!?”
“Language.” His eyes narrowed, before he hesitated. Then, apparently deciding there was no believable way out of it, nodded once.
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “From who?”
My father sighed. “Maeve.”
“No, I’m being serious.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Who is reporting back to you?”
“Nobody is reporting back to me.”
“Right. And I'm sure everyone just voluntarily forms a queue outside your office every hour.”
A look passed over his face that suggested I was being difficult. I wish I could say it deterred me, instead it only encouraged me.
“Is it Faroq?” I asked, a hint of dismay laced in my tone. “Because if it's Faroq, I'm going to—”
“It's not Faroq.”
My shoulders dropped, a small relief coursing through me. “Then who?”
My father rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I told you. It’s not someone. It’s just the players—”
I blinked. “Players?”
“Yes.”
The answer shouldn't have surprised me. For some reason, it still did. “Why?”
He looked genuinely confused by the question. “Because you're new, and they’re…overprotective.”
This wasn’t news to me. Faroq had said the same thing earlier, but still something felt off.
“You've joined us in less than ideal circumstances,” my father continued. “The players were a little on edge. They know there's going to be more attention on them because of your paper, whether that's fair or not. But I mean it, Eve. From everything I'd heard so far, I thought it was going well.”
Despite myself, some of the tension eased from my shoulders. His voice was completely genuine, and it had been enough for a small, reluctant part of me to take comfort in it. The use of my nickname had done the rest of the work.
Especially compared to the anger I'd heard in his voice last week, and the disappointment that had lingered long after our conversation ended, this felt like progress.
The thought made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
Over the past week, between Samyra's words and my own guilt, I'd spent a fair amount time thinking about my father words.
Thinking about our argument. Thinking about the things we'd both said.
Thinking about the apology I'd never quite managed to give him, and how today I’d come in prepared to finally say it.
Only before I could speak, my father beat me to it. “Which brings me to my next question. What happened with Rihaan?”
I felt my spine straighten instantly, a scowl settling on my features. “You’ve allowed him to have his personal PT.”
A conflicted look crossed his face. “I did.”
“Well, if I didn’t think he was entitled before…” I trailed off, the implication clear in my tone.
My father leaned back slightly in his chair. "Oh, don’t start again. He's just upset."
I stared at him across the desk, genuinely unsure whether I'd heard him correctly. The office suddenly felt smaller than it had when I'd walked in before. "That's your explanation?"
My father sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's part of it. I’ve known Rihaan most of his life, and I know that he just needs to do this before he comes around to the idea of you being in this role."
The annoying thing was that I already knew that. I'd known it the second Rihaan walked into the treatment room. Understanding his reaction wasn't the problem.
The problem was the understanding seemed to come so easily for my father, when it was Rihaan. And yet, even now he had barely hinted at knowing the reasons that sat behind my decision to publish—to write—the paper.
Shaking my head, I frowned. “Shall I remind you that it was your idea for me to come and join the squad? And how I’d expressed that I was perfectly happy in my previous role—and now, suddenly, because your golden boy is upset, you’re more than happy for me to feel I need to be micro-managed?”
“He feels singled out,” my father pointed out. “This is just him being defensive.”
"I've worked hard to get here," I said quietly.
"I know you have."
No, I don't think you do.
It’s what I wanted to say, instead I glanced at the watch on my wrist, I pushed myself up. “I should get back.”
He nodded, tapping his desk twice with the side of his finger.
“The reality of this is that whether you meant to or not: you questioned decisions he's spent years defending.
You don't get to do that and expect the fallout to disappear because you've walked through the door with a positive attitude. Did you expect him to roll out the red carpet and welcome you with open arms?”
“I expected him to throw a tantrum.” I frowned. “I didn’t expect you to make it so easy for him.”
“It’s the bed you made for yourself, Trouble.” He relented, though my heart barely stirred at the sound of my nickname. “You’ll have to give it time before it starts to feel comfortable.”
“I wasn't trying to challenge him.” I admitted, my voice quieter than I’d intended.
“No. You were trying to make a point.” His voice softened slightly. “But from where he's standing, there isn't much difference.”
Silence settled over us, and if anything, I felt more frustrated than when I'd walked in, but before I could tell him, or try to make him understand my point of view, I just nodded before pulling the door open.
And nearly walking straight into the last person I wanted to see.
Rihaan was leaning against the wall next to the office, one shoulder resting lazily against the brickwork, his arms folded across his chest.
Waiting.
The second our eyes met, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
My stomach sank.
Because it wasn't the expression of someone who'd accidentally wandered past. It was the expression of someone who'd heard more than I’d liked.
For a second, neither of us spoke as the door closed with a soft bang behind me.
Then his smirk widened as he read my expressions. “This is going to be fun, Trouble.”
My blood went cold. “Don't.”
His brows lifted, feigning innocence. “Don't what?”
“Don’t call me that.”
The amusement in his eyes only deepened as he pushed himself to stand straighter. Taller. Closer. “That’s rich.”
When I didn’t give into his bait, he continued speaking.
But a cold feeling settled in my stomach as he took another step, swallowing the distance between us.
“Thanks to your little act, the world has been calling me everything under the sun—from reckless to washed up to begin with; when in fact, I’m at the very prime of my career.
” His gaze didn’t waiver. “I think that calls for a fitting name for you too, don’t you think so? And, trouble, seems to be it.”
Before I could object, he leaned down, his breath hot and heavy on my collarbone as he whispered in my ear. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Trouble.”
My breath stuttered as he pulled himself back, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he walked around me and inside my father’s office.
And I’d never hated that nickname more than I did in that moment.