Chapter 3 - The Threat in High Heels
Maeve’s arrival at the Caldwell penthouse was met with immediate, high-society resistance.
Grant hadn't been entirely alone in his grief. For the past six months, Victoria Sterling, the daughter of a prominent banking family and a longtime friend of Claire’s, had been firmly embedding herself in Grant’s life. Victoria was beautiful, sharp, and highly approved of by Grant's board of directors. She carried herself with the icy perfection of old money and had already begun hinting at a permanent place in the mansion.
On Maeve’s first afternoon, she arrived wearing jeans, a yellow sweater, and carrying a massive cardboard box filled with shaving cream, glitter, and old newspapers.
Victoria was in the living room, sipping tea with Grant, when the butler escorted Maeve in. Victoria’s eyes raked over Maeve’s outfit with instant disdain.
"Grant, darling," Victoria purred, setting her porcelain cup down with a sharp clink. "Is this the... specialist you mentioned? Honestly, she looks like she’s lost on her way to a public school."
Maeve didn't blink. She smiled warmly at Grant, ignoring Victoria entirely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Caldwell. Where are my associates?"
"In the playroom, down the hall," Grant said, standing up. He looked caught between Victoria’s sharp glare and Maeve’s grounding presence.
"Perfect," Maeve said, hoisting the heavy box. "Oh, and Mr. Caldwell? Remember our deal. No interference. That means no corporate observers." She cast a pointed look at Victoria before turning and marching down the hallway.
Victoria turned to Grant, her face contorting into a mask of aristocratic outrage. "Grant! You cannot be serious. That woman is common. She’s going to fill your children's heads with nonsense, and look at that mess she’s bringing into Claire's pristine house! Claire would be horrified."
The mention of Claire’s name hit Grant like a physical blow. He closed his eyes, the guilt twisting in his stomach. "Victoria, please. Let her try. Just for a week."
Meanwhile, in the playroom, Noah and Nora sat at a pristine white table, looking like miniature adults waiting for a board meeting. Maeve walked in, dumped the massive cardboard box right in the center of the hand-woven Persian rug, and sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Alright, associates," Maeve announced, pulling out bottles of blue and green food coloring. "Today’s mission is highly classified and incredibly messy. We are creating a galaxy on the floor. Noah, loosen that tie. It’s a liability in a shaving cream crisis."
Noah looked at his tie, then at Nora. For seventy-eight weeks, their life had been a sequence of quiet, polite, unbreakable rules.
"We are not allowed to mess the rug," Noah said formally.
"The rug is boring," Maeve replied, spraying a massive mountain of white shaving cream directly onto a piece of newspaper. "Let's make it art."
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Nora crawled forward first. Her small hand hovered over the foam. She looked at Maeve, checking for a trap. Maeve just winked. Nora plunged her hand into the cream.
A tiny, breathless sound escaped Nora’s lips. It wasn't a laugh yet, but it was the sound of a child remembering how to play.
