Maeve couldn't believe a word of what Martin had just said. Fred Orchard was really out to ruin her.
She couldn't understand why he was still so hellbent on revenge. This wasn't like the past, when he'd pretended to love her, when his kisses were laced with poison, and love had been her death sentence.
In this life, she had tried to make things easier for him. She had broken their vows quietly and walked away in peace. So why was he still after her?
"I'm not selling my music," she said, her voice low but sharp. "And I'm definitely not giving it away."
"Maeve," Martin sighed, his tone thick with fake patience. "Stop being so stubborn. You've been shelved. Be realistic. You can still write songs for others. That way your name doesn't disappear completely. Or, if you're smart, take this offer. Fred might even change his mind."
Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles whitened. "You want me to scam my fans? You think I'll slap my name on something I didn't bleed to create?"
"What fans do you even have left?" Martin shot back coldly. "Your last EP tanked. Labels don't want you. Brands don't want you. We had to beg Tamu for that endorsement deal. Beg, Maeve."
His words was hurting, but she forced her tone to stay calm. "I don't care. I'm not trading integrity for scraps."
"You don't have a say anymore," he said flatly. "You signed the contract. You owe the label twenty million this year, and if it's not through music, it'll be through something else, branding, influencing, whatever. Fred's been generous not to expose how bad things really are. You should be grateful everyone still thinks you're rich."
Generous. Grateful. The words made bile rise in her throat. What exactly had Fred Orchard ever done to deserve gratitude?
Maeve hated herself for signing that deal. Back then, she'd been blinded, he'd made her his girlfriend, his little project, pretending to bring her in while all he'd done was lock her down. But he had made mistakes too, he'd loosened a few terms, too arrogant to think she'd ever fight back.
He thought he owned her but he didn't. Not fully yet.
Maeve said nothing. Silence was her last weapon with Martin. And when she gave him nothing, he hung up.
She didn't waste a second. She grabbed her bag, shoved her phone inside, and stood.
"Miss Maeve, what's wrong? Where are you going?" Becky asked, panic flashing across her face.
Maeve smoothed her dress and lifted her chin. "To see my supposed boss," she said, her heels clicking hard against the floor. "If Fred Orchard wants a war, I'll give him one."
----
On the highest floor of a forty-storey building sat a man in an office that looked like fortress. Perched high above the city with a view that made sky scrapers look like small buildings.
This was his peace zone. His second home.
Clayton Grey sat on his chair working with his laptop when the door to the office opened.
"You asked for me Mr Grey?" A male voice rang from the other end of the room.
"Did she like the flowers?" Clayton Grey asked, his tone casual, almost lazy, but his eyes, sharp as steel, pinned his assistant in place.
The assistant hesitated. He'd told his boss a thousand times that Maeve Orchard was the wrong woman, a scandal waiting to explode. She had betrayed her childhood sweetheart on her wedding night. She was a walking disaster. But Clayton never listened.
"Yes, sir. I delivered them as instructed," the assistant finally said.
Clayton leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the polished mahogany table, the other wrapped around a chilled glass. "And?"
"We didn't get to see her. Her assistant accepted the gifts."
A faint smile tugged at Clayton's lips. "Good."
The assistant's chest tightened. His master had a way of chasing trouble, and this time, it wore Maeve Orchard's face.
"Prepare a dinner date," Clayton said suddenly, the glass of water clicking softly against the table. "It seems my fiancée has forgotten our marriage agreement."
The assistant blinked. Fiancée? Surely he had misheard. The entire internet thought it was a joke when Clayton Grey announced it. Half of them were convinced the account was fake. And now, he was serious?
They had even thought of getting ride of the account and creating new one for him.
"Mr. Grey…" the assistant started carefully, "are you certain about this?"
Clayton's hand paused mid-air. He rolled the ice between his fingers, then placed it into his mouth.
While other billionaires lived on fine wine, expensive liquor and expensive cigars, Clayton Grey had a simpler obsession, ice. He chewed slowly, savoring the crunch, before his eyes lifted again. It was cold, so cold yet powerful. Deadly and calm.
"Have I ever said something I wasn't sure of?" he murmured.
The assistant shook his head quickly. "No, sir."
"Then book it. One of the best restaurants in the city. A night she won't forget. I need to remind my woman of the promise she made me." His voice dropped lower, smooth as velvet but carrying the weight of command. "No one asks for Clayton Grey's hand in marriage and dares to ignore it."
"Yes, boss."
The assistant turned, but his nerves pushed one more question out. "But… Miss Maeve is already married to your nephew."
Clayton's gaze sharpened. His words were quiet, but final. "Hmm..." he hummed.
"So it seems. You're my assistant, yet I'm more updated on the news than you are."
That was the end of it.
The assistant swallowed, bowed slightly, and hurried out of the room. He pulled out his phone immediately, searching for the finest restaurants in the country. A reservation was made. An invitation was sent.