You Wish

"This is a stupid idea, Mae. A monumentally bad one," Nora said, shoving a paper cup of steaming coffee into Maeve’s hands.

The heat seeped through the cardboard, warming Maeve’s freezing fingers, but it did nothing to thaw the sudden, unyielding ice inside her chest.

Nora dropped into the plastic chair beside her, casting a skeptical glare around the sterile, brightly lit clinic waiting area. She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. "I know you have money. You have more money than God. But this? Why on earth would you resort to artificial insemination?"

Maeve stared down at the dark liquid sloshing inside the cup. She offered no answer. Her throat felt raw, scraped hollow by the confrontation she had just walked away from. Her outward appearance mirrored the wreckage left in Preston’s wake. Her designer coat hung limp, creased and ruined from the physical struggle in the executive hallway. Beneath it, her silk blouse sat askew, the fabric torn at the shoulder where she had broken his grip. She felt the stiff, dried tracks of tears pulling at her skin, mingling with the dark, heavy streaks of mascara smeared beneath her eyes.

She had not bothered to change her clothes. She had fled the building and come straight here, carrying the physical evidence of her public humiliation.

Her phone vibrated in her purse, emitting a steady, annoying buzz against the leather. It had not stopped ringing since she left the office. Calls from her father. Calls from her brother. Texts from the company assistants. They all knew. They had all seen Preston choose Lyra, effectively tearing up her carefully laid five-year plan and tossing it in her face. Answering the phone meant admitting she lost. It meant acknowledging the sting of his mother’s slap and the suffocating reality of his betrayal.

Nora sighed, her expression softening. She reached out, attempting to place a comforting hand on Maeve’s arm.

Maeve swatted it away. She did not look up. She kept her gaze fixed on the rim of her coffee cup.

"It is my only choice," Maeve said. Her voice sounded flat, stripped of all warmth.

"Only choice?" Nora blinked, throwing her hands up in frustration. "What does that even mean? How did I end up with a friend like you?"

Maeve kept silent.

Nora muttered a sharp curse. "That bastard Preston," she hissed, her protective anger flaring. "This is his fault. I still cannot wrap my mind around him throwing you away like that. For what? A business deal?" Nora gestured toward the door. "We need to leave. We can walk out right now. You can find a man to marry tomorrow. There are billions of men out there. Half of them would kill to put a ring on your finger if you gave them a single glance."

A dry, humorless chuckle scraped its way out of Maeve’s throat. She lifted the cup and took a slow sip, letting the bitter coffee burn her tongue.

"I do not need a man to be happy," Maeve said, staring blankly at the white clinic walls. "I just need a baby."

She did not elaborate. She lacked the energy to explain the shift happening inside her mind. The heartbreak had paralyzed her for an hour, but now, a cold, calculating clarity took its place. She had zero desire to fix broken things. She had no intention of crawling back to her father's world to play the naive, obedient daughter.

What she wanted was control. She wanted absolute, unbreakable power over her own life. To reclaim her agency and secure her position, she required one specific asset.

An heir.

She had arrived prepared for this step. She refused to marry a stranger just to produce a child. Her father would undoubtedly rage when he discovered she bypassed his matchmaking for a clinic, but his anger no longer concerned her. She was done living by rules designed by men. She would forge her own legacy.

Nora opened her mouth to argue further, but the heavy glass door leading to the back hallways swung open. A nurse in blue scrubs stepped into the waiting area, holding a clipboard.

"Maeve Harlow?"

Nora let out a defeated sigh, grabbing her purse. "Go ahead. I am going to run to the restroom real quick."

Maeve nodded. She gripped her coffee cup, stood up from the rigid plastic chair, and followed the nurse toward the hallway. As she walked, the phone in her bag vibrated again, the aggressive buzzing echoing in the quiet corridor. Frowning, she reached one hand blindly into her purse, keeping her eyes downcast as her fingers searched for the device to power it off.

She took another step forward and slammed straight into a solid wall.

The impact jarred her teeth. It was not a wall. It was a chest.

Warmth radiated through a thick leather jacket, followed instantly by the sharp scent of clean rain, musk, and spilled coffee.

Maeve stumbled backward, her heel twisting awkwardly as she fought to keep her balance. The lid of her cup had popped off. She looked down and gasped. Dark, steaming coffee coated the front of the stranger’s crisp white shirt, dripping down the dark leather of his jacket. Black flakes of her ruined mascara clung to the wet fabric, leaving a grotesque stain across his chest.

"Seriously?" Maeve snapped, her head snapping up. "Do you not look where you are going?"

Her gaze traveled up the man’s broad frame. He towered over her, standing easily at six-foot-four. His shoulders filled the hallway, his body lean but carrying the dense, heavy muscle of someone who trained relentlessly. The leather jacket molded to his arms, framing the ruined shirt beneath. He had dark hair, tousled and unkempt, paired with a shadow of stubble along a sharp, unforgiving jawline.

Then she met his eyes.

They were a striking, unnatural shade of light brown, catching the overhead fluorescent lights like polished gemstones. He was built like a sin, radiating a dangerous, rough energy that felt entirely out of place in a sterile medical clinic.

The man did not flinch. He did not apologize. He stared down at her, his expression hardening into pure, unadulterated disdain.

"I do not know what kind of game you are playing," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the tight space. "But I am not interested."

He stepped sideways, brushing past her shoulder without a second glance.

Maeve’s jaw dropped. The sheer audacity paralyzed her for a split second. "Excuse me?"

He did not stop walking. His broad back retreated down the corridor. "If this is your twisted method of flirting, try not dumping overpriced coffee on people next time." He paused, casting a cold look over his shoulder. His gemstone eyes raked down her torn blouse, her wrinkled coat, and her messy hair. "And at least dress better. You look like a corpse."

Fury, hot and blinding, ignited in Maeve’s chest. The lingering grief from Preston evaporated, replaced by a fiery, consuming annoyance.

She spun around and stormed after him, her heels clicking aggressively against the tile.

"Excuse me? You walked into me, jackass!" she yelled, closing the distance. "If you had not been standing in the middle of the hallway like an oversized piece of furniture, this would not have happened."

The man slowed his pace but did not turn. "So it is my fault you were not watching where you were going."

"Maybe if you were not built like a moving wall," Maeve snapped, her temper flaring hotter. "Who walks around that tall in a medical clinic?"

He stopped and tilted his head, giving an arrogant, dismissive shrug. "Not my fault you are small."

"I am not small. You are freakishly tall."

"Still not my problem."

He stepped around a medical cart, clearly done with the exchange. But Maeve was not finished. She chased him further down the hall, clutching her empty coffee cup, demanding basic decency.

"How can you be so rude?" she demanded, stepping directly into his path to force him to stop. "The least you can do is apologize!"

He halted. The air between them vanished. He looked down at her, delivering a slow, infuriating once-over. His gaze lingered on her furious eyes before a slow, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

The arrogance rolling off him made her fingers twitch. She wanted to crush the paper cup and throw it at his handsome face.

"Unbelievable," Maeve muttered, shaking her head. She shot him a withering glare. "They really let anyone donate now, huh? I should ask the clinic to pull your application. I hope no poor child ends up inheriting your awful personality."

His smirk faltered. The mocking amusement vanished from his face, replaced by something dark and intensely sharp.

He took a step forward.

"What did you just say?" His voice dropped into a low, controlled register, stripped of all sarcasm.

He stepped dangerously close. The sudden proximity swallowed the space between them. A heavy, electric tension crackled in the air, raising the fine hairs on Maeve’s arms. She had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, but she refused to back down. She held her ground, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Before she could fire back a response, a door opened at the far end of the corridor.

"Maeve Harlow?" the nurse called out, her voice echoing off the walls. "We are ready for you."

Maeve clenched her jaw. She held the stranger's intense stare for one second longer, refusing to let him win, before she spun on her heel.

"Jerk," she muttered under her breath, storming away.

She took one aggressive step forward. Her heel struck the wet tile where the coffee had pooled.

The friction vanished. Her foot skidded wildly out from under her. Balance abandoned her in an instant. Maeve gasped, her arms flailing as gravity yanked her backward. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the harsh, bone-rattling impact against the solid floor.

She never hit the ground.

In a blur of unnatural speed, two incredibly strong arms snatched her out of the air. One thick, muscular arm wrapped firmly around her lower back. The other hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice.

The sheer force of his catch stopped her fall instantly, knocking the air straight out of her lungs. Her body slammed hard against his firm chest. The scent of leather and coffee enveloped her senses.

Maeve's eyes flew open.

She found herself staring up into the same gemstone eyes. The mocking smirk had returned to his lips, more infuriating than before. She was pressed flush against the ruined white shirt she had just destroyed.

He held her suspended, his grip unyielding.

"You really know how to leave an impression," he said, his tone dripping with arrogant amusement.

Heat flooded Maeve’s cheeks. She immediately shoved both hands against his chest, pushing against the hard muscle beneath the damp fabric.

"Let go," she demanded.

He released her instantly. He stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides. "I figured temporary embarrassment was better than a severe concussion."

Maeve furiously yanked herself upright. She smoothed down her wrinkled coat and brushed her skirt, her hands trembling with adrenaline and rage.

"I tripped because of the coffee," she snapped, glaring daggers at him. "The coffee you made me spill."

Unfazed, the man turned his back to her, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket. "Sounds like a personal problem. If you are looking for therapy, you are in the wrong clinic."

Maeve opened her mouth, ready to tear into him, but the nurse called her name a second time, louder and laced with impatience.

She clenched her fists. She turned on her heel, shooting one final, searing glare at his broad back.

"God, I hope no one ever picks your DNA," she declared loudly, ensuring the words echoed down the hall.

The man did not stop walking. He did not even bother to look over his shoulder. He just kept moving toward the exit, his deep voice drifting back through the quiet corridor with effortless confidence.

"You wish."