CRAZY RICH ILLÉANS
I
Rich Kid Problems
The water is ice cold.
Gemma Maeve Schreave turns off the shower. The water has to be cold because jet lag is a demon that will never leave her alone. That doesn't mean she likes, or wants, it. She doesn't want anything else but to return to her white, comfy bed sheets, but life being life, she can't. Duh—even if she wants to spend the rest of her life in it. The sun stands high above the skyline of Illéa, and she can hear the road rushing metres beneath her penthouse. The city is awake, and so should she be if she wants to get over the jet lag. She knows that from experience. Maeve steps to the window, putting a hand on the glass and watches the plane that crosses the sky of her home town.
Illéa. Her home town. What a strange description—let alone because it's an island, a city and a state, not a town. It doesn't feel like home. Hours earlier, she had been ignoring that fact by napping in a private plane, and in a limousine driving back to an apartment worth more than the income in your average peasant's life. Napping. What a great idea. She sighs and presses her forehead against the cool window. She closes her eyes, dozes off for a moment, before turning around.
The penthouse she lives in is beautiful, has a comfortable carpet, high-quality furniture and is in a top location. Is it her home? No. She's not been here in ages. "A golden cage is just a cage," she remembers; a Pinterest pin she found when waiting in line for customs. Ridiculous; her family donated two million for the airport when it was built, five years ago. She should have had priority.
But now she's back. In Illéa. There's no need to care—the golden cage is pretty and she owns it. Already though, she yearns for the birds to fly in the sky of the artificial island. Maeve opens the window, lets the breeze in. Where is the ocean breeze? She sighs. The apartment—penthouse—is too far up. It's closer to the planes taking off on the other side of the city. Her phone rings.
"Gemma Maeve Schreave, speaking," she responds. It's mom. Mom calling is always nice. It was bittersweet to see her the day before—strong, beautiful, as always, but tired. And disappointed.
About what? Her coming back home? That's what she wants, isn't it?
"Hey love," Daphne Daulton-Schreave replies with that soft voice that Maeve loves to hear, no matter what time of the day it is. "Up already?" she teases. It's two o'clock.
"Yeah," Maeve laughs and looks down with a dreamy smile. Mom. Home. Sweet childhood memories. She presses the phone between her shoulder and ear, turns away from the window and enters her walk-in closet. The velvet bathing robe is soft and comfy, but she needs to put on clothes if she wants to go and see her mother.
"How's the jet lag going?"
"I'm alive," Maeve dodges.
"That's nice. Now, listen, love," Daphne begins, this time serious. Maeve knows that voice. "I know that you just came back yesterday evening and are tired, but can you do me a favour? Come by the office? I need to talk to you, in person."
"About grandma?" Maeve wonders. She's always been blunter than her mother.
"Yes," Daphne replies, sad. Terminal illnesses are a nightmare, but what can you do? The one thing money cannot buy is eternal youth, not yet, at least. Maybe gene-editing will be developed far enough someday, but not today. She's looked into it. Maeve likes her grandma.
"I'll come around after brunch. Might take a detour though. I haven't been home for ages. I want to see what changed."
"Grab a coffee and come, please," Daphne's voice is still sad, but it's a different sad; almost disappointed, but hasn't she gotten over that by now? Maeve can't place the tone. "I know, love," Daphne adds on, affectionate as always.
"See you later then," Maeve ends, not wanting to embark into that discussion again. She still thinks it's her mother's fault, but there's no point in discussing the past. She's in Illéa now, and that's the only thing that matters.
"I love you," her mother says.
"Love you too, mom."
The call ends, but Maeve can't shrug off the feeling that Daphne kept quiet about something. She glances at her phone, unable to place what exactly it is. Probably related to grandma. Is her condition worse than expected? Sudden problems? Is her uncle throwing a fit again? Likely enough. Assuming that's the issue, she can shrug it off. Maeve knows her uncle, can't stand him, or her aunt. God knows what Noah is up to. She hasn't seen him in ages, except on social media. Going by that, he's surfing right now. So that's not an issue. An acceptable situation, she thinks, and picks out an outfit.
Changing, hair and make-up later, she stands many floors beneath, waiting for the valet to bring her motorbike by. With a black helmet and sunglasses, she finds herself on the road only minutes later. She could have gone for one of the Lamborghinis, or one of the Ferraris, but she's in the mood for her Harley, fresh transported from across the ocean.
Maeve turns left, southwards. The office building in the opposite direction than she's heading, but the ocean and the ocean breeze are calling for her, even if it's just for a brief stop. With EarPods (Maeve has lost count how many she lost by now, but it's just two hundred USD per pair, so who counts—even peasants can afford that) in her ears, she only stops when her stomach complains about the lack of breakfast. She eyes a Starbucks, stops outside the dark green logo, locks the bike and grabs her bag. Maeve ignores some random dude catcalling her. Her nails alone cost more than his whole life, she tells herself. She's worth more—she's a Schreave. The Schreave heiress. She is Gemma Maeve Schreave, and no one else. She has to be.
"Vanilla Iced Latte Macchiato, please, venti," she orders, after waiting for a moment.
"Name?"
"Maeve Schreave."
"Five dollars fifty." Right, Illéan dollars. Not pounds or euros or anything she's used to. Does it matter? No.
Maeve readies her card, pays and waits. The store isn't busy anymore, but she doesn't intend to stay for more than a short photo for her story. Gotta show who's back in town, she tells herself. A latte isn't exactly all she intends to eat for breakfast, but knowing mom, she'll make something happen. She looks to the ocean, and the beautiful beach. The last time she was around, there had been a gigantic development site. Maybe she could go and swim again? Noah's into this now, isn't he?
"Mayf Sleeve..?" Well, that's a new one?
Maeve raises her hand. "That'd be me." She grabs the cup. She sits down at one of these empty seats, takes out her phone and takes a photo. She posts it onto her story, without a particular caption, because that's what you do, isn't it? She can put more effort into it later, when there are Illéans following her account. She doesn't feel like chatting with her friends abroad.
"Is that seat taken?" She looks up to find a young man with a (smaller) cup of coffee in his hand. A tourist? His English sounds Illéan, but she hears Hong Kong school English in there. Some Korean too. Details. Maybe he's just a student having a nice day, Maeve concludes. Maybe an exchange student, maybe not. Does it matter? No.
"It isn't, but, like, feel free to sit down," she replies. Not that a hot summer flirt is on top of her priority list, but no need to be hostile, huh? "So, I'm Maeve, you?"
"Jiwoon Kim—but call me Jared," he replies. So Korean. Exchange student or so, definitely. "You aren't from around? Tourist? Exchange student?"
Maeve laughs. She really must have taken up a different accent over the past—she decides to make sure she won't anymore. Can't be a stranger when I own half of Illéa.
"Let me guess," He tries, "America? California? I've been to LA. It's pretty."
Maeve sips on her latte. She decides to play hard to get, shakes her head. "Nope." She pops the p, sips her latte. It's good; better than at the airport.
Jared fakes a groan. "Oh, come on! America? In general?"
"That's a big vague, don't you think?" Maeve teases.
"West coast?"
"Nope."
"East coast?"
"Nope."
"Canada?"
"That's totally part of America."
"I meant the States," Jared groans. "Come on, tell me. I look like an idiot."
Maeve gives him a pitying look. "Poor Jared," she teases. "Well, I am from Illéa. Just haven't been around for a while. What about you?"
"Korean, moved to Hong Kong, now here. My step-dad is Illéan, I was curious."
"What do you like to do?"
"Oh, surfing, clubbing, working, whatever I can," he replies. Probably trying to flex with his looks, Maeve assumes. He's an Eight at best. She's seen enough surfer boys. One of them being her cousin, and that's one more than she needs.
"Clubbing?" she replies, pretending to hold up the interest. Jared's okay and all, but nothing she can't get in better. Arrogant, she assumes, but she is Maeve Schreave.
"There are some good clubs around here. Vertigo's my favourite," he replies. Maeve has heard of Vertigo, but it's only second best to the private clubs of Illéa; the best for the commoners, but Maeve's no such commoner. "I once sneaked into The Goldfinger. Owned by Vaelston. That's where the rich kids hang out, you know," he tells condescending, "hang out, but you don't get in there without contacts. Nearly was arrested for trespassing. Well, I was. A girl bailed me out because I looked pretty… I still wonder if Estelle was in there."
"Who?"
"Estelle Mun, you know?"
Estelle who? A local celebrity? Is that someone she needs to bother with? No, she decides, she doesn't. If Estelle is important, she'll be introduced to her. Maeve smirks. Good to know that things still work the same at home. "Ah. Fun," she comments absentminded.
"Huh?"
She sips her latte again and decides that she's bored by Jared. Pretty boy, nothing more. He wouldn't know either way how it is to be Gemma Maeve Schreave. She rises, grabs her helmet and her phone. She could leave him alone without a word, but she isn't that mean. "I gotta go," she replies, pretending to be apologetic and taking a final sip of her latte. It's alright, she decides, but not worth finishing.
"What's your social media handle?" Jared asks, friendly and cool; he would probably be a good guy, but he's not made for Maeve. "Wanna grab a coffee again, maybe? I can show you around." Wrong order of questions, she thinks, and he didn't listen. She knows Illéa, and she has a phone—like any decent person.
"gemmaeve," Maeve says, typing it into his phone because apparently, nobody can type her middle name. She's being more careful about her black-white nails than the phone screen. The phone's an edition old and the screen is cracked, she notes. Definitely a student, probably careless.
"Cool, I'll—" He stops mid-sentence, surprised, and Maeve knows why, but she's also already walking off. Probably that selfie in front of the private plane—it's her latest post. Maeve smiles, proud. She's one of the rich kids. She's part of the billionaire kids club, she lives in the golden cage—a rich bitch. Rich, spoilt, rotten, proud. She's one of them.
That thought feels foreign, but it's the truth.
The bird that flies away, in a jumbo jet.
While her bike isn't a jumbo jet, it's fast enough to let her blast over the water front's small street, turn around the big shopping centre and head to the Schreave Real Estate headquarters. It's large, chic, expensive and dedicated to running the world-spanning empire that her family build over generations. It's pretty too. She stops outside the gates, next to the mini waterfalls that are illuminated in rainbow colours at night. They look pretty, but the last time Maeve saw them, she had been seventeen and the building had just been finished. It's been a while. There's a valet, so of course, Maeve takes the key and her helmet and pushes them into his hands. "Don't park it in the sunshine. It's not good for the coating," she claims. As if it'd matter anyhow. She can always get a new Harley.
The valet steps back, avoiding her. "Sorry, miss, but you can't just park here. This is—"
"Yes, I can," Maeve replies, and walks inside. Nobody gave her an ID card (you need them, she believes) but what can they do? She practically owns this building. It's just one signature and her grandma away.
However, because Maeve is nice (and forgot where her mother's office is), she stops at the reception. To be fair, a black leather jacket and leggings probably don't make the impression of 'this place practically belongs to me', but Maeve isn't planning to do a business deal; she's here to see her mother, and Daphne will coupe if she wears leather jackets.
"Hello there, what can I do for you?" The receptionist smiles like she is seventeen years old and a school kid.
Maeve doesn't. "I'm here to see my mother," she replies professional.
"What's her name? What department is she in? I just need to check if—"
"Daphne Daulton-Schreave," Maeve deadpans. People always tell her that she looks like her mother. Besides the age difference, they could be sisters. She knows that now too, they look similar, even if she's wearing a leather jacket. The valet maybe didn't catch her face, only the ponytail, but now? The receptionist? Has she never seen her boss?
"Of course, yes, just a moment." At least, Maeve wants to give her points for not freaking out. The last time she came by the office building, three years ago, that had been the reaction, but back then, her hair had been platinum blonde, so that didn't count.
Had she been gone for that long?
Maeve wants to doubt it. She really wants to, a lot.
The receptionist makes a call, asking if 'Miss Daulton is expecting a visitor... yes, her daughter'. It ends seconds after she finishes her last word. "Miss Lee will come down to meet you," the receptionist explains, and Maeve nods. That's good news. She likes Anna, her mother's private assistant. She's pretty, nice, efficient, and one of the coolest women she ever met. She was the one to recommend her hairstyle, after all.
Anna walks into the entrance hall when the express elevator stops, on heels, professional and all. Accompanied by her handbag and sunglasses that she always wears (no matter the weather, or the location) she could be the COO and not just her assistant. Maeve waves, and once she's close enough, Anna opens her arms to embrace her honorary little sister. Maeve returns the hug.
"I haven't seen you in ages!" she exclaims over-excited. "How have you been? How's the jet lag?"
Maeve laughs. "Terrible, but I had a coffee," she replies. "And, you picked me up at the airport, yesterday."
"Yes!" Anna agrees. "Too much time in-between! How long has it been? More than twelve hours, that's half a day!"
Maeve rolls her eyes, laughs, and strolls beside her friend. They walk back to the express elevator, ignoring the looks of the other people in the lobby. The black-golden elevator doors open, and their heels move from marble to shiny metal. At least it's not a mirror. That design plan had been thrown out by Anna before it even reached any of the Schreaves. Fortunately. Maeve smiles as the elevator rushes up to one of the top floors, past all the people working here. Seconds later, the elevator pings when they reach the third-to-top floor, and Maeve smiles. The executive floor; this is where all decisions are made. Maeve follows Anna to her mother's office, trusting her to know her way around better than she does.
"Hi mom," she calls out when she sees Daphne Daulton-Schreave turns around in her wheelchair, with the same tired smile from yesterday evening on her face.
Daphne gives Anna a thankful nod. "That's all," she tells her. Anna gets the message, she leaves. Daphne ignores her daughter, for the moment.
Maeve moves her weight to her left leg, almost nervous. "You sounded serious on the phone. Is grandma getting worse?"
"Honey, Gemma," Daphne begins, "she will die at the end of this road. Of course, she is getting worse."
"I mean, is it accelerating? Like, is that why you wanted to meet me here so quickly? You really sounded off, mom. I'm worried." She really is, because that too is Maeve Schreave. She's the rich bitch with a big heart for those she cares for, she likes to think.
"I wouldn't be aware of it, love," she replies.
"Then, what's up?"
"Have you eaten today?" Daphne places her hands on her lap, onto her legs that won't move.
"Not unless you count coffee, but—grandma. What's with her?"
"She's alright," Daphne insists, but Maeve can't believe that. She hits a button on the phone, the connection to Anna's desk. "Anna, dear, can you organise us a late lunch? Thank you."
Maeve's stomach grumbles in agreement. She deadpans. "You wouldn't have made me come here, jetlagged and all. Can we go and see her?"
Daphne shakes her head. "She is at the hospital this week. Maybe next week or so; I'm in contact with Rebecca."
"Why—" Maeve stops. What is she talking about? "Mum, just to check—you sounded serious. If nothing happened with grandma, what's up then? Is it—?"
"Your grandmother has made…" Daphne looks down onto her lap. "She's finished her will a few days before you arrived. As of now, only the family knows—Julian, Noah, Mary and me. I'll have Anna forward you the documentation."
"Is Julian getting everything, or what's happening?"
Julian can't get everything; he and Mary are terrible! Even her grandmother agrees with that, and Julian is her younger son. He has no idea of how to run a real estate empire; he's never been involved with the Schreave business! Sure—Maeve hasn't either, but she's young, has the right degree and her mother knows that stuff. She'll be fine.
"No, he is not, but he's rather close."
"How is he not getting it, but is rather close?"
Daphne sighs, and takes a moment to respond. Gosh, it must be easy if you're not a Schreave. She's got it easy, Maeve believes.
"You will only inherit if you, and I quote her, 'settle down'."
"… What?" Settle down? What in the world does she mean with that? "As in, what? How do I prove that?"
"In any way possible," Daphne replies. "You know your grandmother—she just wants to know that you won't be in Canada next week."
Maeve cringes. "But I have friends in—"
"She wants to know that you'll stay here and learn to take care of the family business."
"So if I do that, I settle down and she's happy?"
Daphne tilts her head. "I wouldn't be so sure. Why don't you start with reconnecting with your friends here? See how it goes?"
"And…?"
Daphne shrugs, and gives her daughter her best smile. "Rebecca just…I know how you'll feel about this, but she genuinely believes that if you were to get a boyfriend, you'd stay and therefore wants that."
"… So, settle down as in 'marry and buy a house'. Do you mean that?"
"To be fair, the family owns enough houses…?" Daphne's smile grows more and more forced. Terrible.
"… Mum, I'm twenty-four. I won't meet the next guy I meet. I'd want to date someone for years before I actually marry."
"That's absolutely fine with me," Daphne insists. For the COO of Schreave Real Estate, she is terrible a convincing people.
"Rebecca has barely a year to live."
"… You just need to convince her, honey." Daphne leans forward. "Gemma, I really want you to stay too, though. What do you want to do abroad? Why don't you stay in Illéa for a while? Isn't it almost abroad by now?"
"You know why I don't want to stay here."
"Honey, that was twelve years ago."
"And who doesn't say that it won't happen again?"
"He lives abroad—if he was in Illéa, we'd know. Your grandmother has organised everything for that. I'd know. You'd know. She'd know. Julian too—you know he's invested into this too. It's been years, and we haven't heard from him. Why are you still worried?"
Maeve deadpans. "Last time I checked, it was the reason you sent me to the USA."
"For a year. It was your decision to stay abroad—I wanted you back."
She draws in air. A difficult topic. "Mum, I don't want to marry some stranger, and nor do I want to follow such a ridiculous demand."
"And nobody wants you to, darling. We just want you to come back and develop a life here again. Is that so difficult? It'd be the same as you did when going to Paris," her mother begs. "At least try—you can always discuss with your grandmother later."
She crosses her arms. "… Alright," she decides to say. She can grace the city with her presence once more—for a while at least. "Alright. How do you want me to start? Do you want me to go and sleep with Noah's best friend?"
Daphne cringes. "Kenna is a nice person, but... I'd prefer you just, maybe, asking him if you can come by to his birthday party. Then there's the social season starting soon—I know you've been to the Ball in New York and all, but you've never been around for such balls in Illéa."
"Let's start with Noah," Maeve decides, "but yes—balls. Of course. I'll look at dresses. I still have some time until the Rose Cotillion, don't I?" It's late November. She does. She knows. When Maeve was ten years old, the Rose Cotillion had been her dream. Of course, she knows it. "Deal, I'll get it done."
"Just… honey, do remember that Illéan society is quite gate-keeping."
Maeve shrugs. "I'm Gemma Schreave—what's the issue? I am society."
Chapter Recap:
Gemma Maeve Schreave, heiress to the largest real estate empire on the planet, returns home and meets her mother, Daphne Daulton-Schreave, to discuss her dying grandmother. On the way, she meets a 'commoner', as she calls him, Jiwoon 'Jared' Kim, who reignites Maeve's consciousness about who she is, and how long she's been away. At the Schreave Real Estate headquarters, she meets her mother's assistant, Anna Lee, who is like a big sister to her, and her mother. They discuss her grandmother's state, and her conditions for Maeve to inherit. Although taken aback by the condition, Maeve agrees and begins planning on how to get back into society and prove that she will 'settle down'.
Next Chapter Teaser: Valley Girl!Maeve
Welcome to Crazy Rich Illéans!
Most important: if you started the form before, go re-read the form and rules because chances are they changed. I gave a few friends the form beforehand, but if anyone of you guys (i.e. Moon) already submitted the full form, I will come back to you and point out what I still need from you. I'll get around to that in the next days (hopefully...).
I did not mean to post this story until I had reached the Elite in Fallout, but because my friends on the discord (discord . gg / pjY8GE7, come join us we're fun) were so ridiculously eager, I'm opening the submissions and will start writing the story seriously in December/January. You can find the corresponding Pinterest board on my profile /millynalava. It's called FF - Crazy Rich Illéans.
This is a story about a bunch of rich kids, socialites, celebrities, and what not, centering around Gemma Maeve Schreave, the heiress of the Schreave empire, who hasn't been around. Her return shakes up the social structures of the kids of the elite; especially when the rumour that she is to 'settle down' sparks. The chance to develop a 'close connection' to the Schreaves is of profit for anyone. The story's quite light-hearted and driven by first world problems etc.
There's no 'strict' Selection event, but once we get started, you'll find the general outline of dates, events and similar in it. Another driving factor will be the Illéan social season in the beginning of the plot and other smaller events. A majority of the plot will be driven by character's plots etc., so the more developed your character is, the more likely for them to have an arc on their own. It's set in our world (ish) and not the canon; Illéa here is a city-state similar to Singapore. The story is not set in the Selection universe but in the real world and 21st century. More to that and the cast on my profile.
Let me know what you think of Maeve!
See you on the other side!
Millyna
