CRAZY RICH ILLÉANS
IV
Everything Is Awesome
It's a normal day. It's a peaceful day. It's a beautiful day.
Work is going great. Estelle Mun smiles—she loves her work—and looks at her glittery nails. Earlier today, she had a manicure, which is why they're adorned with magenta and silver stars. She's taken the day on well, taken care of herself and met up with friends. Now she's at work—an exciting afternoon of helping others. The 'On Air' sign is off. They're broadcasting ads right now. Her last call just ended, and the client is happy, even confident about a date. Estelle is happy too—that's why she does this job; to help people. She turns to Ginny who gives her a bubbly thumbs up and an encouraging smile.
(Everything is going great.)
"All clear," she tells her. "The ratings have been up ever since that America Singer girl called. Someone posted about it on Reddit and the whole town is on it. The rich kids fandom is all over her, thinking she might be one of them."
Estelle nods. Understandable (she does too), but besides calling America Singer back (against company policy), they can't really do anything. Ginny gives her the sign for 'add break is over', and turns the volume on her headset up. Estelle takes one last sip of water, smiles to herself and the 'On Air' sign illuminates.
"Welcome back to The Love Report!" she hums into the microphone. "We have about half an hour of airtime left, so let's get started! Our next caller is up in a moment…" She readies pen and tablet to take notes.
Ginny is used to the fast pace. There's always high demand and she has to decline countless calls in the early afternoon broadcast. She gives her a countdown—five, four, three, two, one—before the beeping of a phone echoes in Estelle's ears. The call had been chosen during the add break, by random computer generation.
(How often did the caller try?)
Click. The caller picks up and Estelle opens her mouth to begin with her greeting. It comes out almost automatic, but she loves it and means it. Each time, it's slightly different, she likes to think. Unique, just as each problem is unique. She smiles a little (of course, they can't see her—that's very, very good) which helps to get into character.
"Hello there! You're live on The Love Report, and this is Estelle Mun. Why don't you introduce yourself to our listeners?"
There is, however, no response on the other side of the line. There's no 'My name is such and such' and no concerned 'Um... I need advice on this and this'. Only white noise crackles through the line. Estelle looks up to see if anything is up with Ginny, but her sound operator is lost above her controls. She motions the sign for connection difficulties. They have top notch equipment thanks to the show's success, so it has to be on the caller's side.
It has to be that—what else would it be? Estelle opens her mouth, to inform caller and listeners of that and—
That's when it happens. That's when all the lights shut off and Estelle squeaks in surprise. A blackout? Ginny pulls down her headset, says something but through the sound proof glass, Estelle can't hear anything. The sound operator opens the door.
"All okay there?"
Only her tablet illuminates the studio—that and the 'On Air' sign that is still on. Estelle can hear the rattling of the computers, now that the door is open, too. Ginny's eyes look, confused on the 'On Air' sign. It can't be a blackout.
It can't be blackout if the electricity is running. It's something else and—
"Yes, but what happened?" Estelle rises trembling, headset still on her ears. Her heart faces. Her hand sweats. She doesn't even know why—if it's just a technical difficulty, then they can fix that in anytime. Ginny is already back at the controls, trying to regain control and the tablet is still connected to the Wi-Fi, so it may just be the lights and something weird with the computer screens and that's alright and—
It echoes in her headphones. "APOLOGIES, ESTELLE," a computer voice announces. Ginny squeals. The white noise remains. Is it there on purpose? Why would it be? Who called? One thing, though, is for sure: the power isn't out—just all lights. What happened? Her eyes clue on the 'On Air' sign. It's on. It's glowing. It's illuminated—red light, white font. Estelle shivers—like something running down your spine. A cold shiver. There's a tear on Estelle's cheek. She sobs—what's happening? Will we die? Who is this?
"I'll call the police. This isn't right," Ginny tells her, with wide hand movements maybe meant to comfort her. She can't understand them—not now. She nods, heavily. If the headphones are on, chances are that the mic is on too—better not give whoever called a clue. Of course, it isn't right. They aren't in a horror movie; this was meant to be a comfy afternoon session at work!
(Estelle doesn't deserve this.)
"Who—what—what happened? Who is this?" Estelle stutters. Oh my gosh. No, I didn't sign up for this. Never. Not. What—what's going on?!
"I TOOK OVER CONTROL OF YOUR COMPUTER SYSTEMS. I WANT TO HAVE A CHAT WITH YOU."
"Y-you k-know," Estelle begins, "this is a show about talking… no need to hack us…"
"I DO HAVE SOME," A pause. "TEA TO SPILL."
"Tea…?" Estelle blinks, makes confused eye contact with Ginny. She shrugs confused, with her phone at her ear. She's whispering—good. They'll come. They'll save her. Estelle takes a deep breath. She's been in worse places.
Ginny nods. 'Police is coming', she mouths. Right—there are more microphones. They might took them over too—who knows. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Ohmygosh. Iftheyhackedthecomputersthanmaybetheyknowaboutthecalltheyknowaboutthepolitcecomingohmygoshohmygoshidontwantthispleasenoplease—
"Stelle?" Ginny worries.
It takes her time to snap out of it. "Please—who are you? What do you want?"
"GEMMA SCHREAVE HAS RETURNED TO ILLÉA."
(What? Who?)
The white noise cuts out, the lights go on—there's a beeping sound. The call is over. The screens flicker on. The lights come back. There's some beeping, and Estelle—almost not there with her mind—makes the sign to cut transmission. Ginny is prepared for that.
"I—I think," Estelle stutters. She gulps. Professionalism, come on, you can do that. "Due to technical difficulties, we'll need to cut off transmission now. I'm terribly sorry, but you know how computers can be. See you next time… This was Estelle Mun, with The Love Report."
The 'On Air' sign turns off. Estelle swallows. Ginny hugs her. Another tear runs down her cheek.
(What is happening?)
"What is this?" Ginny blurts out. "Gossip Girl? I did not sign up for this when I applied for the job!"
Nor did Estelle—not at all. "I don't know," Estelle stutters. "But oh my gosh, I hope it's over." She sinks into her arm chair when an officer, accompanied by a staff member of the recording studio, arrives. Estelle considers getting up, but no—her legs are too weak. She does grab Ginny's hand.
"Hello," Ginny begins. "I'm Virginia Salvatici—I was the one to call. This is my co-worker," she gestures to Estelle.
Estelle tries to speak up, but she's far too fazed to say anything. What is there to say? hi, how are you, yes, my studio was just hacked and god knows what this person else could do. Ginny, fortunately, lets her rest, and even grabs her a bottle of water to drink because apparently, she looks 'as pale as the Southern beach', and kindly explains the situation.
"Do you know who this Gemma Schreave is?" the officer asks her, eventually. He is taking notes. "Has anyone here at the studio any contact with her?"
"No," Ginny replies, "the name rings a bell though. Schreave, I mean. Isn't that—"
Estelle's gaze may be fazed (and she can't stop looking at the 'On Air' sign), but she gathers herself. Her trembling hands fold neatly on her lap. "The Schreaves are active in real estate, Ginny. They're rich—really rich. I think that Gemma is the heiress, but she's left Illéa before I came here. I do know her cousin, Noah Schreave, though. I can ask him."
"Thanks, Miss Mun," the officer replies. "We'll need to get the cyber forensics team here to figure out what happened. I also wouldn't mind asking you to come to the station for a statement, as witness."
"We record the broadcasts," Ginny points out. "I can send you the file. I don't think Stelle is in the position to make a statement right now." Estelle smiles gladly. Ginny is such an angel. "I can drive you, if you want me to."
Estelle, gladly, accepts.
She calls Noah, but besides the 'yes, Gemma is back', he doesn't know a thing about the mysterious caller. Hasn't even listened to today's broadcast, but promises to catch up. He promises to check in with Gemma, talk to her. Ginny wonders about a possible court case, but Estelle reminds her that they have no chance against the Schreave's lawyer army.
If there's one thing Estelle Mun knows, then it's how they tick, and it's the last thing Estelle wants to think of, when she leaves the studio to head home. A court case. Not again. Not when someone took over their studio. Her home.
(That night, Estelle Mun cries herself to sleep.)
Anna calls Maeve the same day. Maeve wasn't listening—she's preoccupied with Korean pop music (White Blue, or something), Korean vocabulary and generally the language. That is why, when Anna calls her, she replies in the wrong language.
"Annyeonghaseyo."
"Hi Maevy," Anna replies, in English, "I can do this in Korean too, but I don't know if you have the law jargon for that. I don't think I have it, at least."
Maeve doesn't. "Yeah, no, sorry. What's up?"
"Do you listen to the radio? The Love Report, to be specific?"
"Nope…? Never heard of that?" she replies, before face palming. Of course, she has. That was the show she called a couple of days ago. Genius, Maeve, genius. "Delete that—yes, I know what you're talking about. What's with it?" Did someone pick up on 'America' and her issues?
(Because if so, there's nobody who can complain that she sought advice.)
"They were hacked earlier today, at the end of their broadcast. Whoever did that announced that you are back in Illéa, and now the police would like to know if you know anything about that. Unless there's another Gemma Maeve Schreave in town. I doubt there is anyone but you family with that surname." She pauses, and continues with emphasis. "Do you know anything about that?"
"I barely can download a programme on my laptop without getting a virus, Anna. How in the world could I hack someone?"
"You're overplaying that." Anna's far to matter-of-fact for her joke.
"Doesn't change that I don't have a virus protection software."
"The IT department will want to know about that," she remarks aside, not as Anna, her bigger-sister-figure but as Anna Lee, assistant to Daphne Daulton-Schreave. Not good. "But yes—the police will probably come by anytime, and you will want to take a lawyer along."
"Anna, I didn't do anything—except maybe watch K-dramas illegally."
"I know, kiddo, but that's the way it works. It'll be fine… but just do what they say, alright?"
Confused, Maeve nods. Of course, Anna can't see that. That's an issue, but Maeve doesn't realise it. Instead, she opens her phone browser and searches three words—her own name. Unfortunately, the first link that pops up is not gemmaeve on Instagram. It's a news article.
Suddenly, she isn't fond of The Love Report being so popular.
"I will…" she mutters, while reading through whatever is going.
Questions on who she is, answers. Questions on why that happened, and who publicised it. People worrying about Estelle Mun, their beloved and favourite, and whenever she is alright. The radio station hasn't released their statement yet, but people are starting to suspect it to be a terrorist attack. Apparently, Estelle sounding scared equalled terrorist attack.
(Talk about a great entry back into society.)
There's a ring at the door bell—she suspects it to be the reception of the building, informing her of a visitor. The police, Maeve assumes, and she turns out to be right. She picks up the phone again, Anna is still on it, trying to talk to her.
"They're here," she replies. "Can you send one of them over?"
Of course, as Gemma Maeve Schreave, this will not be an issue. She is the heiress to the Schreave empire, and for no reason could anyone ever touch her—this won't matter and everything will be fine, because it has to be.
The Schreave lawyers arrive, the conversation goes on and on, and it becomes clear that Gemma Maeve Schreave has nothing to do, except that her name was dropped and that it sounds like someone is trying to either frame—or dare to bother her. The cops leave, and Maeve insists that she's happy to help if anything comes up.
(Of course, a little more happens, but that's legal nonsense.)
From her Schreave Real Estate email account, she contacts the studio, expressing condolences for the terrible experience and her support if there's anything she can do. Of course, there are people to write these things for her, but not doing it herself is… off. Wrong. Maeve tells herself it's fine, because it shows that she cares.
The Schreaves have a public response out by the end of the evening. Somehow, the main stream media knows beforehand, and nobody there even begins to question if she was involved. LaTV, the by far biggest network around, even expresses their condolences for her to even be bothered. It's really just the internet.
(Thank god for the Schreave's contacts and network.)
There's an easy lawsuit against that too—defamation, for anyone who dares to imply that she may be at fault. Things are being handled; she is told when she goes to bed on the same evening. Her dreams are filled with Noah Schreave and Kenzie Choi, with computers malfunctioning and her friends abroad laughing—without her. Maeve doesn't sleep well, buy if anyone asks, it's the nasty jetlag.
(Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.)
Because of 'the jetlag', when she wakes up, she's tired. Damn tired. At first, Maeve doesn't even remember last night or yesterday afternoon. When she does though, she checks online. Things have changed, the blame shifting from her thanks to the prime-time news. Now the theories circle around Estelle Mun's identity again, and if it's a personal thing, drawing in Maeve for the sake of publicity. The Schreaves are a big name, after all. They discuss whenever Gemma Schreave's arrival has bad implications for her, or good ones, or neither, or both. Maybe they're friends, lovers, or maybe she is Gemma Schreave.
Of course, Maeve wants to know what's up. She only knows that Estelle Mun is not Gemma Schreave. She also knows that the police can't dissect a computer in the eight hours she spent sleeping.
(Everything will be fine. Everyone will love her.)
Maeve decides to go by plan, forget what's going on and maybe have a drink later on. Something fun. Something to socialise. Something to be normal. That sounds like a good idea. Forget what's going on, until someone tells her what to say, or think. Like the lawyers did in a conversation that she herself did not understand.
Yet, the only thing that day that catches her interest is when she puts on the Chanel outfit and heads to the mansion called 'the Illéa Palace'. It's the only thing that takes her mind off it. The old Schreave residence, one of the buildings from the time of Illéa's construction, isn't her favourite, but inheritance, and that's reason enough to leave the modern, high-tech skyscraper she calls her home and head there. All the 'it's an adult thing, Gemma, you can come when you're older' events happened when she last lived in Illéa.
The palace, once of the largest estates (and land in Illéa is expensive) is an attraction to tourists, even if you can barely make out the glass roof from the road—too many trees cover it. Rebecca Schreave has lived here alone for her whole life (and Maeve isn't entirely sure if her father and Uncle Julian ever lived here) which is ridiculous, considering the castle's size.
(But it is beautiful.)
The doors don't open for her car, even when her driver leaves the car. Maeve knows why—they have always been ridiculous with the security here. No car gets in unannounced and uninvited. However, Gemma Maeve Schreave is not uninvited, so she tells her driver to 'kindly' remind the security of who she is.
The security still asks for her to come out of the car and identify herself. Ridiculous, Maeve thinks. Reminder to self, tell grandma to fire security.
After that procedure, though, she's able to go on. The car goes on—although her driver is reminded that he's not to leave the car—and stops in front of the large gate. She can look into the white halls from the outside. The whole building is mostly made of glass, and the endless garden feels like it's a part of the interior. It's like from a fairy tale—far too old to fit an island built by humans. Little Gemma didn't know better. Maeve does.
Inside the glass palace is a much smaller, cosier (well, relatively) house—it's at the end of the water flower garden and the little lake and fountains. A small sanctuary in the big palace, Daphne used to say when describing the Illéa Palace. Rebecca Schreave resides here, although more recently, the hospital would be a better fit for that description. Oculos qui vult disco, videbit is written above the entrance. The eye willing to learn will see. She enters, and heads in.
She knocks at the door of the old room that also is her grandmother's office, careful.
"Do come in, Gemma," Rebecca responds. She looks stunning and strong, just as always.
(See? Everything is fine.)
It's irony. There is a lot of irony in this, because Rebecca Schreave both looks like she is dying and that she's forever young. As beautiful, young and strong as always—it explains why there is a subreddit dedicated to proving that Rebecca Schreave is immortal. Rebecca smiles at that, has an assistant print out new 'evidence' regularly, but Maeve knows it's because of her grandmother's ever-strong health. Everyone was dead-surprised when the deadly diagnosis came.
"Hey, grandma…"
It still feels surreal. Especially when it was always Daphne who was the weak, sick one. Now she has two women weak in body and stronger in mind than Maeve can ever be. Large shoes to fill.
"Don't look like you've seen a ghost, Gemma," Rebecca chuckles behind her desk, "I'm not dead yet." Even on the road to death, she is ever-dedicated to the family business. Maeve can see the papers there.
"I'm… I'm sorry, grandma," she replies and takes the seat. "I'm sorry, I couldn't see you earlier."
Rebecca chuckles and points to the calendar. There's writing, but she can't read it from her perspective. "I'm spending more time in hospital than I am anywhere else. I might as well be dead." How she can joke about this, Maeve doesn't understand. "Then again, there's a sweet thing about these 'terminal illnesses' I suppose," Rebecca goes on. "I do have time to organise things."
"You do indeed," she forces herself to say.
(And it involves' Maeve's relationship status.)
"Gemma, don't blame me on your absence. I do need to make sure that my life's work is in safe hands."
"It is," Maeve insists. She clenches her fist. She's been ready for this for ages. She is Gemma Maeve Schreave, after all.
"Oh, dear, believe me—I'm in the process of assuring that." Rebecca smiles. It's that smile you'd give the public or a customer, a potential buyer. Not the smile you give your granddaughter when you're dying and wanting her to get a boyfriend to get the inheritance she always expected. "What happened yesterday?"
(Oh gosh, not that.)
"I don't know." Gemma Maeve Schreave has never even heard of the Love Report. Yes, the police know that she called them once under the alias America Singer (she knows better than to lie), but she did emphasise that she would prefer that to remain quiet, even among the investigation and towards Mun. Gemma Maeve Schreave is not America Singer—not to her family at least. She can't admit such a weakness! "I haven't actually heard the recording or anything."
(She's avoiding that on purpose.)
"Have you not?"
"I haven't had time," Maeve lies, but Rebecca will know it's a lie. She always does. "I suppose, I'm not entirely sure if I want to hear it."
"Understandable, Gemma, but I wouldn't worry too much."
"Worry too much when your name was broadcasted over the whole of Illéa, by someone who hacked the city's favourite radio host?" She leans back, tilts her head. Does the illness affect Rebecca's mind after all?
(She's totally not worrying.)
"Yes, quite so," Rebecca hums and smiles with that lovely smile, as if she knows about everything in the world. Sometimes, Maeve thinks, she does. "because, darling, aren't you just as frightened as Miss Mun? Aren't you just as worried that somebody will go and blame you? Aren't you just as worried as to how it is possible for someone to broadcast this message, when they could have done so much else? That somebody would chose you above others?"
"Thanks, I totally wasn't planning to sleep tonight."
Rebecca hits the call button speaks. "Please make sure that the security of the apartment tower where Gemma resides is increased." She moves her hand to her lap. "Gemma, whatever is going on, the police will be there to help. There's nothing to worry about—at best, somebody just found your Instagram account changing and maybe, if even, it's a friend from some random country that is not Illéa who is playing a very unfortunate prank."
"… And that's meant to help me calm down?" Maeve deadpans. She wants to listen to her grandmother—needs to—but she isn't even sure how she feels about this all—how can Rebecca be of help? How can these words calm her down?
(She does have a point. Maeve knows people who would troll her like that. Tessa, maybe.)
"It's meant to, but I do understand that it won't erase all worries. It'll be fine."
"It'll be fine won't fix… everything. You know, if you want me to get a boyfriend, then I kind of need to not be that weirdo kid whose entrance back home was announced by hacking everyone's favourite radio host."
(But what about the hacking?)
"I'm aware," Rebecca comments. She half-opens her mouth, intending to say something, but doesn't.
"And?"
"And that's why I've contacted Miss Mun, to make sure that in her statement, she'll make clear that my family has nothing to do with it." She smiles. She's won. That's why. Rebecca Schreave always wins. "And that she gets a cybersecurity upgrade.
"What is the chance that she won't sound like she's either forced or paid to say it?"
"She's a good actor, believe me."
Assuming that's true, it'd work out. That, however, would also be too easy. Things aren't that easy for Maeve—even if they are for Rebecca. "That won't change the issue on the mysterious hacker."
"Nobody forces you to use computers."
Maeve cringes. "Yes, yes, in your day, everything was better."
"Exactly. What did we have? World wars, racism, and the threat of nuclear war?"
"Chances are we have all of them too."
"Touché." Rebecca waves it off, literally. "Do tell me, did you get a dress for the Rose Cotillion yet?"
"I have a selection." Another selection. At least this one won't determine her inheritance (she hopes).
"Magnificent." Rebecca not-so-subtly nods to a black folder with the words 'Rose Cotillion' engraved in golden. It must be her notes for the ball—the planning. The Schreave matriarch is in charge of it—since longer than Maeve has been alive.
"What's going to happen to the committee, after you—" Maeve breaks off.
"After I die? There will be an opening in the committee." Duh. "I've considered what to do with it, discussed it with the committee, and the general consensus appears to be that we will consider acceptable candidates to—"
(Of course, she can.)
Without much thought, Maeve speaks, "I can do it."
"Yes, I do believe that, but how many Rose Cotillions have you attended? I believe that the number is zero."
(Maybe not.)
"True, but—"
"Gemma, you'll be part of the same process as everyone else. I do hope that you accept that." Maeve frowns. Not exactly the answer she wanted to get It's the opposite. She's Gemma Maeve Schreave—she shouldn't be 'part of the same process as everyone else'. "Let alone, because I do hope you will continue your efforts at work."
(Where do these 'fair, just, ethical decision' ideas come from, now?)
"Of course, I will." This answer is genuine. Maeve wouldn't be so after the inheritance if she didn't like the work—at least the things she's seen. Daphne promised her to include her more. She had to, of course, given Maeve's position as heiress.
"Then you'll be busy, Gemma," Rebecca Schreave assures her. "Do make sure to watch your dear mother; Daphne deserves her position very much. She will be a good role model. Oculos qui vult disco, videbit."
(Rebecca sounds like a cult leader with that mantra.)
"Of course, grandma," Maeve repeats. She will see—whatever Rebecca means with that saying. She's way too fond of it, given the inscriptions on the walls. It's been a family motto for years—ever since the Schreave line merged with the last descendants of the founder of Illéa.
"Now, on a lighter topic. How was London? Paris? Hong Kong? I probably forgot a few places. It's been a while since we last talked, hasn't it?"
"Paris was nice," Maeve nods. "I made a friend there when I studied there, and we met again." One of many friends, of course. She shows her grandmother the photos from Paris. Of course, Rebecca Schreave is able to use technology (she is, by no means, the average grandmother) but in the soft, warm and motherly smile in her eyes, Maeve can see that she appreciates the gesture. Maeve smiles too. Settling down, Boyfriend Selection™, Inheritance or not, it's not the place that makes the island state her home—it's the people. Rebecca Schreave. Daphne Daulton-Schreave. Maeve smiles. Home is where the heart is, she remembers. Yet another Pinterest pin.
(Is this where my heart is, though?)
Maeve laughs. "Then, there was London. I met up with some distant cousins of Mary. Ones that I get along with. Their dog was adorable. Then…" She can go on and on, about what she's done, seen and all. Rebecca listens intend, but doesn't say a lot. Instead, she invites Maeve to visit the gardens of the Illéa Palace, because why have a garden if you don't go outside.
That also visit Berlin, London, Paris, Vienna and Madrid. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean a one-day-trip to Europe, but the five peacocks of the Schreave family are a very good choice as well.
(Yes, the names are Maeve's fault.)
She had been seven, just starting with her language-obsession, when she had been obsessed with Asian cities. The first five peacocks held by the family had been named Tokyo (the male, because Tokyo doesn't sound like a girl), Seoul (little Maeve misspelled it as Soul, her mother never led her down), Singapore, Shanghai and Hanoi. They had, since then, adopted another five—this time named by European capitals.
The animals live in almost-wild life in the uncharacteristically large garden (Illéa is an artificial island, and people build up. Gardens are expensive. Especially park-sized ones.). Rebecca and Maeve only watch them, because Maeve isn't seven anymore and doesn't chase the peafowl anymore.
(Home is where the heart is.)
"You used to chase them with your friends," Rebecca remembered. "Daphne was always worried about you."
(Her friends are abroad in Europe and the States, Hong Kong and New Zealand. Not Illéa.)
With her friends, yes. Maeve vaguely remembers that. She doesn't remember a lot about her own friends from back then, though. Even then, Noah was a jerk just like his father, and that was why she avoided him and his friends whenever she could. God knows who he's friends with, besides eighteen-years-old-Kenzie.
Rebecca chuckles. "You remember them? Your childhood friends?"
Maeve hesitates. She knows she had two friends she used to hang out with all the time, sometimes more—sometimes even with Noah's friends even when she didn't like him. "Not exactly…"
(They are strangers.)
Her old friends—she could look for them. Re-establish contact. She cut the contact, originally for only one year, because she was meant to. Because that was why she was going abroad in the first place. Get away from Illéa.
('Safety', as they said. 'Sanctuary', as she says.)
"You should try to find them. I'm sure Noah can help you. He has many friends."
"I know." Maeve deadpans.
Rebecca chuckles. "What is it, that you and Noah don't like another?"
That's obvious. He's a jerk! Just like Julian and Mary!
Rebecca shakes her head in disbelief. "Sometimes, I never understand you two. He's followed your name scheme though, when Hanoi passed away two years ago. That there," she points to one of the birds, "is Vienna. No doubt named after his girlfriend."
"Noah has a girlfriend?" And it's not Kenzie? Wow, way to go, Noah.
"Ex-girlfriend, actually, dear, but I'm not so sure about how Noah feels about it. He seems fine, but when I spoke to the prime minister… I'm not sure how Vienna is taking it. It's been a month…"
"… Prime Minister? Noah was dating the daughter of the prime minister?" Damn, Noah. "Does he have a son too?"
Rebecca laughs, from the bottom of her heart. "No, he doesn't, but her grandmother is coming by today, for a luncheon. You should join us. The Carlisles will bring de Rossi wine. Do you know it? It's Europe's best. Always my preference." Maeve wonders if her grandmother should be drinking alcohol at all, but given Rebecca's nature and history, she decides to just trust her. "It's too bad that Alessia and Simeon are so busy with life, but I'm sure you understand that, don't you?"
(Who?)
Given the fact that she is training to become the CEO of her family empire, yes, Maeve does. "Alessia? Simeon?" she, however, asks. Simeon sounds like a guy's name, at least. A possible Selected? Hopefully?
"The Carlisles' granddaughter and her step-brother," Rebecca replies. "I've not met her before, but from what I've been told, they're both lovely, busy students. Mary might be able to tell you more—she's so much more in touch with society nowadays. Never hide behind accounting books, Gemma, or you will miss all the excitement." How ironic for this to come from the chairwoman of the Rose Cotillion. "They came to Illéa almost a year ago, but both have been so busy with studying that society barely knows them. Alessia will make her debut on the Rose Cotillion too, and I expect Simeon to be present at the Bachelor's brunch."
(No need for their life story, but okay.)
"I see." Alessia and Simeon may just be within her age range, Maeve thinks, and smiles. "I would love to meet them. I'll make sure to look out for them."
"Lovely," Rebecca repeats. "So, will you join us for the luncheon?"
"Of course. Who else is in attendance?"
(And is Simeon hot? Can he beat Juan Santiago?)
Lots of people, for a 'simple luncheon', as it turns out. After a walk in the large gardens of the Illéa Palace, a luncheon with the Carlisles and a few of Rebecca's old friends that Maeve pretends to remember and the promise to be come back eventually ("Oh, Gemma, I'm sure you have more than enough to do. Don't worry, dear," – Rebecca, thank god), Maeve finds herself with not too much to do.
(Everything is going perfectly fine.)
After hanging out with her new friends, aged sixty to ninety, Gemma Maeve Schreave, however, is lost.
It's afternoon. She knows nobody but eighteen-years-old Kenzie Choi and Gabby Santiago for whom she'd need to learn a bit of sign language. Of course, she plans on meeting her again (Juan Santiago!) but poor Gabby isn't in the country this week. She is in Thailand for a photoshoot—which Maeve knows first-hand from her, not through her Instagram story.
(Maeve wishes she could be there too.)
She rides her motorbike into the city, and to the beachside. The other side—the south-east—so she definitely won't walk into Noah. The south-side of Illéa can be summarised as 'it's where the tourists are at'. Odd that she likes it so much.
Maeve regrets not taking a bikini with her. Being Gemma Maeve Schreave means she can stop at any store and grab one, but Anna would kill her wearing a blank fifty dollars bikini, and she knows better than to waste so much money when there are—
"Alright, Gemma, shut up," she tells herself when she stops at the waterfront. "Just enjoy the water. Nobody will recognise you. It'll be alright."
She parks the bike, steps into the sand, but turns around. No, Gemma Maeve Schreave can't just go to the beach. That's not fit for the heiress to the world's largest real estate empire. That's like Steve Jobs going for a swim in California. That's a no-no. She'll need to check if the Schreaves have their own beach. Surely, they do.
(Surely, they do.)
They had to, they were the Schreaves and they were her family and they liked her and that was how things worked. They were her family and this was her home and you always have things at home that you want and need and that's why it's your home. It's the basis of operations, the place where you return to and not the private jet that chauffeurs you across the planet.
(Everything is alright.)
(She'll have friends and settle down and be happy and deal with this all and no one will hate her for hacking Estelle Mun.)
(All is good.)
Maeve turns around and drives home. Home is where she's meant to be happy. Instead of being happy, though, Gemma Maeve Schreave hides under pillows and turns on the K-drama she's been watching. How much she'd give to just escape to Korea now… It's almost as if Gemma Maeve Schreave is homesick, even though she is exactly where home is meant to be.
Gemma Maeve Schreave does not cry.
The K-drama is underwhelming, but she makes herself watch it. Maybe she can go and cook something later on, or go out to eat something. Surely, there must be good Korean restaurants in town? She could practise ordering food, something that reminds her of abroad because she likes abroad so much.
"Gemma?" It's the soft, sweet voice of her mother that makes her look up from the middle of the episode and a mental monologue of how she would order kimchi. "What are you doing?" She's sitting in her wheelchair, in the doorframe.
Maeve was either more distracted than the show's protagonist when someone sneaked past her, or Daphne is just a genius at being silent. Given the apartment being so adapted to her wheelchair, and Maeve's state, it's probably that.
"Watching television," she replies. Of course, everything is perfectly fine.
"Hmhm…" There's nothing she can do except sit in the doorframe, offer to come in and be a sweet mother that Maeve doesn't deserve.
When Maeve doesn't say anything more, Daphne, of course, finds something to say, "You know, love, Mary invited me to come along this evening. She's meeting a few friends at Grail, and going out might just be more interesting than a television show you don't pay attention to."
(And a good distraction, of course.)
Maeve deadpans. Distraction is good, especially when it works, but she doesn't want distraction. She wants home. "You hate Mary."
Daphne chuckles. "I wouldn't say hate… I'm just not… fond of her."
"The last time I was here, you spent an evening ranting about how self-righteous she is, for, and I quote, 'a socialite that does nothing but drink wine and do yoga', mum."
"I doubt she does a lot more."
"Why would you go, then?" Maeve laughs out. It's ridiculous, how much they can rant and bitch about Mary Schreave sometimes. They should do that with Noah too, given what absolute gentleman he can be.
"I don't have friends." Daphne deadpans. It's a joke though. Everyone would want to be friends with the de-facto leader of Schreave Real Estate, in Rebecca's absence. Maybe that's why, though. Maybe Daphne means friends as Daphne, not Daphne Daulton-Schreave.
"That's not true."
"Name one of my friends," she dares.
Maeve cringes. She hasn't been in town long enough for that. "Uh… Ha! Gemma Maeve Schreave! You're my best friend, remember?"
("Mummy and daddy are my best friends!", she used to say.)
Daphne laughs. "I'll count that once." She smiles, and so does Maeve. "Alright, love, are you coming or not? I need to know if I need to check my outfit with anyone."
Maeve rolls her eyes. "We are not doing matching outfits."
"Aww, I was looking forward to embarrassing you." Maeve choses to throw a pillow at her mother, who catches it. "We're leaving at seven-thirty, don't be late. Grail Casino, so dress decent."
Anna must have given her a few things to complain about, Maeve assumes, while pulling herself up. A week ago, attending a high society event wouldn't have been scary, but going by Anna, she would have absolutely disgraced herself. Now she has a whole collection of new dresses, shoes and what not, and there's no end, going by her calendar.
Maeve ends up with a dress of one of the recent shopping trips; it's black with an illusion neckline (fit for the Illéan 'winter' one degree off the equator), has a belt and enough tulle that if she twirls fast enough, she looks like a ballerina. With a little highlighter, pearl earrings, an old silver family-heirloom-ring and Daphne's in-house stylist, she looks good enough that Daphne doesn't make a joke about leaving her here.
(She also redoes her make up. No traces of teas.)
"I'm sure you'll find someone in your age for, what did you call it? The Boyfriend Selection?"
Maeve's only response is her tongue. She leaves the car, with the clear intent of just walking away from her mother like the adult she is (Daphne's gonna take her sweet time either way), but the size and golden-sparkling water fountains of the casino dumbfounded her. Damn, that's fancy. Very fancy.
Not to say that Maeve has never been to Vegas, but Illéa is a league of its own, as always. She does end up following her mother and the assistant that is coming along (not Anna, unfortunately, it's someone trained to help Daphne with her disability) in the hopes that she can, at least, pretend to have an idea of what to do. It takes a while until they get inside.
(The slow pace does not help with Maeve's anxieties or patience.)
"Oh, and, love, please don't get drunk. I want to see you at work tomorrow," Daphne teases when they reach what a casino employee described as VIP floor. He received them and guided them to yet another fancy, black-golden room.
There are a few figures, all in evening dress, with some poker tables and roulettes. Having no idea how these games work, Maeve plasters a smile on her face and decides that for now, she will tag along with her mother. Even if that means moving at the pace of a snail. Daphne sets the direction (and pace) to a table with at least one player Maeve recognises. She's not exactly happy about that, though.
"It's quite unfortunate, indeed," Mary Schreave tells one of the two present young men. "I was just talking to her, before that unfortunate day. She wanted to make a difference on your family's life, especially your brother…"
"As sad as it is," he replies, "I doubt there is any hope for him."
"We wouldn't know either way."
Daphne Daulton-Schreave aims straight for her ex-sister-in-law. Mary Schreave is sitting at a table alongside two young men and a casino employee, with a—to Maeve—perfect poker face. She rolls by, motions Maeve to take the last empty seat and smiles. "I hope you don't mind us watching?"
"Enchante, mi'ladies," the other, younger, man greets. He looks decent—more as if he is working here, in a high-enough position, than like a guest though. An odd mix for such a recreational activity, Maeve thinks. Business style, yet charming. And young. "How could we not wish for the presence of such lovely ladies?"
(See? Everything is going great!)
Given Daphne's reaction (nothing), Maeve assumes she knows Mr Enchante. She does give him a smile though, because he looks just a little younger (maybe Kenzie's age, what's with all the kids here?) and if he is in the presence of Mary Schreave, he has to have a decent bank account.
"Thank you," she therefore says.
"I'm surprised you brought your daughter along," Mary, without moving her eyes, replies. Of course, Maeve doesn't get her own greeting. It's not the poker that makes her voice so cold. That is for sure. "This isn't 'bring-your-kids-to-work-day', you know."
"Oh, please, if it was, you'd be soaking in salt water—or where does Noah nowadays spend his days?" Daphne hums and looks at the poker play. She probably knows how to play (unlike Maeve), and also isn't utterly frightened by the chance of saying something wrong to Mary, which in return could reach Rebecca and hurt her inheritance.
Mary remains unfazed, but even Maeve knows that it must hurt. Poor perfect Mary Schreave's son is not interested a bit in being a big business man—unlike Gemma Maeve Schreave. If it wasn't for the hairspray, she'd flip her hair over her shoulder.
The other man, in his perfect looking suit, sighs. "All-in."
"For the showdown?" Daphne chirps. "A bit late, isn't it, Mr Vael?"
Vael? That rings a bell! Hey! Maeve knows something—uh, someone. She smiles. The Vael guy (who, however, looks pretty 'I don't know you' to her) clenches his fist. If poker is all about not showing body language, then he sucks.
"Straight flush!" he declares proud.
Okay, maybe Maeve has no idea of poker after all.
"You are a terrible player, Leander," Mary chirps. "Royal flush."
Mr Enchante huffs, and presents his cards. "You win, Mary. I'm surprised, this is my first loss today."
"I'm sure it'll be your only, Mr Santos," Mary replies as the chips move towards her. "You two are simply too young to compete with experience."
Leander rises. "Well, I think that was enough for today's evening. Do excuse me, I don't intend to give you much more time to brag, Miss Schreave." Mary smiles amused as he leaves, and adjusts the chips in front of her.
Mr Enchante turns to the two new-commers. "Are you in for a round? Miss Daulton-Schreave, I haven't seen you playing in ages."
"I don't plan to play, no. I'll leave that to Mary here. I've just been looking for a bit of socialising, if you understand. Gemma, dear, this is—"
"Perci Santos, mi'lady, it's a pleasure," he replies with a smirk and accent that should be illegal. Goddamn it, I should have gone for Britain instead of Paris; that's almost as good as a Kiwi accent. He actually rises to come and greet her, and all the tears from the afternoon are forgotten. What a charming man indeed. "May I invite you for a game, then?"
"No, thanks," Maeve replies. "I'm afraid, I don't even know how to play."
"Oh, it's quite easy. I'm happy to teach you."
Mary huffs. "She'll waste the family fortune, Percival, please. I'm happy to play with you later on, if you so much need someone." That is a challenge, definitely. Surely, Gemma Maeve Schreave can learn poker and beat some charming guy in it!
To Maeve's (and the family's) fortune, Perci takes it with a smile. "I see. May I invite you for a drink, then? Gemma, did I catch that correctly?"
"Gemma Maeve Schreave, yes," Maeve smiles. "I do prefer Maeve though."
"Alright, Maeve, the drink is on the house." Perci smirks as he leads her to the bar.
"On the house, huh?" Maeve repeats surprised.
"Percival Santos, humble CEO and owner of Grail Casinos," Perci explains and actually bows to her. "If your name is Gemma Maeve Schreave, then I assume you must be Illéa's lost crown princess?"
That is the last thing it takes to make a smile appear on Maeve's face. Finally, someone who recognises her! "I wouldn't go that far…" She blushes. "I do remember that your name sounds familiar. How could that be? Have we met before?"
He waves the bartender to him, asks for Maeve's favourite drink ("you tell me") and the employee is on his way. "We may have," he hints mysteriously. "There is, of course, my family's construction company. I am proud to say that we work quite a lot with yours, but—"
"Hmm, no, that's not it. It's the 'Perci', not the Santos. I do know of Santos Construction Inc. but, that's not it…"
Perci leans against the bar. "Well, Gemma Maeve Schreave, does a lady as beautiful as you happen to remember elementary school? I do quite remember the young lady that stole one of my favourite marbles through what I thought to be impossible."
"Pardon me?" Maeve chuckles. Marbles? Elementary school?
"We bet," Perci tells, "whenever the coin lands up or down. I quite remember a young lady beloved by everyone, of course, to say 'neither'."
Such a thing sounds awfully like her, indeed. Daring to challenge the odds, not for the sake of the small choice, but for everyone to enjoy the moment.
"We laughed, but she stayed with her decision. I promised, if she was right, she would be given a prize that no money could buy—one of my favourite marbles."
That indeed sounds familiar.
"The coin got stuck in one of the cracks between the tiles. The lady won."
That was her, yes, indeed, she remembered that! They couldn't keep themselves down for the rest of the whole period too; too amusing had the idea that such a thing would be possible been. That pretty marble, with green and blue and purple and yellow like a cloud in the universe itself, it had to be somewhere at home. In her childhood bedroom, maybe?
(So, if they're the same age, does that mean Kenzie is not eighteen either?)
"I do remember—oh! It was you who led that elementary gambling ring, wasn't it? These tales were always a hit in LA." She smiles at Perci. He looks a little younger than he is, but he's definitely a good choice. "Do tell me more," she leans over on the counter and plays with her hair. Gemma Maeve Schreave can flirt too, she decides. "I'm sure you have fascinating stories."
That's when he blushes—no, turns as red as a tomato. "I, uh…" he stumbles and looks to his drink that just arrived. "I wouldn't… say there's that much you know actually I think I need to say hello to a few more guests do some work and—ah, excuse me—!" And he runs off. Without the drink.
Maeve is dumbfounded. Very much dumbfounded. Just now, they had been talking so friendly—she had just been reminding of a childhood friendship! The perfect way to pull him into her Boyfriend Selection™! Maeve sighs and sips on her drink. If Percival Santos dares to leave Gemma Maeve Schreave alone like that, then it's his problem.
"Do you know if I did something? Perci just… ran away!"
Daphne waves it off, and drops her glass of champagne. "Don't worry, love. Percival enjoys flirting a little, but he's easily flustered. He's a good man though." She laughs. It must be normal. "He doesn't mean it bad; he just doesn't do well when ladies return his advances."
Mary rolls her eyes, probably at the 'Maeve was flirting' aspect. "A respectable business man, too," Mary nods—such a rare agreement, huh? "He built the Grail Casino chain on his own, and there are respected all over the world. I'm surprised you haven't seen one, with all your travelling."
"I don't gamble away so much money," Maeve shots back. "We were in the same class, I believe."
"He is definitely better company than Leander's brother," Daphne adds on. "If you ever meet Griffin Vael, do me the favour, Gemma, and just turn around. He's not the company we like."
That is interesting, because "Griffin Vael" rings the 'Vael bell'. That was the kid that got shipped. Mental note—avoid. And maybe read up on the couple to gasp what was going on.
"Percival is quite the enchanting company though," Mary added on, visibly proud of her pun.
Maeve smiled acknowledging. That alone meant that the evening was worth it. Percival Santos—Perci—was another adequate addition to her Boyfriend Selection™. She could contact him through Instagram, maybe, or have Anna fetch his contact details. Surely, that'd be possible for Gemma Maeve Schreave.
"So," Gemma Maeve Schreave begins, "how does this poker game work? I don't plan to play with money, but I sure would love to see how it goes."
(Of course, Gemma Maeve Schreave absolutely totally wins.)
Chapter Recap:
Estelle Mun, Illéa's favourite radio host, is hacked by a mysterious voice that tells her and everyone listening that Gemma Maeve Schreave is back. Maeve, however, takes that pretty easily—after all, she's Gemma Maeve Schreave and everything has to be alright (or not). She can buy it, if necessary. Maeve, after meeting with the police and confirming her innocence, meets with her grandmother, speaks to her about past friends and homes and visits the peafowl, reminiscending of her and Noah's childhood. In the evening, Daphne drags her daughter along to the casino where Maeve meets Griff's older brother, Leander Vael, her aunt, Mary Schreave and flirty-but-shy Percival 'Perci' Santos, who leaves her standing at the bar—to her dismay.
Next Chapter Teaster: Relationship 101 by Gemma Maeve Schreave (or something like that)
Author's Note
Welcome back, to chapter four! :)
So, yes, the 'certain Vael', Wondy, is Leander. :P Next chapter, next chapter. This time for real, I promise. I was joking. Sorry. Love you lots. Next chapter, I promise. He's there.
Frenchie, Amarillo and Izar helped me with translating some stuff again, and Slyther and Green were great feedback buddies, so thank you!
Let me know what you think of Rebecca, Mary and Perci—and what you think happened to our poor radio host! How will Perci recover from this? Let me know what your character thinks about the hack! They can't dodge it as smoothly as Perci did today!
Lots of love :heart: and see you next month!
