CRAZY RICH ILLÉANS

X

Old Friends, New Friends


Maeve changes her Spotify playlist. Again. Until now, it had been J-Rock—to set the mood for the trip-that-won't-happen-now—but she hits a random playlist; German pop songs. Schlager. Meinetwegen… If I really have to... (She can't bring herself to listen to something from Illéa. Not yet.) She delivers Cassia to her hotel, not without both of them questioning Maeve's choice of music, makes sure she's checked in. She heads on her way home, through the evening traffic. The sun is setting in the distance, the summer heat slowly dissipates as a soft breeze pushes through her open window. The evening rush hour—Feierabendverkehr, she thinks. Traffic of the evening celebration. People are heading home to enjoy their free time. To have a nice day. If only—buzzes, but to her, it's silent. The music doesn't reach her mind. Her thoughts run wild.

Cassia is nice. She's a good friend. I like her. iGemma Maeve Schreave can be friends with her, right? That's great. I have friends. But the de facto break-in into Andromeda is a sure way to get back to the news and Gemma can't do that—if she ever had to break into anywhere, she'd pay people to do that!

(Unfortunately, the series she's binging requires subtitles for her broken Korean. No distraction available. The music doesn't do the deal either. She isn't interested in running breathless through the night.)

Maeve circles around the block twice, to procrastinate, but against all odds, she makes it home. There, Daphne Daulton-Schreave is waiting for her with her leaving note in her hand and the strangest look in her face. Dumbass Maeve can't read it, doesn't know whenever it's disappointment, understanding, confusion or worry in her eyes. Her thoughts are still with what am I going to do when the press finds out.

"I—I can explain."

"No need to."

"Oh."

"Have a seat, sweetie."

Maeve hesitates to 'have a seat'. The last time this happened (and part of that is because Maeve's been living abroad ever since—her fault), her world broke apart. Not the best way to start 'let's give Illéa a third chance'. If only she had stayed and Gemma had grown up with everyone and she had friends and roots here and she actually belonged here... "Okay…? It's fine, really. Just had a bad day."

"Gemma, even if I'm not the most sociable person, I do have ears. I've heard the rumours."

"Which are false. That dress was designer."

"I don't—yes. It was. Nathaniel mentioned that."

"Nat—who?"

Daphne folds her hands on her lap. "I invited an old friend here, from EFPA. Nathaniel Montgomery-Romilly. You were such good friends in primary school—you, Percival and Nathaniel spent every day together."

(How'd she know she didn't leave? Maeve doesn't even want to know.)

The name does ring a bell. EFPA was so long ago; Maeve only remembers the secret gambling ring Perci led. And how Noah always had so many friends.

(She did too, but even Gemma doesn't recall that.)

"Nath—Nate? That Nate? The one I dragged into helping Perci run his gambling ring?" The one she cut contact with in her second year of Harvard because of reasons?

Behind Daphne, Nate leans into the door. Short, wavy black hair, hazel eyes. Some tan, minimalistic clothes that could come from the well-dressed Schreave Real Estate employees. "That Nate, yeah. Long time no see, Maeve."

Part of Maeve screams, Oh no, this will not go well, girl. Harvard. Second year. You remember that. Her stomach twists, but then again, it has been what—two years, now? Even longer since they last met in person?

"You're the one Mary made Noah tutor in Mandarin," she remembers. She remembers more, of course. But that's Harvard Second Year and we don't talk about that. "And Noah turned out to be a terrible teacher. Oh gosh, why is this coming back only now?"

(Maybe, she had forgotten on purpose.)

"He's better at teaching surfing, I think."

"Yeah."

"And you're that girl, the one everybody knew. Gemma Maeve Schreave."

"People definitely know my name now," she huffs.

"Estelle?" Nate asks. "I heard that all. Must be a nightmare."

Daphne nods. "There've been quite a few journalists coming by. Security knows to not let anyone through."

"There've been journalists here?" he tenses.

"Yes, though, not in the last days though," Daphne waves it off. It's always been that way—except they usually work for business magazines and not the Vogue Illéa trying to figure out what's up with Estelle and the Hack™. "Why don't you two head out, grab something to eat or so?" Daphne suggests. Is she setting them up? Mum, no! Not Nate! Anybody but him! There are more than two boys in Illéa; try someone else! "I heard a really nice Italian restaurant recently opened around the block?"

"Do you want us out, Daphne?" Nate asks, with a chuckle.

She laughs. "Yes. I've got a television show I want to watch, and Gemma needs to socialise."

"I literally talk to clients all day, at work!"

"Emphasis on clients." If Daphne could, she'd shove them out of the door. She can't—wheelchair—and thus only turns around and moves to the living room, leaving Maeve and Nate in the hallway.

You might as well catch up with him.

"How long were you waiting?" Maeve asks Nate in the lift. "Mum didn't know how long I'd be out."

"Not long. I was around and had been planning to drop by anyways. You're busy, aren't you?" he reminds her. "Where have you been? We lost contact, back when you were at Harvard."

"I know," Maeve forces a smile. "So much work with my masters… I'm sorry."

"It's really weird," Nate laughs, "with my brother being there and missing out on you."

"College life, huh. How about you? Last time I checked, you were interning for the Vogue?"

"Vogue or Tom Ford—one of them. I think it was just when I came back from Sorbonne?"

"What are you up to, now?" Maeve asks. "I'm stuck with houses—how about you?"

"As you do." Nate nods. "I've been running my blog. Fashion commentary—I've collaborated with a bunch of magazines, as a guest writer. Despite Noah's inability to teach Mandarin, I've worked in Beijing."

"You yisi." That is cool, Maeve admits. Celeste was addicted to the Vogue, last time I checked. "I ended up teaching English in Hong Kong. It was eye-opening to live there again." And she misses it. The realness of it. The lack of 'this is Illéa, this is me being Gemma Maeve Schreave, the you-have-to-be-the-social-queen-b-because-of-who-your-grandma-is'.

"What do you mean? Taught?"

"After I finished my masters, I ended up going to Hong Kong for a bit. English teaching, you know? It was a nice opportunity to connect with my mum's family and practice my Cantonese with someone that's not mum."

"Wasn't your father terrible at it?" Nate remembers. "

"He got better over the years," Maeve defended Christian. "Not everyone can speak five languages."

"Says the girl whose only hobby is languages. Gemma, I've known you since you dragged me into Perci's ring. You speak what—six languages?"

"A bit more," Gemma grins. "So, fashion commentary. Has that come from your degree, I assume?"

"When I wrote for the IU student paper, that was an attempt on serious journalism. I wrote the politics section, remember?"

"I like languages, you liked international relations. I remember how we got along," Maeve laughs. Gosh, this is awkward. Gemma, get your shit together. You're friends. Everything outside Illéa—that's Maeve. You're back. "Right—I remember. I'm sorry. I've met so many people…" And tried to forget others.

"The blog was just a hobby. Not so sure how it blew up. Maybe because I had the contacts to get the right photos and all, through my mum. I didn't intend for it to get that big. You remember how I planned to go into law school?"

Maeve nods. "That's not a thing anymore?"

Nate shrugs. "Trust fund, ads, and the occasional sponsorship keep me going perfectly fine. Do you think your mum meant that restaurant, there?" he points towards one at the road, with a few people dining here. "This is Likely—probably for your average business man's after-work dinner?"

"It's Sunday. We'll get a spot," Maeve determines, and walks up to the front desk. "A table for two, please."

The hotel is not extraordinary, definitely not five stars, and they're going to dine for below hundred dollars. That's good news. Very good news, actually, for Maeve's conscience. They sit down and order their food.

"I'd think, my mum found this one on her way to work," Maeve thinks out loud.

"What's with that joke of her never socializing?" Nate wonders. "I get dragged to all these events by my cousins."

"How are your cousins?"

Nate laughs. He's lots of cousins. "Which one? I have enough of them. Georgie's doing well in Britain, from what I know. Seraphina is still active in horse riding," Nate goes on, emphasizing the not-professional-term for equestrianism, "and Adelina is still in North Carolina. Did you ever end up visiting her?"

She planned to. She didn't, though. "No, unfortunately. College."

"What have you been up to, today? Probably not hanging out with cousins?"

Maeve forces a smile. Never, if she could choose not to. "No. Fun story, actually, I broke into the Andromeda Project." She laughs.

"Andromeda—don't they have a control policy not unlike the Illéa Palace?"

"Yes. It's a long story, involving running away from a friends' mother," she laughs. "Another friend of mine got us out, though." That makes it sound like she has many friends.

"You're up to strange things these days, Gemma Schreave. First, Estelle and now this? How do I not know that you're up to something?"

(That's not what she wants to talk about.)

"I get dragged into things," she shuts the conversation down. No need to discuss that. Nate wouldn't do that—he's always been somewhat aloof—to most people. Either Daphne has talked him into something, or he's still awfully comfortable around her. Even after she cut contact. She sighs.

"What were you up to?"

"Just helping some friends," he replies.

"Friends? Who?"

"You wouldn't know them," Nate replies. "A bunch of people I befriended through my connections in IU." Illéa University. Probably the alma mater of most rich kids in Illéa (at least those that didn't go abroad, like her...).

"Ah." Thinking about friends, Maeve tenses. The food arrives—distracting Nate from her face—and allows Maeve an excuse to worry. Nate comes from EFPA too. Perci, Noah, and probably all the other chat kids too (they have to, it's EFPA) will come from there if it's anyhow elitist. "So, you only hang out with IU kids, nowadays?"

(Elizabeth Feller Preparatory Academy. Bethany Schreave High School. Illéa University. The three names that should have been on her CV.)

Nate leans back. "I do have other friends. I ended up reconnecting with Perci, actually. I saw you two at the Cotillion."

"Why didn't you say hi?"

Nate crosses his arms. "To be fair, you were always with the other debs."

(He just doesn't want to be around Illéa's current gossip.)

"Not a valid excuse!" she insists.

Nate leans back. "Georgie was here for the Cotillion, and I ended up being with her and her husband for the night. I forgot about it, because they kept me busy and distracted."

"Ah." Maeve can't hide her disappointment either way. "What did you think of the Cotillion?"

"They went overboard with the rose theme," he comments. "I felt a little overdone, but I can't say that it didn't look good in the end. I liked the bouquets of the debs, but I'm no florist."

"Just a fashion commentator."

"Most girls had pretty dresses, but that Lowell girl? You know, Samantha Lowell's niece? She just copied a deb from last year who was on the cover of Allure. It was cringy. The dress looked so 2018." He chuckles. Maeve laughs, too, because obviously this is fun and people are totally not saying she wore a random dress, and not a designer one. "You wore a dress by Lucy Leger, the indie designer, didn't you? Or was it Mary? They have such a similar style..."

Maeve grumps. "Yeah. It's not from Zara, no matter what people are saying."

"That's the risk with indie designers and rumours. Why didn't you go for a more established designer?"

"Cheaper," Maeve admitted. "The whole Cotillion ordeal is expensive enough. I'm glad that I don't have to repeat deb balls here." She shrugs. "Oh, and, also, supporting indie designers and local and what not, you know? I want to—"

"Haven't you worn a lot of Chanel and so on?" Nate asks, confused. Why would she be concerned about wasting money when she wore name brands, he probably thought.

"Anna—a friend of mine—went shopping with me and took the reins. If you have suggestions, go ahead. Going by her, my closet was unacceptable. The price tag is what's unacceptable."

Nate says, "Let me take you shopping at some point. We can work over that style issue of yours."

Style issue!?

"Sure—I'd love to. Take me, take me," Maeve laughs. "I'm sure you know the secret goldmines in the city."

"I like to think that," Nat muses.

They talk more; about secret hotspots and fun places to go to in Illéa, including his favorite cinema—not too far away—and a lovely little café in Waverly. By now, they've finished their meal. Though considering getting a coffee afterwards, they don't. Instead, Maeve takes initiative.

(She's meant to settle down, after all.)

"Why don't we check out your little cinema. Maybe there's a good movie on?" She hasn't been in the cinema in ages. She couldn't tell.

"Sure—why not? I think a movie Juan Santiago is in is in the cinemas right now. The one where birds aren't real? I think that's where that pigeon meme comes from…"


"I can't believe you're going shopping, and you didn't invite me!" Anna exclaims. In the middle of the office. Of a real estate business. Of which her mum is in charge. Yes, that poor intern in the corner looks confused.

"It came out of the blue?" Maeve defends, "and you sound like a 'best friend' in some sappy high school movie."

"Did you and your shopping buddy watch sappy high school movies?"

"No, we watched a movie about pigeon spies."

"Ah, Juan Santiago's new one. Is Gabby taking you?"

"No." That doesn't mean she wouldn't mind going shopping with them. If they weren't in Noah's elite club. If she wasn't the weird outsider.

"Who then? I know all your friends."

"Nate. Nathaniel Montgomery-Romilly."

"Nathaniel Montgomery-Romilly!? The fashion commentator? You know him?"

"He's just a childhood friend," she replies, shrugs, and hands her a folder. "Get that down to accounting, please."

"'He's just a childhood friend'," Anna mocks, "We're talking about the Nathaniel Montgomery-Romilly here!" She takes the folder. "Remind me, why don't we digitise this stuff?" Anna asks, throwing it into a bin marked 'down to accounting, please'.

"Cybersecurity?" Maeve shrugs. "Hand in a suggestion to management."

"But that's work!" Anna complains, "Can't I just tell you?"

Maeve looks up, deadpans. "… I mean, I'm totally onto organisation changes when my grandma wants me to find a boyfriend and I've been avoiding my friends for the whole week?"

"Right—which you did because why again? Did Perci do something at the Cotillion? I wasn't there—I couldn't know. Tell me." It's probably a not-so-subtle hint that she wants to be invited. Gemma discards it. Anna may be like a sister to her, but the Cotillion is another thing.

"Nah, don't worry. You can come along though—let me just ask Nate if he's cool with it." Maeve leans against her desk and pulls out her smartphone. She has chatted with Cassia (who, responsibly, is looking into what she'll do here in Illéa and is also responsibly avoiding her mother—not that Maeve hasn't replied to any of Sia's, Perci's and Gabby's messages—which weren't many though) and mostly worked. Gotta prove mum that I plan to stay.

(For now)


/ Private Messages with Nate Montgomery-Romilly (NateNate11)

Maeve (gemmaeve): is it ok when a friend from work comes today

Maeve (gemmaeve): she's giving me a hard time for not inviting her

Nate (NateNate11): Sure! Do you mind if I bring along some people too? Then we'll be a bigger group, too. Helps with avoiding nasty people.

Maeve (gemmaeve): Nasty people?

Nate (NateNate11): Paparazzi.

Maeve (gemmaeve): yikes. if you think it'll help, sure.


(She will regret that answer very soon.)

"You're in."

"Ooh, rich kid shopping trip? I better take my good handbag."

Maeve frowns. "I've only ever seen you with one."

"That's because I don't go shopping. It's sad."

"You earn like seventy-five-thousand dollars a year."

"Rent in Illéa sucks, and I'm saving."

"For what? Retirement? You're not even thirty!" Maeve laughs, and leans over the desk to fetch her own bag. It includes her lovely unlimited credit card and other things out of Anna's price range. No need to throw that in her face, she decides. A final look at today's work pile (empty), and Maeve decides it's time to finish work. "Ready to go?"

"Now?" Anna asks. "I gotta get that down to accounting!"

Maeve shakes her head, and sighs, "Then let's get this down to accounting and go."

That's how the lowly people from accounting get to meet the future CEO of Schreave Real Estate, and how Maeve learns where accounting is actually located. That's also how Anna gets dragged into Maeve's beloved red car (she brought the car to work, because while she loves her bike, who knows how much they'll buy) and complains about not having a driver.

("Why am I hanging out with rich kids, when we don't do the whole deal?" kind of thing.)

Nate told her to meet at the Hansport Promenade's Starbucks. Easy to find, lots of people and yes, both her memory and his reputation prove that Nathaniel Remington Montgomery-Romilly takes his privacy very seriously. Anna disagrees with that idea—she'd probably make her bank account public—but that's up to her and her only. (Maeve envies him.)

At Starbucks, because she's enough of a VSCO girl to do that, she gets herself a rainbow Frappuccino without even knowing its taste and snaps a bunch of photos with it (and Anna messing around in the background) for Instagram. It's when she actually starts drinking (Anna got a normal coffee) that Nate shows up. And his friends.

Poppy Astor and Perci Santos.

Talk about avoiding chat kids, huh.

"Maeve, hey!" Nate greets her and hugs her like the old friend he is. Maeve does so, with the best acting abilities she has masking her frown. Cue repeating that with Poppy and Perci. Great. Really. She should've guessed that (somehow).

After the awkward introduction of Anna (who knows all three of them, apparently, but they don't know her; Maeve envies her ability not to be awkward like Maeve is), they make their way through Hansport's street. There's a reason why this part of Illéa is known to be the shopping centre of Illéa; boutiques, chains and stores are squeezed at the large promenades' sides. The buildings are as close to another as she knows them to be in old European cities. Bags, logos and opening doors echo alongside the music played in cafes and restaurants.

"Where are we going first?" Anna asks Nate. "Chanel's nearby…"

Nate shakes his head. "Way too clunky and middle class."

Anna laughs out. "Middle class? Have you ever seen the price tags—"

"You pay for the brand, not the quality. It's nice from time to time, but it's mainly just brands. Maybe Zara? H&M?"

"I shop there!" Anna complains, laughing. "That's ridiculous!"

"H&M has heaps of basic clothes. Ideal to start outfits. What are we going for, Maeve?"

She shrugs. She gets where they come from, but that doesn't mean that (thanks to a particular set of friends) she minds Chanel. "I don't mind. Work clothes? I got enough evening wear for now. Casual outfits, maybe."

"Works with me. What style are you going for?"

Is it bad that the first thing coming to her mind is "grandma's style"? Probably, given that she's not eighty years old. "Something timeless," she decides to say. Rebecca's style hasn't changed a lot, she thinks.

"Do you mean 'something that a time traveller could wear in 1920', or 'ignore trends and go with something I can wear next season too'?" Poppy asks. She crosses her arms, thinking. It's odd to look at her, carrying a designer bag, elegant leather jacket and black mini skirt, sunglasses and a tee-shirt. So far so cool, except the t-shirt has Pokémon on it. And the whole thing works. She could've been in the Seventeen...

"Ignore trends."

"I assumed," Nate laughs. "That's easy. If it's for work, we'd probably want to go for a mature look?"

Maeve nods. "That's what I like to think I wear."

"No, you don't," Anna laughs.

"Don't bully Gemma," Poppy chuckles. "She looks good."

"Thank you!" Maeve beams.

"… I'll just follow along," Perci determines. "How about I invite you all for a round—"

Poppy rolls her eyes, "We're not going to gamble at your casino, Perci. We'd all just lose money."

Nate laughs. "I worked for you. I know that you don't win in gambling."

Perci shakes his head, but knows better than to oppose them. Instead, he follows them along as they head to H&M, to Anna's dismay (who, honestly, is here to watch thousands of dollars being spent). A mixture of "this fits your figure" and "ooh, look, this compliments your eyes" later, they have her basics covered and move on to other stores. Perci becomes the designated bag carrier. Good man.

(And more importantly, Maeve forgets the chat.)

"Hey, Maeve?" Perci asks, eventually, when they are on their way to checking out Poppy's favourite makeup store. "Are you doing alright? I tried to message you over the week, and you haven't responded. If the—"

"Oh, I was just busy with work," Maeve lies seamlessly. She's practised this.

"If these girls got to you, they're just jealous."

Jealous of what? That she isn't in the group chat of the fancy rich kids? "Again, I was just busy," she repeats, laughing. She bits on her lip and makes an effort to catch up with Anna.

Perci doesn't bring it up for the rest of the day. Maeve can't say that she isn't glad for that. She listens to Poppy talking about what base colour to use for the outfits they have gotten, and lets her have a go on her own face. Maeve's happy with how she does her makeup, but anything is good to not talk about the chat.

(She manages.)

The sun nears the roofs of the shops and buildings when they sit down in a café for a drink and moment of recovery. Poor Perci has quite a few bags to carry. Each of them orders a drink, they talk about this and that, and Maeve listens in.

(She's totally not crazy when catching all these things that scream chat in their words.)

"Isn't the Love Report on, now?" Poppy suddenly, and out of the blue, asks.

Nate and Perci simultaneously check the time too. "It is."

"Wanna turn in?" she suggests, already pulling up the livestream on her phone. The café is empty—most people would be eating dinner now, Maeve guesses, and even if someone came to them telling them to turn off the phone, wouldn't they just go and buy the café or something? Probably.

"Sure," Nate agrees. Personally, Maeve doesn't—for obvious reasons. Estelle is sweet and all, but the rumours.

They catch Estelle at the end of a conversation with a caller, and listen for a while. It's nothing extraordinary (rather than that, it, in fact, feels like high school drama) that she talks about, but Maeve gasps why people listen to it. Other people's problems are such a nice distraction.

"How about you guys?" Poppy asks. "Anything interesting in your love life? Besides Perci who tries to flirt with everyone?" she teases.

"Nah," Anna laughs. "I am married to my job."

"Good," Maeve laughs, determined not to discuss her own love life. "You do a good job at it."

"Don't I technically work for your mum?"

"Details. How about you two?" she asks Nate and Poppy.

Poppy sighs. "No, not really… It'd be nice, but no."

"Same for me," Nate quickly adds. "Maeve?"

There are a bunch of boys she would, theoretically, be interested in, but something tells her that each and every single one of them is in said group chat and alone thinking about that makes her heart heavy. Yes, she wouldn't mind dating handsome Juan Santiago or kind Perci Santos. Maybe even others (except, of course, Alex Langston and Griff Vael, she thinks), but if Nate is friends with Perci and Poppy, then surely he is part of the chat too. Juan is Gabby's brother, and Angel was a friend of Juan. It's hopeless, really. She could try, but to what avail?

"No, nothing," she says.

(Anna raises her eyebrows, and gets a glare as response.)

Her phone rings. Maeve recognises it (her current ring tone is a song from some Korean girl group and she doubts anyone else here has that) and leans to fetch her phone out of her bag. It's her mum. She gives the others an apologetic smile and a "I have to take that, be right back", and heads away from the café.

"I'm out with friends, is this important?"

"Yes," Daphne replies, "Do you remember the deal for hat office building in Lakedon?"

"Yes…?"

"I just got the finalisation. We want this done before Christmas; the current aim is the twenty-third. I want you to do the sale."

"Okay, and why are you telling me this now?" Maeve asks, a tad annoyed. "Couldn't that have waited until tomorrow? Or, you know, have Anna just put it into my calendar?"

"I appreciate your confidence, but this is a big sale. I need to know for sure that you're confident that you can do it."

"I—Mum, I'm out with friends. I can't just drive back to work. This has been in my calendar for almost a week. Why would I not be able to do it? I thought everything was arranged, and it's just signing papers and some business dinner?"

"It is. It's more that I'm a bit worried about the client."

"That sounds awfully ominous, mum. Are you worried it'll fall through?"

"To be honest, yes. I don't want that to be attached to your name, but I have other appointments that week that I can't move either."

"It'll be fine. Let's talk about it tomorrow, or when I'm back home," Maeve assures her. "I can't tell you if it'll work now—or do you need it now-now?"

(Surprisingly, when it comes to work, Maeve can be rational.)

"I'm sending the invitation to the dinner," Daphne replies, "and I need a name to put into it. Who'll be there."

"Go with 'a representative from Schreave Real Estate'? If it's not you or me, who'd you send?"

"Not sure. It's a big sale and start of, maybe, an important relationship. I wouldn't want this to go through with some nobody."

"Write representative, or maybe 'the team working here with you'?" she suggests. "Is that all you need now?"

There's a break while Daphne notes it down. "No. Thanks. Love you, have fun with your friends, honey."

"Love you, bye."

The call ends. Call reminds Maeve of something else, though. Estelle is online right now, and while Cassia's suggestion on trying to live her life without the chat kids might be a good idea in general, it feels one thing: impossible. They're too much in her life already. She hopes, Estelle Mun has a bit better advice.

Once more, she doesn't find herself waiting in the line of callers. Not that Gemma Maeve Schreave would ever notice—she's far beyond that—but she's only told to wait a bit, she's up next. A brief talk through how she's not asked to fangirl or anything, so they can get through as many callers as possible.

(Does she once think of her friends listening? No.)

"Hello there, and welcome to The Love Report! This is Estelle Mun talking. Why don't you introduce yourself to our audience?" the radio host greets her a few moments later.

Maeve takes a deep breath. Time to go back to valley girl!Maeve. "Hey girl! It's me, America Singer. I am so so so sorry to bother you again, but I totally need your help because you are like, the best advice giver I've ever heard!"

"Oh, hey!" Estelle sounds surprised, but friendly nonetheless. Great. Someone appreciating her. "Welcome back on the show! How are you doing?"

"I am doing well! Well, actually, no. I have these friends and all, but they're all like in this totally secret, totally exclusive group chat. Of course they can do like, anything the want but whenever we are out and about I feel hella excluded. It's like I'm a second class friend and it's totally buggin' me that I don't know what to do! I really really really want to hang out with them and stuff, but it's not like fun when I feel like that."

Estelle listens in closely. "I see what's going on. You're worried that if you end up dating someone, you will be excluded from their friend circle?"

"Like, totally!"

"It's great to hear that you want to be part of their friend group." She pauses, thinking. Probably because Maeve's goal in dating isn't, you know, finding a significant other to love, but to find someone to present to her grandma and get that money. "What is stopping you from being part of it? Do they actively exclude you?"

Yes. Noah is. Surely, he's involved in this. Everyone, probably, is. She really has to get into that group chat—but she can't say that. Anyone who knows her or them will understand, won't they? "It's just that I they have any like, common interest or anything like that. have no real connection to them. They are from like, all over the world. I'm not really sure if there is a common thing I can do to like, be with them more.

"Are you close to any of them?"

"Like, a few of them, I guess."

"Do you think they could be a key to hanging out with more of the group and befriending with them step by step?" Estelle suggests. "That being said, I wouldn't recommend forcing yourself into a friend group just because you like someone. If you don't work out together, it'll only affect everyone negatively. Try, but don't force."

Maeve nods. That, she can do. Maybe hang out with Gabby? Maybe she can even play wingman someday? "I'll totally try that! You're the bestest, Estelle!"

"Good luck!" Estelle wishes.

The call ends. Maeve smiles, returns to the others. Poppy is closely listening to the Report. Walking back took a moment; Estelle is probably onto the next caller, she reasons. "What's going on?" she asks.

"You just missed America!" Poppy announces. "You can probably catch up online, though."

"America?" Maeve frowns.

"Yeah, that girl with the forced marriage? Haven't you heard of her? America Singer?" she asks. "Lots of people are talking about her."

"I don't usually listen to the show," Maeve replies, truthfully. She sits down again. Estelle finishes the next caller. Poppy already reaches out for her phone—to turn it off, so she can explain America—when the next call starts.

And Maeve's heart goes into freefall.

"HELLO ESTELLE."

(Suffice to say, Maeve panics.)

Maeve's eyes are glued onto the phone. The others react, but she doesn't gasp it. It's the hacker again. He's there, again, and what will he say? What will he do this time? Is this about me? What is he going to say? Does he know I'm America? What's he gonna say? Everyone is going to think IamisbehindthisallandtheywillhatemeevenifIhaventdoneasinglething!

Estelle cries out in fear.

"APOLOGIES FOR THE INTERRUPTION. I DO HAVE SOME TEA TO SPILL."

"Go away!" she cries.

"SAMANTHA LOWELL IS CHEATING ON HER HUSBAND WITH HER CHAUFFEUR."

Who? Lowell? As in Grace Lowell? Why—what do they have to dowithmewhatdotheywantfrommegoawayIdidntdoanything!

"TAKE A LOOK AT—" The voice cuts out. First, Maeve thinks that Estelle cut him out, but Poppy's hand is on her phone.

"What's going on?" Nate asks, almost as frightened as Estelle Mun.

"Let's not give them more views," Poppy decides, almost too calmly. "Whoever this is, they want attention, clearly. We can do a part in not giving it… Gemma, are you alright? You're as white as a ghost."

She's not. She's white, she's trembling and—fuckwhoeverisdoingthisgooutofmylifeIdontdeservethis. Anna kindly rubs her shoulder. "Maevy?"

"What's going on? Who is this?" she asks, near tears. "Why—?"

She feels guilt, because she shouldn't feel glad. She shouldn't be glad that instead of her name, it's Samantha Lowell, someone she doesn't even know. But she is. That doesn't mean that whoever is out there, doing whatever they do, isn't gone. This hacker knew she was back, but he could have gotten that from her Instagram. An affair? Unless it's the chauffeur, it makes it scary. What else can they do?

"This is like Gossip Girl, or what it's called," Perci says, concerned.

"What do you mean?" Nate asks.

Perci shows them his phone. It's a Twitter account, already being followed by a few people despite its creation date, today, and its few tweets. Photos of a middle aged woman and a man in chauffeur's uniform, kissing. At multiple places, in multiple dresses. "Literally. The username, look. GossipGirlIlléa1912."

"This is a joke," Nate huffs. "This has to be a joke!"

"Samantha Lowell is known for her perfect marriage. She just gave birth to her first child. If I'm not wrong, she is even on the Cotillion committee."

"Not after this," Nate mutters. "The Lowells are such an old family—this is going to taint their name for years."

"Samantha's name more than the Lowells. Her husband is just the poor soul here."

"Who knows why she cheated." Anna doesn't help a lot in stopping the rumours.

"The Lowells don't matter here! Whoever did this does!" Maeve cries out. "Anyone could be next. Me wasn't the only time; if they don't find him, then anything could be next!"

Anything. Any secret or what else they hide from the rest of the world. Her grandmother's demands. Her grandmother's illness, even! What led to her dad leaving. Harvard. America Singer, even.

(That night, Gemma Maeve Schreave does not sleep well.)


By the time the police are done with the studio, all the workers, have all data, and security, and whatever they want, Estelle's makeup is ruined. Her day is too, and Ginny's shirt probably as well. She sits in her arms in the studio's designated break room (the kitchen) where the small team of Love Incorporated usually holds their company lunches. The Love Report star and her sound operator are alone, though.

"Do you want a ride home?" Ginny offers.

"Hmhm."

She couldn't even say why she's still crying. Like the detective (the same from last time) assured her, there's nobody in the building, and Estelle knows, a computer can't suddenly turn into a monster and eat her. It's irrational, a voice from her memories tells her, but Estelle cries nonetheless.

(It's scary, because she doesn't understand it.)

"What do you think does he want?" she asks, quietly. Stanley Hepburn, their kind but eccentric boss, is still speaking with the detectives, alongside the studio's communications director.

"Wreak havoc?" Ginny suggests, though her words are meaningless. She has cried too. Always prided herself into being 'the best sound operator that ever was', it frightens her to lose control just as much as it frightens Estelle to be in that room with lights gone dark. "Maybe it's a personal thing?"

"What do Gemma Schreave and Samantha Lowell have in common?" Estelle asks. She barely knows either.

"They're rich? Maybe it was blackmailing?"

"The cops would have told us," Estelle wants to believe, even if she knows they don't always do. "They questioned Gemma, and surely, they will do the same with Samantha."

Ginny's one hand holds her phone. She hasn't told Estelle yet—to protect her, she assumes—but she saw the Twitter account and the photos. More than one of them are inside—at locations where no stalker should get!

They aren't safe from cameras in here.

That hacker could expose her identity just as easily as Samantha's affair.

"Do you want a ride now?" Ginny repeats.

They live on opposite ends of town. "I can't make you drive all the way to my home." Her voice is so void, so empty, so sad—she doesn't even recognise it. And Estelle has heard her voice quite often.

Ginny shrugs. "I won't let you go out there alone. We can grab dinner?"

"I don't want anyone seeing me with you," Estelle reminds her. It sounds colder than she intended. She looks down. "I don't mean it—"

But she chuckles. "Don't worry, I know. Nobody can know, and my friends know where I work. Let me at least drive you; or call you an Uber, if that's what works for you."

Estelle Mun rises, placing aside the hot chocolate cup she had been clinging on. "No, it's fine. Not here, either way."

Mr Stan enters the break room, communications director—her name is Sylvia—attached. They talk—something about media releases and all. Things Estelle usually doesn't care about. She doesn't do this for the fame (or she would tell people her real name) or money. She wants to help!

(Not be hacked by some super untraceable hacker!)

"Are you alright, girls?" he asks, like a concerned old father. "Anything I can do for you?"

The two shake their heads. "And today went so well…" Ginny sighs. "We even got America back! Social media was all over her. Now it's—yeah."

"Ah, the bittersweetness of high school drama!" Mr Stan exclaims. Neither of the girls make an effort to react. "Do head home, you two. You must sleep well tonight!"

With an elegance that Ginny can't claim, Estelle rises from the old sofa and nods. "I will try."

"Lovely, dear. Don't worry. We will have everything under control! The power of love will conquer all!" he announces.

He could be wearing a Sailor Moon cosplay and be taken more seriously, but that's what she appreciates in him. His positivity—she needs it now. Even if his days as master comedian Gavril Fadaye are long over, he never fails to cheer them up. With her boss' okay to leave, she bids Ginny goodbye, promises that she will stay safe and leaves the studio through the back exit, with hood and sunglasses and face mask, just in case a nasty reporter once again thinks it good to attack her here—now.

As she strolls past high towering buildings to the street, she glances over to her phone. Noah Schreave messaged her, almost concerned. As always, he pretends not to know—even if she has long come to understand that he knows as to whom she moonlights as. He came to her after Gemma (though, she assumes it was because of their relation and family), and he comes now, too. Always kind, just as he is known to be to everyone in Illéa.

(Noah Schreave knows many secrets.)

That doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate him adding her (work) account to that infamous, quite crazy group chat, but it gave her the opportunity to distance herself from that chat and the implication it holds. Poor Alex and Griff—she almost expects their crazy fans to write stories about this now too.

Estelle is glad that her own fans are understanding and well-wishing. Not that she doesn't know about the many haters being a person of public interest brings with itself, but she is not ignorant of the status she holds in Illéa. She would be a fool to do so.

(The myriad of politicians asking for endorsements is proof.)

But as she heads to her humble home, Estelle Mun leaves that life of The Love Report and its people behind her. The kind, relatable radio host is left behind in favour of another persona. She sheds her hoodie, glasses and face mask in favour of the outer, of another world. A world where such drama and gossip are as common as sand.

The world of the super-rich is many things. It comes with ups and downs. Today, more than one of its perks come in her favour.


Chapter Summary:

After returning Cassia home, Maeve runs into her childhood friend Nate, a fashion journalist whom she has been purposefully avoiding since they lost touch. They catch up over dinner and movies, and agree to meet up again after Maeve's closet comes up once more. Anna forces herself into the little group of Poppy, Nate, Perci and Maeve, and together, they go out to town. Besides Anna being utterly surprised by some of Nate's and Poppy's choices, they listen in onto the Love Report. Maeve uses the chance to ask Estelle for advice about feeling excluded from the chat, only to barely miss the hacker returning. He reveals an affair in an established family of the Illéan society. Though he doesn't talk about Maeve this time, Estelle, her team, and Maeve herself are frightened by the prospect of him continuing.

Next Chapter: Maeve gets herself a "date" and potentially a heart attack (that is, if Milly remembers the order of chapters correctly)


Author's Note

I would like to officially point out that while ten chapters to meet all OCs may be long, this is not Fallout and that means it's good. The world is going crazy rich now, and I really envy the CRI timeline right now, but please, stay safe, social distance and what not; COVID is very much still a thing. If you're out there in the US, please stay strong. xx Black Lives Matter.

Thanks to Soph for helping with the timeline this chapter, thanks to French for helping with Cantonese and thanks to Slyther for helping with valley girl talk. xx