You’re Too Quiet, Maeve
Christian Dev Rani didn’t believe in intuition.
He believed in facts.
In hard evidence.
In slamming proof down on a courtroom table and watching someone break beneath it.
But this—
This was her.
In his oversized shirt.
In his kitchen.
And she was smiling. That made his jaw clenched.
Maeve Arden stood barefoot on cold marble tile, sugar-dusted fingertips, humming some soft, innocent melody that made his teeth grind. Her hair was twisted up, loose strands falling around her face like she was trying to look effortlessly untouched.
Except she wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Something was wrong.
She was soft—too soft. Careful with her words. Gentle with her movements. Laughing like nothing haunted her, like no one else had touched her mouth.
And Christian?
He canceled his entire morning with a single swipe on his phone. Associates, clients, opposing counsel—let them burn. He needed to watch her.
Needed to confirm the shift.
Because something had changed.
He leaned against the counter, watching her roll dough with the calm of a woman who hadn’t shattered him last night with a kiss that didn’t taste like love anymore.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Are you hungry?”
Her voice was light. Playful. And god, she was beautiful.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
She turned, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, and held up a cookie like a peace offering he didn’t ask for.
It smelled like vanilla and betrayal.
“Try it,” she said.
He stepped forward slowly, each movement measured. He took the cookie, brushing her fingers—watching her flinch just slightly. Just enough.
“You’re too quiet, Maeve,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“You only get quiet when you’re lying.”
Silence.
The oven clicked behind her. A bird screamed outside. His jaw tensed.
She smiled again, shaky this time, a little crack in the mask.
“Don’t be dramatic, Christian,” she whispered.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—too gently.
“Drama is for people who aren’t being f****d behind my back.”
Her eyes widened.
There it was. The tremble.
“I’m not—”
“You’re not cheating?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Or you’re not sorry?”
Her mouth parted, but no words came.
He tilted his head, studied her like she was a case he had already won but wasn’t done punishing.
“You kissed me last night like your body forgot who I was,” he said. "You touched me like it didn’t matter if I noticed the difference. But I did, Maeve. I notice everything.”
She stepped back.
He stepped forward.
“Who is he?”
“No one,” she said too quickly. And f**k she bit her lip.
Christian laughed—quiet and cruel.
“You’re lying to a lawyer, darling. You think I won’t find out?”
“I’m not lying—”
“You’re not good at it,” he interrupted, voice sharp now. “You were better when you cried. When you begged. When you needed me.”
Tears welled in her eyes. He almost softened.
Almost.
But his chest burned.
He didn’t have proof.
Yet.
But he would.
He always did.
He took a bite of the cookie, chewing slowly, never breaking eye contact.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “But not as sweet as you used to be.”
She swallowed hard.
And he knew—
Somewhere out there, someone had touched her.
And Christian Dev Rani was going to bury him for it.
