"Paper Cuts and Promises"
1657 Words
Maeve Arden didn’t believe in danger.
Not the obvious kind.
She believed in soft things.
In humming while she baked.
In making tea when the silence gets too loud.
In pretending everything was okay if she just smiled hard enough.
But this?
This wasn’t okay.
This was him.
In the kitchen.
Watching her like she was a stranger.
She stood barefoot on the cold marble tile, fingers dusted in sugar, rolling cookie dough like it was the only thing keeping her from shaking apart. She hummed something light, something stupid and sweet, and told herself it was normal. That he was normal. That the silence in the room wasn’t a noose around her throat.
She twisted her hair up, her cheeks flushed from the oven. Loose strands clung to her skin like even her hair was afraid of what he’d say.
But Christian said nothing.
He didn’t take off his coat.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
He’d canceled his meetings. She saw the way he did it—calm, fast, without explanation. The lawyer in him never needed to explain. He just decided. And now he had decided to watch her.
She felt it.
Felt it in every molecule of her being. The suspicion. The heat of it crawling up her spine like guilt had hands.
Something had changed.
She kept rolling the dough like she didn’t notice, like she wasn’t wearing his law school shirt with nothing underneath. Like she hadn’t cried herself to sleep thinking about a text from Charlie she hadn’t answered. Like her kiss last night didn’t tremble at the edge of betrayal.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Her smile hurt to hold.
“Are you hungry?”
Her voice was light. Playful. A desperate attempt.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Her heart pounded.
She turned to face him fully, hands trembling just enough that she almost dropped the spatula. She held up a cookie like an apology.
“Try it,” she said.
Christian stepped forward—slowly. Too calmly. Like a man who had already made his judgment and was just waiting to carry out the sentence.
He took the cookie, brushing her fingers. Her breath hitched.
God, she hoped he didn’t feel the tremble.
“You’re too quiet, Maeve,” he said.
She blinked.
“What?”
“You only get quiet when you’re lying.”
The air shattered between them.
Her stomach flipped.
A bird screamed outside like even nature wanted to run.
She smiled again, smaller this time. Her mask slipping.
“Don’t be dramatic, Christian,” she whispered.
He stepped closer. Reached up. Tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear with too much to care.
Like she was already broken glass.
“Drama is for people who aren’t being f****d behind my back.”
Her heart stopped.
Eyes wide.
There it was—the moment she’d been dreading but hadn’t thought he’d say. Not like that. Not in this kitchen. Not while she was still clinging to the version of them that used to make sense.
“I’m not—” she started, her voice small.
“You’re not cheating?” he said, tone low and dangerous. “Or you’re not sorry?”
Her lips parted. No words came.
He studied her like a puzzle he had already solved, like he wasn’t done punishing her even though the sentence was clear in his eyes.
“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 followed.
“Who is he?”
“No one,” she said.
Too quickly.
Too guilty.
He laughed—low and sharp. Not amused. Not kind.
“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 snapped. “You were better when you cried. When you begged. When you needed me.”
Tears threatened.
Her throat burned.
She hated this version of herself—the one who always folded, always submitted, always chose silence over survival.
He took a bite of the cookie. Chewed. Never looked away.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “But not as sweet as you used to be.”
Maeve swallowed the lump in her throat.
She had no idea how much he knew.
No idea how close he was to unraveling her.
But her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she knew who it was before she looked.
Charlie.
Maeve Arden was nineteen when she met Christian Dev Rani.
Nervous. Already late.
Her press badge hung crooked over her button-down blouse.
Her professor was yelling.
The event hall smelled like money.
“Arden! The VIP lounge! Go, go! Dr. Rani just arrived!”
Maeve bolted toward the corridor.
She wasn’t built for prestigious things. She just wanted to pass her finals and stop sweating through every interaction with people who spoke in perfect English and wore shoes worth her semester tuition.
Then her pen slipped.
Rolled across the tile.
A man stopped it with his foot.
A very expensive shoe.
He bent down—slow, precise—and picked it up, offering it back like it was made of glass.
“You okay there, sweetheart?”
Maeve looked up—
And forgot every word she ever learned.
He was tall. Towering. At least 6’2.
Sharp black suit. Black hair pushed back like he hated it neat.
Stubble traced a perfect jaw.
His skin was smooth, golden brown—a sun-kissed echo of his Indian roots—but those green-hazel eyes?
Pure danger.
She was toast.
“I—uh—yes,” she said. “Press. Sorry. I’m late—”
“Christian Dev Rani,” he said smoothly, offering her pen like a trap.
“Son of the speaker. Recovering prodigy. You?”
“Maeve,” she managed.
He didn’t blink.
“You’re cute,” he said. “Nervous. But cute.”
She should’ve run.
But she smiled.
God help her—she smiled.
She was nineteen when she met Christian Dev Rani.
Nervous. Already late.
Her press badge hung crooked over her button-down blouse.
Her professor was yelling.
The event hall smelled like money.
“Arden! The VIP lounge! Go, go! Dr. Rani just arrived!”
Maeve bolted toward the corridor.
She wasn’t built for prestigious things. She just wanted to pass her finals and stop sweating through every interaction with people who spoke in perfect English and wore shoes worth her semester tuition.
Then her pen slipped.
Rolled across the tile.
A man stopped it with his foot.
A very expensive shoe.
He bent down—slow, precise—and picked it up, offering it back like it was made of glass.
“You okay there, sweetheart?”
Maeve looked up—
And forgot every word she ever learned.
He was tall. Towering. At least 6’2.
Sharp black suit. Black hair pushed back like he hated it neat.
Stubble traced a perfect jaw.
His skin was smooth, golden brown—a sun-kissed echo of his Indian roots—but those green-hazel eyes?
Pure danger.
Zayn Malik’s smirk.
Henry Cavill’s jaw.
Penn Badgley’s stare.
She was toast.
“I—uh—yes,” she said. “Press. Sorry. I’m late—”
“Christian Dev Rani,” he said smoothly, offering her pen like a trap.
“Son of the speaker. Recovering prodigy. You?”
“Maeve,” she managed.
He didn’t blink.
“You’re cute,” he said. “Nervous. But cute.”
She should’ve run.
But she smiled.
God help her—she smiled.
And now—
Now, she was standing in his shirt, pretending everything was okay while he stared at her like she was a loaded gun he couldn’t wait to fire.
She could feel it in her bones—
The unraveling.
The quiet dissection of who she used to be and who she was now.
Maeve was not supposed to cheat.
She was not built for secrets.
She was soft. She was sweet. She cried at commercials and kissed too gently. And Christian? He’d swallowed her whole and called it love.
But love like his didn’t leave room to breathe.
It was possessive. Dangerous.
And now—
It was suspicious.
She felt it every time he looked at her like that.
Like he already knew.
Like he didn’t need evidence—just time.
And he had all the time in the world.
Maeve clutched the mixing bowl, her knuckles white against the ceramic. “You’re staring,” she said, her voice small.
Christian didn’t respond.
He just leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, still chewing the cookie like it betrayed him too.
And maybe it did.
Because she couldn’t remember the last time she baked something without guilt choking her throat.
She used to love this. Mornings with him. Wearing his clothes. Feeling like maybe—just maybe—she could be safe in his world.
But she wasn’t safe.
Not from him.
Not from herself.
And definitely not from the boy she should’ve never fallen for.
The one who made her feel human again.
The one who wasn’t Christian.
Her chest tightened.
She didn’t understand how she got here—trapped between the man who held her heart hostage and the boy who reminded her she still had one.
But Christian Dev Rani wasn’t the type to lose.
Not women. Not cases. Not control.
So now?
Now, he was watching.
Now, he was peeling her apart one heartbeat at a time.
And she had to bury the truth deeper.
Smile brighter.
Lie better.
Because if he ever found out—
What she felt.
What she did.
Who she touched—
He wouldn’t just break the man.
He’d burn the whole world with him.
- Writer
