Chapter Text
Love Mavy, godmother to Taggie, sang along to "Don’t Leave Me This Way" by The Communards as she glided through the Cotswolds in her beige convertible. Her fingers tapped against the rich mahogany leather of the steering wheel, keeping time with the beat, her head swaying in easy rhythm. The wind caught in her light brown hair, teasing it into playful strands, while her emerald-green eyes remained hidden behind oversized dark sunglasses.
The Cotswolds—a haven of old money and aristocratic tradition—had always irked her. It was a place where privilege was inherited, not earned, where days were frittered away at garden parties and evenings stretched into lavish dinners. Love had clawed her way up from the lower-middle class, her success built on sharp instincts and, at times, morally ambiguous decisions. She had faced hardship, real hardship, and had done things that would turn the stomach of the pampered elite. But in her mind, it had always been justified. The alternative—a life spent in the shadows, invisible to those who mattered—was simply unacceptable.
Today, however, her thoughts were not on class warfare but on Corinium Television. Declan O’Hara, an old Irish friend, now held an enviable position there as an interviewer, wielding full editorial control—something the rigid BBC would never grant. Love had spent years urging Declan to aim higher, to break free from a job that, in her view, limited him. But Declan, ever the steady anchor in her turbulent sea, found security in familiarity. It was a trait Love neither understood nor admired.
As she turned into the parking lot of the grand Corinium Television building, its name emblazoned in stark letters across the façade, she brought the car to a smooth stop. With a flick of her wrist, the convertible’s roof slid into place. Stepping out, the crisp autumn breeze lifted the edges of her silk green blouse, a striking contrast to her tailored trousers. Removing her sunglasses, she surveyed the building with sharp scrutiny. She knew the players here—Lord Tony Baddingham, the formidable head of the network, and his right-hand woman, Cameron Cook. She kept tabs on the forces surrounding Declan. It wouldn’t do to have him fall into the wrong hands.
From the backseat, she retrieved a basket—filled with Irish whiskey, cigars, and an assortment of delicacies—a congratulatory gift for Declan. As she strode into the building, her heels clicked elegantly against the polished marble floors. At reception, there was the usual rigmarole—a mix-up that had the receptionist assuming she was merely a fan of Declan’s. While technically true, the title barely scratched the surface of their relationship. A few sharp words and the weight of her name were enough to grant her passage, though not without an indignant huff from the desk clerk.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she approached the dressing rooms, expecting Declan’s to be empty after his latest interview. But when she opened the door, she was met with an unfamiliar presence.
Seated in the makeup chair was a man she recognized instantly. His brown hair, slicked back with calculated precision, and dark, piercing eyes were unmistakable. Deep lines creased his forehead and framed his eyes, the marks of a man accustomed to command. His navy suit—tailored to perfection—paired with a red tie and crisp white shirt, spoke of quiet authority.
He swiveled to face her, his gaze running the length of her in a slow, deliberate assessment. “And who might you be?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “And more importantly, how did you get in here?”
Love’s lips twitched in amusement. Tony Baddingham himself. His reputation as a ruthless operator preceded him, but to Love, he was just another player in the game. “I’m a friend of Declan’s,” she replied smoothly, her tone cool and clipped. She regarded him a moment longer before adding, “You must be Lord Baddingham.” Her voice carried the faintest trace of irreverence, masked beneath a veil of politeness.
Tony rose from his chair, adjusting his suit jacket with practiced ease. “Ah, yes. A friend of Declan’s,” he echoed, the weight in his voice making it clear that strangers were rarely welcomed without suspicion. His gaze flickered to the basket in her hands. “I see you’ve brought him a gift.”
Love nodded, breezing past him to place the basket on Declan’s makeup table. “Just a little something to mark the occasion,” she said, as if her presence here was the most natural thing in the world.
Tony lingered near the door, watching her with an expression impossible to read. “He didn’t mention expecting visitors,” he murmured, the statement more observation than inquiry.
“Oh?” Love arched a brow. “Does Declan tell you everything?”
A slow, mirthless chuckle escaped Tony’s lips. “No,” he admitted, his gaze still fixed on her. “Not everything.”
He took a step closer. “You never told me your name,” he added, his tone pointed now.
“You never asked,” she countered, though she knew better than to push the banter too far. With a shift in tone, she extended her hand. “Love Mavy. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Baddingham.”
Tony hesitated a fraction of a second before accepting her hand in a firm, deliberate shake. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, his voice polite, but his eyes still measuring her, assessing the mettle of the woman before him. There was something about her—an assuredness that wasn’t inherited but earned. It intrigued him.
Before another word could be exchanged, the door burst open. Declan appeared, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him.
“What on earth...?” he stammered, his gaze flicking between them. “Oh, sh—” He caught himself, clearing his throat. “Well, this is unexpected.”
Love and Tony—two self-made titans, standing face to face. It was anyone’s guess whether they would become allies or adversaries. But one thing was certain—this was a meeting that would change the game entirely.
As Declan approached, Love’s attention shifted to him, her expression softening. She realized, belatedly, that she and Tony were still holding hands. Releasing him, she turned to embrace Declan warmly, planting a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Darling, you were marvellous,” she cooed, running her hands lightly over his shoulders. “Your makeup artist deserves a raise—you’ve never looked so young on camera.”
Declan stands with his thick, dark brown hair curly, is often styled with a slightly tousled look. His dark brown eyes are intense and expressive, mirroring his passion and fiery temperament. He also sports a black combed mustache. He is wearing a stylish yet understated attire, a well-tailored suits in dark colors that give him a sharp, professional appearance, with bold yellow socks at his feet.
Declan chuckled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Why, thank you, Love. Always a critic.” He glanced between her and Tony, an amused glint in his eye. “I see you two have been getting acquainted.”
“Acquainted is one word for it,” Tony remarked dryly.
Love smiled sweetly. “It’s been... illuminating.”
Love gave Declan a knowing smile before turning her attention back to Tony. “I thought I’d surprise you, but it seems your boss had the same idea,” she teased with a light chuckle.
“Great minds,” Tony quipped, though his smile was brief. He turned to Declan, his expression shifting back to business. “I must agree, you’re going to be quite the star, O’Hara,” he said, extending a hand.
Declan accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, Tony.”
As Tony excused himself to return to his office, his gaze lingered on Love for just a moment, a flicker of intrigue in his otherwise unreadable expression.
Once he was gone, Declan turned back to Love, eyeing the basket she’d brought with a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh?” He smirked. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Love.”
She watched as he inspected the contents—cigars, Irish whiskey, and a selection of small delicacies. It was obvious what had caught his interest the most. The whiskey and cigars. The food was an afterthought.
“You know I love spoiling my friends,” she said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Declan wasted no time. He plucked one of the cigars, an expensive Colombian brand, rolling it between his fingers appreciatively before lighting it. He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke with a satisfied sigh, then leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“You’re a treasure,” he murmured, his voice warm with genuine affection.
Love laughed softly. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, though the smile she gave him suggested she was pleased by the compliment.
Declan took another thoughtful drag, considering something before he spoke again. “Say, Tony’s throwing a party tomorrow afternoon to celebrate my arrival. I could get you in as my plus-one—bring Maud and Taggie, of course.”
Love tilted her head, considering. Parties had their appeal—new people, new connections—but she had only just met Tony. “Hmm, I don’t know, Declan. I’ve only just met the man. I can’t very well waltz into his party uninvited.”
“Oh, please.” Declan waved off her concern with an easy confidence. “I’m the star, aren’t I? I can invite anyone I bloody well please.” He took another leisurely puff. “And Taggie would love to see you again.”
That made her smile. “Fine,” she relented, her affection for Taggie winning out. “It’s not like I live far from the Cotswolds anyway. And yes, it would be nice to see Taggie again… and, well, meeting new people isn’t always a terrible thing.”
In truth, she had wanted to accept from the start, but something in her resisted the idea of looking too eager. Declan, always the charmer, chuckled. “Wonderful! You’ll love it, I promise.”
Love wasn’t so sure. The party would likely be filled with the elite—people who had never worked a hard day in their lives. But then again, she wasn’t going for them. She loved Declan and Taggie dearly, and they were reason enough to endure the snobbish airs of the upper crust.
Maud, however, was another story. Complicated, to say the least. Everyone in the O’Hara circle, including Declan, knew of Maud’s affair. And while Declan had forgiven her, Love still found it difficult to see her friend stay with someone who had betrayed him.
But she respected his choices.
With a sigh, she nodded. “I’m sure I’ll love it,” she said with a grin. “Dressing up and being posh—it might as well be my middle name.”
Declan let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, they’ll adore you in no time, I guarantee it!” he declared, pointing a playful finger at her. “I’ve met some of the neighbors—James and Rupert can be a bit… much, but most of them are decent sorts.”
“I’ll pick you up at twelve,” he offered.
Love raised a hand immediately, shaking her head. “Oh, no, no. Don’t trouble yourself. I can manage—it’s only a twenty-minute drive. You’re not playing chauffeur, dropping me off and then driving me back. Absolutely not.”
Declan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you at… two, then?”
“Two it is,” Love agreed with a nod. “I’ll be there.
Love stood before the grand mirror in her lavish bedroom, adjusting the crisp lines of her satin blouse. Her blowout cascaded in smooth waves, each strand perfectly in place. A subtle touch of mascara and lipstick enhanced her sharp features, while a nude, glittering eyeshadow added the faintest hint of intrigue. Running her hands over the satin fabric, she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles, ensuring the pristine perfection of her white blouse. The ensemble—elegant green trousers and a matching jacket, completed with black stilettos—exuded quiet sophistication.
Satisfied with her reflection, she stepped into her beige convertible, keeping the roof up to protect her hair from the Cotswold winds. Lately, her visits to the countryside had become more frequent, drawn—perhaps inevitably—to Lord Baddingham’s estate. She had the unsettling feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time.
Upon arriving at Tony Baddingham’s sprawling estate, she took a moment to survey the scene. Declan’s car was already there. Of course, he hadn’t waited for her, leaving her to navigate unfamiliar faces alone. With a sigh, she strode through the manicured gardens, the air filled with laughter, music, and the low murmur of whispered speculation.
Strangers’ gazes flicked toward her, their curiosity evident. Who was this newcomer? Love remained unbothered, seamlessly lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray as she scanned the crowd. By the buffet, she spotted Declan and Taggie. A soft smile tugged at her lips. Taggie, with her long light-brown hair, was the image of her mother, Maud, though Love had always felt more kinship with the girl’s stubborn ambition than with Maud’s polished indifference.
She started toward them, only to be halted by a firm hand on her arm. Love turned sharply, glare at the ready—until she saw Tony. Her expression softened, though her posture remained guarded.
“Glad you could make it,” he murmured, his grip lingering just a fraction too long, a reminder of his control. He released her slowly, as if proving a point. Love casually adjusted her jacket, restoring the equilibrium.
“Declan invited me,” she replied smoothly. “It would have been rude to refuse.”
Tony’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course. Who could refuse an invitation like that?” He took a sip of champagne, studying her. “Enjoying the party?”
“I’ve only just arrived, but it looks splendid,” she said coolly, her tone giving nothing away.
Tony hummed thoughtfully. “And you and Declan—old friends?”
She glanced toward the O’Haras before answering. “We met at school. He was in his second last year; I was in third. We’ve been close ever since.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Quite the history, then.”
Love agreed with a nod, her eyes flicking back to Declan, who had just noticed them. His gaze sharpened, though he quickly masked his reaction.
“Love, I’m so glad you’re here.” Declan’s voice was warm as he kissed her cheek. “If you don’t mind, Tony, I’d like to steal her for a moment.”
Tony inclined his head, but as Love moved, his arm shot out, briefly blocking her path. Their eyes met, a silent challenge exchanged. Then, in a low murmur, he said, “Enjoy the party, Miss Mavy.”
Love hummed in response, her expression unreadable, before allowing Declan to lead her away.
Taggie greeted her with unfiltered joy, wrapping her in an exuberant embrace. Love returned it warmly, though she noted Maud’s disapproving glance from across the garden before she turned away, likely in search of more promising company—perhaps Rupert Campbell-Black.
“Oh, Taggs,” Love murmured, brushing a hand over the young woman’s chin, taking in how much she’d grown. “You look stunning.” Taggie's fiery red, shoulder-length hair cascades in loose waves, complementing her light skin tone and freckled complexion, and her light-colored, blue eyes glint with adoration.
Taggie flushed. “It’s nice here. Our neighbors are lovely, and these parties… well, they’re something.” She glanced around, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
Love chuckled. “With you, everything is a party.”
Before they could continue, a loud clanging rang out. All heads turned toward the house, where a woman was banging a pot for silence. At the top of the grand staircase stood Tony, ready to give a speech.
Declan leaned close. “That’s Lady Monica, Tony’s wife.” Lady Monica stood next to Tony with light brown hair is styled in elegant waves, and her clear blue eyes light up talking to Tony. she is wearing a tasteful colourfull gown, and heels
Love nodded, her attention shifting as Tony praised Declan’s accomplishments. But the speech was interrupted by laughter and murmurs. Love followed the noise—and found Rupert Campbell-Black making his grand entrance. Their eyes met, and he winked. She scoffed, her distaste palpable. Privileged. Entitled. Reckless. Everything about him reeked of trouble. Rupert is a man with an athletic build honed by years of sports and a love of physical activity, preferably with others. A man with short, dark brown, neatly styled hair, sun-kissed skin, and dark green eyes.
Tony, too, had noticed her reaction. A rare, genuine smile flickered across his features, as if amused that someone else saw Rupert for what he was. The party resumed, and Love found herself playing pool with Declan, Taggie, and—unfortunately—Rupert, whose smarmy charm grated on her nerves. He flirted relentlessly; as she met him with cold indifference.
The game was interrupted when Tony entered, requesting a private word with Freddie, a tech mogul. Rupert, ever the provocateur, quipped about seduction and secrets. Tony’s reaction was subtle but telling—a brief moment of unease. Love caught it instantly. It was the tension of a man accustomed to power being subtly undermined.
Soon after, two newcomers arrived—Paul, a government official, and his girlfriend Sarah, striking and curvaceous. Not long after, Taggie slipped away. Love noticed but didn’t follow immediately.
Tony, however, did. He engaged Taggie in conversation, subtly extracting a confession. Yes, she had called the fire department after Rupert’s naked tennis escapade, a scandal that had nearly burned his estate to the ground. Tony’s satisfaction was unmistakable. He winked at Taggie, leaving her rattled and guilty.
Minutes later, Love found Taggie sitting alone on the staircase, looking distressed. Concerned, she approached and sat beside her. “Taggs, what’s wrong?”
Taggie hesitated before whispering, “I think I’ve done something awful.”
Before she could explain, a loud crash erupted outside.
Love and Taggie leapt to their feet and rushed to the scene. Paul had attempted to tackle Rupert but had instead crashed into the buffet table, sending food and fine china flying. Love instinctively pulled Taggie close, steadying her as they watched the chaos unfold—a fitting backdrop to the tangled web of power plays and secrets unraveling before them.