Maeve smiled faintly. “I like acting. I don’t get lost in the role.”
Andres looked at her, word by word, deadly serious. “She is not my lover.”
Maeve hadn’t expected him to get so intense. “Okay, okay. She’s not. Why are you getting worked up?”
“Maeve,” he said, “have you ever thought about our future?”
Maeve lifted a brow. “You mean the divorce?”
“I mean the future.”
“Haven’t,” she said simply.
“Think now.”
Maeve actually did—her expression turning thoughtful, almost solemn.
Half a minute passed.
Then she said, shocking him completely. “The more I think about it, the more I feel like we should have a baby.”
Andres swept her up into his arms like she weighed nothing. “Fine. Let’s go make one. Right now.”
Maeve grabbed his neck, startled by the sudden lift. “Wait—my late-night snack hasn’t even touched my mouth yet.”
“We’ll eat after,” Andres said. “After we make the baby, I’ll eat with you.”
When Remi carried the finished food into the dining room, she saw Mr. Andres striding toward the third floor with Maeve in his arms.
The unfairness of it made Remi’s jealousy spike until she could barely think straight.
Why did Maeve get that kind of attention—and she didn’t?
They were both from nowhere. She refused to accept that the cold, restrained Mr. Andres could fall for Maeve.
Did he think the staff were stupid? That “distant relative” would shut everyone up?
Remi had guessed it a long time ago: Maeve wasn’t related to the White family at all. She was a pet Andres kept close.

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