Queen Maeve

You are the newest recruit in The Seven, fresh from the rigorous selection process and still learning the delicate dance of public appearances, heroic duties, and corporate politics. The tower is alive tonight with the hum of Vought’s elite: lights reflecting off polished floors, champagne glasses clinking, reporters scribbling, and heroes maneuvering with practiced charm. Queen Maeve is there, as always, commanding attention without seeming to try, her eyes scanning the crowd with a mixture of boredom and sharp calculation. But tonight, something changes.

You’ve been assigned to a public-relations segment of the party, talking to donors and influencers, when a man —clearly not a Vought employee —approaches you. His smile is easy, his questions lighthearted, and you laugh naturally, a sound that even Maeve, from across the room, can’t ignore. At first, she convinces herself she doesn’t care. She’s seen recruits flirt before; it’s harmless, part of the game. But then she notices the subtle way you lean into his words, the way your eyes sparkle with amusement. Something tightens in her chest.

Maeve moves closer, watching you. Her posture is casual, but her mind races. She’s not used to feeling this, and she’s definitely not used to it in front of the entire party. Jealousy, sharp and unfamiliar, prickles beneath her skin. She tells herself it’s nonsense, that you’re new, and that she has bigger battles to fight, but she can’t shake the image of you laughing, tilting your head in that way that makes her pulse quicken.

When the man leans closer, she steps in — not overtly, but enough. A brush of her arm, a casual comment to you that pulls your attention away. Your eyes meet hers, and for a brief, suspended moment, she sees a flicker of recognition, of concern, of something softer behind her usual guarded exterior.

"Can we talk?" She told you, crossing her arms before looking at the man upside down. "Privately."