3. Maeve
Maeve
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being looked at for hours at a time.
Not spoken to. Not listened to. Not truly seen. Looked at.
Women like me are raised for it from birth, polished carefully until we know how to stand straight beneath scrutiny without ever letting it touch us.
Smile softly. Keep your shoulders back. Speak just enough to seem charming, but never enough to embarrass the men around you.
Wear the diamonds. Represent the family well.
Pretend not to notice when powerful men discuss violence and politics over expensive whiskey while complimenting the color of your dress in the same breath.
Performance disguised as elegance. And unfortunately...I'm very good at it.
The ballroom glitters beneath crystal chandeliers and generations of old money, crowded with politicians, investors, judges, and men dangerous enough that most normal people would cross the street to avoid them if they ever saw who they truly were outside rooms like this.
Music drifts from the quartet near the staircase while camera flashes erupt beside the entrance every few seconds, capturing smiling wives, tailored suits, and carefully curated perfection for magazines that will call tonight glamorous instead of what it actually is.
Business.
Everything is always business.
"Smile, mo chroí." Ronan's hand settles against the center of my back just as another photographer raises his camera.
I smile instantly. The automatic response unsettles me more than I'd like to admit.
Six months ago I would've rolled my eyes first. Teased him for sounding bossy. Maybe leaned in close enough to whisper something sarcastic beneath my breath just to see if I could make him laugh in public.
Now my body reacts before my thoughts catch up.
I smile before I decide to. My shoulders straighten without conscious thought. Somewhere along the way, keeping Ronan happy stopped becoming a choice I made and settled into muscle memory.
That realization sits heavier than it should.
Ronan guides me farther into the ballroom, his palm never leaving the small of my back. To anyone watching, we probably look beautiful together. Powerful. Untouchable. The kind of couple magazines love to describe with words like dynasty and legacy.
And maybe we are.
Ronan Gallagher was a good match on paper. That's what everyone said when our fathers arranged the marriage. Strong family connections. Shared business interests. Old Irish blood tying itself tighter together through strategy instead of affection, the way marriages in our world often did.
I understood that before I walked down the aisle. Love wasn't always the foundation for families like ours. Loyalty was.
Still, growing up with parents like mine had probably ruined me in ways I didn't fully understand until after the wedding.
My father still looked at my mother like she was something precious after thirty years together, and my mother still reached for his hand without thinking whenever he entered a room.
Men like Cormac O'Donnell were rare even in ordinary marriages.
In families built on power, violence, and loyalty sworn in blood? Men like him were practically mythology. Maybe that had been my mistake.
Maybe I'd stepped into marriage expecting warmth when most powerful marriages were built more like alliances than love stories.
That doesn't make Ronan cruel. Difficult sometimes, yes. Demanding more often than I'd expected. Controlling lately, though he always seemed to have a reason for it.
Marriage required adjustment. Compromise. Patience. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
My mother always said love wasn't measured by grand gestures. It was measured in choosing each other every day. Maybe this was just choosing.
"You're drifting again."
I blink back toward the conversation just as one of the older women near the auction tables smiles politely at me. I hadn't even realized I'd stopped listening.
Ronan's thumb presses lightly against my spine.
Tiny. Controlled. Enough. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me he's there. My muscles tighten before I can stop them.
The reaction disappears almost as quickly as it comes, hidden beneath another practiced smile before anyone notices.
"I’m sorry," I say automatically.
His expression never changes, but something flickers briefly behind his eyes before he smooths a hand over my lower back again.
"You don't need to apologize so much." His voice is gentle enough that guilt settles in before the words do.
Then why does it constantly feel like I should? The thought slips through, sharp enough to tighten something low in my stomach.
I bury it beneath another smile. Because that's easier. Because lately, almost everything is.
One of the older women near the auction displays smiles warmly as we approach, diamonds glittering against the deep navy silk wrapped elegantly around her throat. "Mrs. Gallagher, you look absolutely stunning tonight."
I glance down at the black gown currently attempting to crush at least three internal organs and offer her an easy smile. "That's because the dress is distracting everyone from the fact I've been held hostage in six-inch heels for the last three hours."
The woman laughs immediately.
Ronan's hand tightens ever so slightly against my back. Barely noticeable. Just enough that I notice.
"Maeve inherited her dramatics from her mother," he says smoothly.
I tilt my head toward him, lowering my voice just enough to sound teasing instead of sharp. "And thank God for that. Imagine how dull I'd be otherwise."
The woman laughs harder this time, clearly delighted. Warm satisfaction blooms briefly in my chest.
Small. Petty. Still satisfying.
Ronan smiles too, but I know him well enough now to recognize the difference between his genuine smiles and the polished public versions. This one never quite reaches his eyes.
A marriage should be about partnership, not winning.
The corner of my mouth lifts. I shouldn't keep score. But…Point to me.
The conversation drifts naturally toward investments, charity donors, and shipping contracts dressed up as legitimate business ventures, leaving me exactly where women like me have stood for generations—beautifully dressed, politely silent, and underestimated while powerful men discuss fortunes over crystal glasses and expensive cigars.
And maybe that should bother me more than it does.
The truth is, I've always understood how rooms like this work. Women in families like mine learn early that observation is often more valuable than conversation. Men reveal astonishing amounts when they're convinced you're only paying attention to your manicure.
My fingers smooth absentmindedly over the bracelet circling my wrist before I catch myself and let my hand fall.
The diamonds glitter beneath the ballroom lights. They're beautiful. That should be all I notice.
A dull tenderness pulls beneath the fitted bodice of my gown when I straighten my posture, disappearing almost as quickly as it comes. I tell myself it's from the boning in the dress, or maybe sleeping wrong again.
I'll ask Dr. Whitmore the next time I see him. Assuming our schedules don't change. The thought disappears as quickly as it came.
Tonight, exhaustion sits heavier beneath my skin than usual, settling somewhere deep behind my ribs. When another camera flash erupts near the ballroom staircase, all I can think about is how desperately I want five uninterrupted minutes where nobody expects anything from me.
Not to smile. Not to charm. Not to perform. Just...Five quiet minutes.
My eyes catch briefly on one of the security cameras mounted near the ceiling. Then another. Then another.
A strange unease moves through me. “There seem to be more cameras tonight,” I murmur.
Ronan barely glances upward before taking my champagne flute from my hand and replacing it with sparkling water. “Security increased after the Moretti situation last month.”
Reasonable. Everything always sounded reasonable when Ronan said it aloud, which made it nearly impossible to explain why certain conversations left me feeling smaller afterward.
Ronan takes my champagne flute smoothly from my hand and replaces it with sparkling water. “You’ve barely touched this anyway.”
I take the water without argument because arguing turns simple moments into discussions, and discussions lately always seem to end with me somehow feeling childish for bringing things up in the first place.
The cameras bother you?
He’s trying to protect you.
You miss your parents?
You’re both busy.
You feel watched?
You belong to dangerous families, Maeve.
Every concern eventually circles back to the same conclusion: Ronan is being logical. I’m being emotional. And maybe he’s right.
I’ve started noticing cameras more at home too. New ones near the upstairs hallway. Another installed outside the terrace doors last week. Motion sensors that flicker to life whenever I move through certain parts of the estate late at night.
Protection. That’s always the word Ronan uses. Protection sounds kinder than surveillance.
“You’re frowning again.”
I smooth my expression instantly before turning toward him. “Sorry.”
Ronan’s fingers slide briefly beneath my chin, tilting my face toward his. To anyone watching, the gesture probably looks affectionate. Intimate even.
And maybe part of it is. That’s the hardest part to explain to myself some days. Ronan isn’t cruel.
He can be attentive. Protective. Thoughtful in ways that still catch me off guard occasionally.
Last month he flew in flowers from Ireland because I mentioned missing vacationing with my parents.
Two weeks ago he had my favorite pastries waiting in the kitchen after I complained about the chef overbaking everything.
Men who are monsters don’t do things like that. Do they?
“That’s better,” he murmurs softly before releasing my chin.
The quartet changes songs again while applause rises somewhere near the auction stage, but suddenly all I can think about is how badly I want silence.
Not loneliness. Just quiet. A moment where nobody is looking at me.
****
Hours later, rain streaks across the windows of the town car while the city glows gold beyond the glass. My feet ache from hours in six-inch heels, and my cheeks ache from smiling while Ronan scrolls through emails beside me, one hand resting absently on my knee.
Possessive without seeming possessive. Another thing he's very good at.
"I was thinking..." I begin carefully after several minutes of silence. "Maybe we could have dinner with my parents this weekend."
Ronan loosens one cufflink without looking up from his phone. "This weekend?"
"Mhm."
"We have the Connelly dinner Friday."
"That's Friday."
"And Sullivan requested a meeting Saturday morning."
Not no. Never no. Just movement. Deflection. Redirection wrapped so neatly in reason that pushing any harder somehow feels unfair. I turn back toward the rain-streaked window instead of arguing.
Lately every conversation feels like trying to hold water in my hands. The tighter I grip, the faster everything slips through my fingers.
"We haven't seen them in a few weeks," I say.
His thumb strokes once across my knee. "We've both been busy."
There it is again. Reasonable. God...I'm starting to hate reasonable answers. Neither of us speaks again before the gates swing open.
The estate rises from the darkness, all stone, iron, and carefully placed security lights, beautiful in the cold, intimidating way expensive things often are. Home.
The word feels different lately. Heavier. Upstairs, Ronan disappears into the master bathroom while steam begins curling beneath the door moments later.
I stand alone in our bedroom, slipping my earrings free one at a time before my gaze drifts, almost automatically, toward the tiny green light blinking inside the smoke detector.
One camera. Another near the sitting area. One farther down the hallway. I don't consciously count them anymore. I just know where they are.
The realization lands somewhere deep inside my chest. Not fear. Something quieter. Something sadder.
I cross toward the dresser and reach behind me for the zipper of my dress, easing it down inch by inch. The fitted bodice finally loosens. Relief washes through me. As the fabric slips from one shoulder, the mirror catches something just beneath my ribs.
A yellowing bruise. Fading now. Almost gone.
I stare at it for only a second before pulling the dress back into place. Dr. Whitmore said it would disappear within a week.
I'd believed him. I still do. Don't I?
The thought lingers just long enough to make my stomach twist before I push it away. I'm tired. That's all.
Before I let myself think too hard about it, I step into the hallway and make my way toward the unused guest bathroom near the library.
The only room upstairs without surveillance. Ronan joked once that no one important ever used it. The second the door clicks shut behind me, something inside me unwinds.
Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But enough that I do.
My shoulders lower. My jaw unclenches. The breath I'd apparently been holding slips the tightness around my ribs eases at last. .
The silence in here feels different. Softer.
No quiet electronic hum. No blinking lights tucked into corners.
No invisible awareness pressing against my shoulders while I remove my jewelry, wash my face, or simply exist.
I brace both hands against the marble sink and stare at my reflection for a long moment. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect diamonds. Perfect wife.
The words should comfort me. Instead they feel like someone else's. I reach up slowly, removing one diamond earring before the other. Then my necklace. Then the bracelet.
One piece at a time, until the woman staring back at me finally begins to look familiar again. For the first time all evening, I take a full breath. Deep enough that the tightness around my ribs finally eases.
Rain taps softly against the window above the clawfoot tub while the house settles into its familiar nighttime silence. My eyes drift around the room. No cameras. No blinking lights. No one watching.
I hadn't realized how exhausting it was to exist beneath someone's gaze until I found one place where I didn't have to.
That realization settles slowly, painfully, in the center of my chest. Because maybe the most frightening part of all this isn't the cameras. Maybe it's that this tiny bathroom has become the only place in my own home where I remember what it feels like to breathe.