7. Maeve
Maeve
By the third week after the security system updates, the house starts feeling different in ways I can’t properly explain.
Not worse exactly. Just…stranger.
Like something invisible has shifted beneath the surface while everyone around me continues pretending nothing changed at all.
The cameras still sit in their corners blinking soft green through the hallways.
Staff still move through the estate with careful professionalism.
Ronan still kisses my forehead before meetings and asks whether I’ve eaten lunch and rests his hand against my back during dinners like a husband who adores his wife.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious enough to point at. And yet every morning lately feels like waking up inside a version of my life that’s been adjusted slightly while I slept.
Small things disappear first. A cream cardigan I’ve had since college. Then a pair of worn black leggings I always steal on rainy mornings when I don’t feel like being Mrs. Ronan Gallagher for an hour.
Then one of my old concert shirts vanishes from the laundry rotation completely. Individually, none of it matters. Together, it leaves something unsettled moving quietly beneath my skin.
I stand in the middle of my closet one Thursday afternoon staring at the empty space where the cardigan used to hang while one of the house staff reorganizes shoes behind me.
“Marisol,” I ask carefully, “have you seen the cream sweater that used to be here?”
She pauses immediately. “No, ma’am. I thought perhaps you donated it.”
“No.” I smooth my fingers slowly over the empty hanger beside it.
Weird.
The cardigan wasn’t expensive. It had actually started pilling near the sleeves years ago, and my mother complained constantly that I refused to replace it despite having more than enough money to buy newer things.
Still… I liked it. The familiarity of it maybe. Or the fact it had existed before this house and this marriage and all the careful polished expectations that seemed to follow me everywhere lately.
Marisol continues folding clothes while I stare deeper into the closet. Something else is missing too. The realization comes slowly. A pair of old jeans. Two oversized sweaters. One of the hoodies I sleep in sometimes.
Nothing expensive. Nothing Ronan would ever notice missing. A strange heaviness settles low in my stomach.
Not because of the clothes. Because somewhere beneath the confusion, another thought surfaces.
The cream cardigan would have covered the fading bruise along my ribs better than most of my newer sweaters.
The realization unsettles me enough that I immediately push it away. That had been weeks ago. And entirely my fault. I should have let the conversation end. I should have stopped arguing. I should have apologized sooner.
Instead, Ronan had needed to correct me.
The memory flashes across my mind before I can stop it. His voice. Calm. Controlled. Disappointed more than angry.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be, Maeve."
I'd gone to one of the private clinics two days later. Not Dr. Whitmore. Another one. Different part of the city. Different name on the paperwork. Different doctor. The bruising had looked worse than I expected by then.
I probably should have gone sooner. Instead I'd waited until I could convince myself I was overreacting. Like always.
“You’re sure nothing was sent for donation?” I ask again.
Marisol looks almost nervous now. “No, ma’am.”
I nod slowly even though something about the answer doesn’t fully settle right inside me. Maybe I’m forgetting things. Maybe the house staff moved them somewhere else. Maybe I’m becoming overly sensitive because lately every corner of this estate feels like it’s watching me breathe.
The thought slips through my mind just as I step back into the bedroom.
And for one brief strange second, the camera near the sitting area shifts slightly away from me.
Tiny movement. Barely noticeable. I stop walking. The camera stills instantly. My eyes narrow.
That’s…new.
For several seconds I just stand there staring at the small black lens mounted near the ceiling while quiet unease curls low beneath my ribs. Then I shake my head at myself and continue toward the bathroom.
You’re imagining things, Maeve.
God knows there are enough cameras in this house now to make anyone start feeling paranoid eventually. Even so, I find myself glancing back toward it again before disappearing into the hallway.
That evening Ronan comes home carrying shopping bags. Designer ones.
“You bought something,” I say as he steps into the bedroom.
His mouth curves faintly at the edges. “Observant.”
“That’s at least four bags. Either you bought me gifts or murdered someone wealthy.”
“Can’t it be both?”
A surprised laugh slips free before I can stop it. For one brief moment, Ronan looks almost pleased by the sound. Then he sets the bags across the bed and begins pulling folded sweaters and dresses from tissue paper one by one. Cream cashmere. Soft black wool. Tailored neutral colors.
Beautiful things. Expensive things. Things that look like they belong in this house.
“I noticed some of your wardrobe needed updating,” he says while unfolding another sweater carefully between his hands. “You deserve better pieces than some of the things you’ve been wearing.”
The words shouldn’t sting. And maybe they wouldn’t if they didn’t land directly against the strange hollow feeling already sitting in my chest from the missing clothes earlier.
I force a smile anyway. “They’re beautiful.”
Because they are. That’s part of the problem. Everything Ronan gives me is beautiful.
Dinner that night happens at one of the private rooftop restaurants downtown overlooking the rain-soaked city lights. Ronan talks business between courses while his hand rests against my knee beneath the table, warm and possessive and somehow always reminding me exactly where I belong.
Around us, soft music hums beneath conversation while wealthy couples laugh over expensive wine. I should feel lucky. And maybe I do. That’s the confusing part.
Ronan can be thoughtful in ways that still catch me off guard. Last week he rerouted an entire business dinner because I mentioned a migraine that morning. Two nights ago he stayed awake with me when I couldn’t sleep and rubbed slow circles against my back until my breathing finally settled.
Men who don't care don't stay awake rubbing your back until you finally fall asleep. They don't buy you beautiful clothes. They don't rearrange meetings because you have a migraine.
They don't make sure you're seen by a doctor afterward. The thought lodges itself inside me, heavy and immovable. Maybe the corrections are only happening because I keep making mistakes.
“You’re drifting again.”
I blink back toward him across the candlelight. “Sorry.”
Ronan studies me quietly for a second before reaching for my wineglass and replacing it with water instead. “You’ve barely eaten.”
Again reasonable. Everything is always reasonable.
By the time we return to the estate later that night, exhaustion sits heavily behind my eyes while rain taps softly against the windows upstairs.
As I move through the second-floor hallway toward the guest bathroom near the library, one of the hallway cameras turns slowly away before I reach it.
Not dramatic. Just enough that the lens no longer follows my movement completely. I stop mid-step. The camera remains angled toward the opposite wall. My pulse stumbles once.
Weird.
A strange awareness crawls across my skin while silence settles through the hallway around me. Then, after several seconds, the camera rotates smoothly back into place like nothing happened at all. I stare at it another moment before stepping into the guest bathroom and locking the door behind me.
The silence inside wraps around me instantly. No cameras. No blinking lights. No watching.
Just quiet. No one watching. No one correcting. No one asking me to be better.
Lately...That feels dangerously close to peace.