9. Maeve
Maeve
By the time Ronan arrives at the fundraiser, I already know he’s angry.
Not because he says anything immediately.
Because I know him well enough now to recognize the signs before he ever opens his mouth.
The controlled stillness in his shoulders. The sharper set of his jaw. The way his eyes scan the ballroom once like he’s cataloging every irritation waiting for him inside it.
Most people would never notice. That’s the thing about Ronan. His temper rarely looks like anger. It looks like control pulled too tight.
The fundraiser hums softly around us beneath gold chandeliers and orchestral music, the ballroom crowded with politicians and investors and wives wrapped in diamonds expensive enough to fund small countries.
Waiters weave between conversations carrying champagne while photographers hover near the entrance waiting for important people to pretend they enjoy charity work.
I stand near one of the marble columns speaking with an older donor couple when Ronan finally crosses the room toward me in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.
And the second his eyes land on my dress—something in his expression hardens.
Not dramatically. Just enough. My stomach folds in on itself.
Ah. The dress.
I glance down reflexively at the champagne-colored silk draped against my body. Elegant. Soft. The boutique owner called it timeless when she helped zip me into it earlier this afternoon.
Apparently timeless was the wrong choice.
Ronan stops beside me and slides one hand against the small of my back for appearances while greeting the couple politely.
Warm hand. Cold eyes.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says smoothly. “Meeting ran over.”
The woman beside me smiles warmly. “Your wife has been saving you from terrible small talk for the last twenty minutes.”
Ronan’s fingers flex once against my spine.
Tiny. Controlled. A warning.
I smile before the silence can stretch too long.
“And I repay him by ruining the aesthetic,” I joke lightly, gesturing between my champagne dress and his black tuxedo. “Now we don’t match at all. Honestly heartbreaking.”
The couple laughs softly. I lean slightly closer to Ronan like I’m sharing a private secret between newlyweds.
“The black dress was a little tight,” I murmur quietly enough only he can hear. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me suffocating at a fundraiser.”
For one brief second, I think maybe I handled it correctly.
Then Ronan looks down at my body.
Slowly.
His gaze drifts over the silk against my waist before lifting back to my face again.
Expressionless.
“You may be right,” he says softly. “You’ve looked a little heavier lately.”
The words hit so hard my brain genuinely blanks for a second. Not because they’re shouted. Not because they’re cruelly delivered.
Because he says them so calmly.
Like an observation. Like fact.
Heat rushes to my face while something sharp twists unexpectedly beneath my ribs.
Before I can even process the embarrassment properly, Ronan reaches down and removes the appetizer plate from my hand smoothly.
“I’ll speak with the chef about adjusting your meal plans,” he continues, voice smooth .
Then he smiles. Actually smiles.
Polished and charming and warm enough that if someone walked by right now they’d probably think he’d whispered something affectionate instead.
The older couple says goodbye without me realizing the conversation is ending. Ronan hands my untouched appetizer plate to a passing waiter before guiding me farther into the ballroom with his hand still resting against my back.
I move automatically. Smile automatically. Breathe automatically.
The entire world suddenly feels strange around the edges.
“You didn’t need to say it like that,” I hear myself murmur once we’re out of earshot.
Ronan glances toward me calmly. “Like what?”
My throat tightens. Because suddenly I sound dramatic even to myself.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t call me names.
He simply made an observation.
Humiliation burns hot beneath my skin while another couple greets us near the center of the ballroom.
“Ronan,” one of the men says warmly. “Good to see you.”
Ronan smiles easily and shakes his hand while I stand beside him trying desperately not to think about every single thing I ate today.
Coffee. Half a croissant. Two bites of pasta at lunch. One champagne flute. Three shrimp from the appetizer tray.
Too much?
No. Surely not.
And yet I can feel the dress against my waist differently.
Tighter. Wrong.
The conversation around me blurs slightly while the woman beside me compliments my earrings.
I thank her automatically. Smile automatically. Somewhere across the ballroom, another camera flashes.
And for the first time in weeks, I suddenly become horribly aware of how visible I am inside this dress.
Ronan’s hand settles against my lower back again while the men transition into business conversation.
Possessive. Grounding. Controlling.
I don’t know which anymore.
Once...It made me feel safe. Now... I'm not sure what it makes me feel.
“You’re quiet tonight,” the woman beside me says kindly.
I force another smile. “Long week.”
Ronan’s thumb strokes once against my spine.
A reward for behaving. The realization lands ugly in my chest before I can stop it.
God.
When did I start understanding his moods like this? When did I start adjusting myself around them automatically?
Across the ballroom, one of the security cameras mounted near the stage entrance shifts slightly.
Tiny movement. Barely noticeable.
But for one impossible irrational second, it feels like something in this room is watching me too closely.
Not the way Ronan watches.
Different. Aware.
The strange sensation crawls briefly across my skin before disappearing again beneath another round of polite conversation.
I stare down into my untouched water glass instead. All I can think about is the appetizer plate disappearing from my hands.
***
It's been a few days since the fundraiser and the house feels colder. Not physically.
The estate is always temperature controlled within an inch of its life, every room perfectly heated no matter the weather outside. But something in Ronan has shifted over the last month, tightening slowly beneath the surface until even the air around him feels sharper now.
Shorter answers. Less patience. More correction hidden inside casual conversation.
Nothing dramatic enough to point at.
Just enough that I find myself thinking before I speak more often lately.
That realization alone should probably concern me more than it does.
“You’re doing it again.”
I blink up from the couch while Ronan adjusts the cufflinks of his charcoal suit near the doorway.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking too much.”
The words land lightly. Almost teasing.
Heat creeps into my face before I even know what I've done wrong. That alone should probably concern me. “Sorry.”
Ronan’s expression flickers briefly at the automatic apology before smoothing again. “I have meetings most of the afternoon. I’ll be late tonight.”
Disappointment settles in my chest before I can stop it. I’ve barely seen him this week despite living in the same house. And somehow that loneliness feels embarrassing too.
“I was thinking maybe I could visit my parents today,” I say carefully. “I haven’t seen them yet this month.”
Ronan pauses halfway through checking his watch. Just slightly. Enough that something in my chest goes very still.
“Maeve.” There’s no anger in his voice. That almost makes it worse.
“I just miss them,” I say softly.
“You saw them recently.”
“That was nearly a month ago.”
“You’re being unreasonable.” The words hit harder than they should.
Because maybe he’s right. Maybe this is what marriage looks like when both people have responsibilities and obligations.
Maybe I’m acting childish wanting things to stay the same.
Something heavy settles low in my chest anyway while Ronan crosses the room toward me.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. Not because he raises his voice. Because he doesn’t. Ronan always sounds calmer when he’s irritated. Controlled. Precise. And somehow that composure makes me feel smaller than shouting ever could.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur again.
His hand rises suddenly, fingers settling beneath my chin. Gentle. Always gentle first. The thought slips through me before I can stop it. Then I hate myself for thinking it.
My pulse stumbles once while instinct softens something inside me. For one brief hopeful second, I think maybe he’s about to kiss me goodbye.
Instead, Ronan tilts my face upward slightly until I’m looking directly at him.
“Under no circumstances do you leave this house today.”
The softness drains from my chest instantly.
I blink slowly. “Why?”
“There are things you don’t need to concern yourself with.”
Something in me goes cold and alert, all at once.
Danger. That’s the first place my mind goes. Not because Ronan says it directly. Because men in our world don’t increase security for no reason. Right?
Maybe there really is a threat. Maybe he really is trying to protect me.
The The thought arrives, and I cling to it, fast. It feels better than the alternative.
Ronan releases my chin and steps back smoothly like the conversation is settled now. Like I’ll obey him because he said so.
“I’ll call if I’m coming home earlier than expected,” he says while reaching for his keys. “Eat dinner without me.”
Then he leaves. Just like that.
The front door shuts heavily somewhere down the hall while silence settles back through the room.
I sit there for several seconds staring at the empty doorway after he’s gone, trying unsuccessfully to untangle the strange tightness sitting beneath my ribs.
Because if Ronan is worried enough to lock the house down, maybe I should feel grateful instead of upset.
Protection. That word again. Everything always circles back to protection eventually.
The thought follows me quietly into the kitchen twenty minutes later.
And stops there.
Because sitting on the marble island where my breakfast usually waits—is a plate of egg whites, sliced fruit, and black coffee.
I stare at it. No oatmeal. No blueberries. No French vanilla creamer.
The exact same breakfast that’s appeared every morning since the fundraiser.
Something twists low in my stomach.
The chef glances up nervously from near the stove. “Mr. Gallagher updated your meal plan, ma’am.”
Of course he did. I look down at the black coffee again.
I hate black coffee.
Ronan knows I hate black coffee.
For one brief irrational second, tears sting unexpectedly behind my eyes and I have absolutely no idea why.
It’s coffee. That’s all. Not cruelty. Not punishment. Not abuse. Just healthier choices.
The fundraiser flashes briefly through my mind anyway.
You’ve looked a little heavier lately.
Heat crawls up my neck. Maybe he’s worried about my health. Maybe he’s trying to help.
The thought sounds weak even inside my own head now. Maybe he's right. Maybe if I'd listened the first time...He wouldn't have needed to embarrass me at the fundraiser. The thought lands so naturally that I don't even question it anymore.
Still…
I sit down at the island and pick up the coffee anyway.
Because Ronan cares about appearances. About discipline. About maintaining control over things most people let slip.
That doesn’t make him cruel. It makes him demanding. And demanding men built empires every day in our world.
I take a sip.
Bitter.
God, I hate it.
But I drink it anyway.