11. Maeve #2
None of it looks like me anymore. I can't remember the last thing I chose.
The realization lands so suddenly I actually grip the edge of the dresser to steady myself.
Because somewhere over the last few months—my closet stopped belonging to Maeve O’Donnell.
And became Mrs. Gallagher’s instead.
****
Ronan gets home just after ten. I hear him before I see him. The quiet rumble of his car in the drive. The front door opening downstairs. Low voices from security.
I’m sitting near the bedroom windows pretending to read when he finally walks into the room carrying two garment bags over one arm.
The sight alone makes something inside me sink.
“Long day?” he asks while loosening his tie.
I close the book carefully in my lap. “Something like that.”
Ronan studies me for half a second longer than necessary before crossing farther into the room. His attention flicks briefly toward the closet. Then back to me.
“I bought something for you.”
The garment bags settle across the end of the bed with soft, expensive rustling while something in my pulse turns unsteady for reasons I can't fully explain.
Ronan unzips the first bag smoothly before pulling out a sweater.
Navy blue. My breath catches instantly. Not because it’s the same hoodie.
Because it isn’t. The sweater is beautiful. Cashmere. Soft. Elegant. Perfectly tailored.
And almost the exact same shade of dark navy as the sweatshirt my father bought me when I was sixteen.
The room suddenly feels too quiet.
Ronan holds it up slightly between his hands. “I realized most of your casual clothes were outdated.”
The words land gently. Carefully. Like he genuinely believes he’s improving something.
My fingers tighten slowly around the edge of the book still resting in my lap.
He took it.
The realization settles cold and absolute through my chest before he even says another word. No one misplaced the hoodie. No laundry accident happened.
Ronan took it.
And somehow the worst part isn’t even losing it. It’s this.
The replacement.
As if comfort and memory and home can simply be exchanged for something prettier.
“You didn’t like that old sweatshirt anyway,” Ronan says absently while setting the sweater across the bed between us. “This is much more appropriate.”
Appropriate.
I stare at the cashmere for one long suspended second.
Then another.
Because suddenly I understand something I’ve been trying very hard not to understand for months now.
Ronan doesn’t hate me.
That would almost be easier.
He loves the version of me he’s building.
And he genuinely cannot see why that hurts.
The realization cracks quietly through my chest.
“Maeve?”
I blink hard once before forcing my face to move again.
Smile. Breathe. Respond normally.
Years of mafia upbringing kick in automatically before emotion can fully surface.
“It’s beautiful,” I say softly.
And God. That’s the worst part. It is beautiful.
Ronan’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly at my response. Like he’d been expecting resistance and is pleased not to find it.
“Try it on tomorrow,” he says while unbuttoning his cuffs. “I think the color will suit you better.”
Better.
I nod once. “Thank you.”
The words nearly scrape my throat raw on the way out.
Ronan crosses toward the bathroom a moment later, already pulling loose the rest of his tie while discussing tomorrow’s meetings like nothing significant just happened at all.
Like he didn’t quietly erase one more piece of me and replace it with something easier to control.
The bathroom door shuts behind him. Water starts running seconds later. I can’t breathe correctly inside the bedroom anymore.
Not dramatically. Not panic. Just…tight. Too tight.
I stand slowly before the feeling can fully reach my face and carry the new sweater toward the closet on automatic pilot.
Cream. Black. Gray. Navy.
The cashmere blends perfectly beside the rest of the expensive polished life hanging there.
It looks like it belongs. That realization hurts so much more than it should.
I stare at it for several seconds too long before closing the closet door again.
Then I leave the bedroom.
My feet carry me automatically down the hallway toward the guest bathroom near the library—the only room in the estate that still feels quiet enough to think inside.
The bathroom door locks behind me with a soft click.
And suddenly—I’m crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Which only makes it worse. Tears spill silently down my face while I press the heels of my palms hard against my eyes like maybe I can force the emotion back inside before it fully breaks loose.
Because it’s a hoodie. That’s all. Not a person. Not a tragedy. Not something worth sitting on a cold bathroom floor crying over like your chest is splitting open from the inside.
Except it isn’t about the hoodie.
It’s about the way I knew instantly he took it. The way the staff wouldn’t look at me. The way every piece of myself that existed before this marriage seems to be quietly disappearing one by one while everyone around me pretends it’s normal.
My breathing turns uneven.
I curl tighter against myself beside the bathtub, pressing trembling fingers against my mouth to stay quiet even though no one can hear me in here anyway.
That’s the worst part.
This room is the only place in the entire estate that feels private anymore.
The only place that still feels mine.
And even that thought hurts.
I don’t know how long I sit there before my phone vibrates sharply against the bathroom counter.
The sound startles me hard enough my head jerks up.
I rarely bring my phone in here. No one knows I'm in here.
For one irrational second, panic flashes hot through my chest.
Slowly, I stand and reach for it with damp shaking fingers.
Unknown Number.
My pulse stumbles once.
Then I open the message.
Please don’t cry.
Everything inside me goes completely still.