Keaton （Skee）
The second the message sends, every survival instinct I possess activates at once.
My stomach drops so hard it physically hurts.
“Oh no.” The words leave my mouth out loud while I stare at my phone in absolute horror.
What the fuck did I just do?
The audio feed from the guest bathroom crackles softly through my headphones, uneven breathing filling the silence while the message sits marked delivered on the burner screen in my hand.
Me:
Please don’t cry.
Jesus Christ.
I surge off the couch so abruptly I almost slam my knee into the coffee table.
“Nope. Absolutely not. That was deeply inappropriate.”
Pacing starts instantly. Kitchen. Turn. Living room. Turn again.
My fingers tap rapidly against my thigh while adrenaline spikes harder and harder beneath my skin.
Because that—that was not surveillance.
That was emotional instability.
I drag both hands hard down my face.
One second I was sitting on the couch listening to her cry quietly through the bathroom mic while rerouting Gallagher financials, and the next my phone was already unlocked and the message was gone before my brain fully processed what my body was doing.
Like my nervous system bypassed logic entirely.
Unacceptable.
I stop pacing long enough to stare accusingly at the burner phone sitting in my hand.
“This is why people don’t trust feelings,” I mutter.
Because clearly emotional attachment immediately turns me into a psychologically compromised idiot.
The audio shifts softly through the headphones.
Movement. Then silence.
Then Maeve’s breathing catches sharply.
My entire body stills.
“Oh God she saw it.”
Of course she saw it. That was literally the objective, genius.
I start pacing again immediately.
The apartment suddenly feels too small. Too warm. Too full of my own spiraling thoughts.
The Office still plays forgotten in the background while I walk holes through the hardwood floors like a haunted metronome.
Unknown number. Encrypted bounce routing. Burner relay. No direct trace.
Good.
Good good good.
Unless she shows Ronan.
The thought hits so violently I physically stop moving.
No.
No absolutely not.
Because then he’d lock the house down harder. Purge systems. Replace security. And I’d lose access completely.
Not to the estate.
To her.
The realization lands ugly and immediate in my chest.
I yank the headphones partly off before shoving them back on a second later because somehow not hearing the bathroom now feels worse.
Fantastic. Healthy response.
Inside the feed, I hear movement again.
Fast this time.
Not panicked exactly.
Startled.
Then the faint sound of fabric shifting and quick uneven breathing.
“She’s freaking out,” I whisper.
Which—valid.
Honestly if an unknown number texted me while I was crying alone in what I thought was the only private room in my house, I’d probably assume I was about to die.
I lean forward suddenly, elbows braced against the kitchen counter while every muscle in my body tightens.
No more messages.
Absolutely not.
The line already vanished somewhere in the rearview mirror tonight.
Maeve moves again through the audio feed, footsteps pacing once across the bathroom tile before stopping abruptly.
Then finally—very quietly—“Who are you?”
The words barely make it through the mic.
Soft. Shaky. Terrified.
And somehow that hits infinitely harder than the crying did.
Because suddenly this isn’t theoretical anymore.
Something heavy settles low beneath my ribs while I stare blankly at the phone in my hand.
I should shut this down.
Delete the number. Pull back. Reestablish boundaries.
That would be the sane thing to do.
Instead I stand there in the middle of my apartment at nearly midnight listening to her breathe through a hidden microphone while my brain desperately tries to justify why sending that text felt less like a choice and more like reflex.
My fingers start tapping rapidly against my thigh again. One-two-three-four. Again. Again.
“She’s gonna think you’re insane,” I tell myself.
Which—fair. Honestly accurate.
The bathroom goes quiet for several long seconds before I hear her inhale slowly, unevenly, like she’s trying to calm herself down.
Then another tiny sound. Not crying this time.
A laugh. Small. Disbelieving. Completely overwhelmed.
And that completely wrecks me.
The bathroom goes quiet for several long seconds.
Too quiet.
I stare at the burner phone in my hand while every bad decision I’ve made in the last ten minutes replays in horrifying detail through my head.
Then the phone vibrates.
Unknown:
Who is this?
My pulse spikes instantly.
“Oh absolutely not.”
I'm pacing again before I've even decided to, one hand dragging through my hair while I stare at the message like it personally offended me.
Because now there’s a conversation.
Conversations are dangerous. Trackable. Emotional.
And somehow—despite all of that—my thumb still moves anyway.
Me:
Friend.
The response sends before common sense can intervene.
I physically recoil afterward.
“What is wrong with you?” That was weird. That was objectively weird.
The audio feed crackles softly through the headphones and then—Maeve laughs. Quiet. Real. Like she can't quite believe it either.
The sound hits me square in the chest hard enough to stop me mid-step.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Because that—that right there—that’s dangerous.
Not the texting. Not the surveillance.
The laugh.
The fact that hearing it immediately makes something in me loosen for the first time all night.
Then softly through the mic, barely audible:
“I don’t have friends.”
The words are quiet enough they almost don’t sound real.
Something twists painfully beneath my ribs before I can stop it.
My fingers move again.
Me:
You do now.
The message sends.
I close my eyes immediately.
“Jesus Christ.”
At this point I should probably just light myself on fire and save everyone time.
The apartment feels unbearably warm now, walls too close, while I pace another tight line across the hardwood floor.
One-two-three-four. Turn. One-two-three-four.
My fingers tap rapidly against my thigh again.
Because this—this is spiraling.
Fast.
The burner vibrates again.
Unknown:
You work for Ronan.
The words hit like a punch. I stop moving instantly. Then another message appears.
Unknown:
Tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
Something in me snaps so violently I actually laugh once in disbelief. Not amusement. Anger. Cold immediate anger flooding so fast through my chest it leaves me dizzy for half a second.
“She thinks I’m his.” The words leave out loud to the empty apartment.
Of course she does. Of course she thinks that.
Every person watching her life right now belongs to Ronan in some way.
Security. Staff. Drivers. Systems.
Everyone watching her answers to him eventually.
Except me.
And suddenly the idea of her believing otherwise makes something vicious rise hard inside my chest.
My fingers fly across the keyboard harder than intended.
Me:
I don’t work for Ronan.
The response sends instantly. This time I don’t regret it. The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Unknown:
Prove it.
I stop breathing. Because honestly?
Fair request.
And now my brain—traitorous psychologically damaged thing that it is—starts spinning immediately.
How do you prove you’re not part of the cage when the only thing she’s ever known is men controlling access to her life?
The pacing starts again, worse this time. Kitchen. Turn. Living room.
Think.
What does she want most right now? Not freedom. That’s too big. Something smaller. Something believable.
Then it hits me so suddenly I physically stop moving.
Parents. Her father. She wants her father.
The idea unfolds in my head all at once after that, systems and routes and schedules clicking together automatically like puzzle pieces.
Ronan has a standing investor call tomorrow morning. Security rotates at nine-thirteen. The west gate cameras still route through my bypass.
Holy shit. I can do that.
Excitement spikes through me so abruptly it borders on manic.
Which if I was in my right head right now I would find concerning.
My fingers move quickly now.
Me:
I can get you to your parents tomorrow morning.
I stare at the message for one long second before adding:
But you have to do exactly what I say.
The message sends.
And the reality of what I just offered slams directly into me.
I just promised to secretly bypass mafia security systems so a married Irish mob princess can sneak out of her own house to see her father.
This has become an extremely different situation than the one Callum originally brought me into.
The audio feed crackles softly again.
Then—Maeve laughs. Actually laughs this time. Quiet and startled and a little overwhelmed like she can’t fully believe this conversation is happening either.
And hearing it makes adrenaline hit even harder beneath my skin.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
I lean forward unconsciously while staring at the screen.
Finally…
Unknown:
Okay, Taibhse.
My pulse stumbles hard.
Then another message appears beneath it.
I’ll listen.
Everything inside me goes completely still.
Taibhse. Ghost.
The name settles low and dangerous beneath my ribs while her voice saying it echoes through my head even though she only typed the word.
And suddenly—this doesn’t feel like surveillance anymore.