21. Maeve
Maeve
The suitcase should have made me happy. Instead, it makes me nervous.
I stand near the window of our bedroom while Ronan moves around the room gathering the last few things he needs for his trip.
The weather outside is gray. The kind of spring morning that can't decide if it wants to rain.
For some reason, that feels fitting.
"How long will you be gone?" I ask.
Ronan glances up from where he's fastening his watch. "Two days."
My shoulders immediately relax. Only two. The movement doesn't escape his notice. His gaze lingers on me for a second. Long enough that I suddenly wish I'd hidden my reaction.
"I'll be back before you know it." A smile touches his mouth. It should feel reassuring. Instead, it feels like an observation. Like he noticed I was relieved. I look away first. The room falls quiet again.
A few months ago, that silence wouldn't have bothered me. Now it stretches between us constantly. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Ronan slips his wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket before turning toward me.
His expression shifts immediately. Business. Controlled. The version of him the rest of the world sees.
"While I'm gone, I want you to stay here."
My brow furrows. "Here?"
"The estate." The answer comes immediately. Like he already knew he was going to have to clarify.
Something inside me tightens. "Ronan—"
"Maeve." The warning in my name stops me. Not because it's loud. Because it isn't. His voice remains perfectly calm. That somehow makes it worse. "I mean it."
I fold my arms across my chest. A small act of defiance. One he notices. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere."
A lie. Not a huge one. But a lie nonetheless. I've spent the last two days wondering if I should text my father. Whether I could convince him to meet me for coffee. Whether it would be worth another argument.
Ronan steps closer. "Good."
The single word lands wrong. Like approval. Like permission. I hate how much that bothers me.
"Why?" The question leaves before I can stop it.
His expression shifts. Just slightly. Enough that I notice. "Why what?"
"Why can't I leave?"
His jaw tightens. Only for a second. Then it's gone. "There are things happening right now that don't concern you."
The answer immediately irritates me. Mostly because it isn't actually an answer.
"I'm your wife."
His eyes meet mine. "Exactly."
The word hangs heavily between us. I stare at him. Waiting.
Finally I ask the question that's been sitting in the back of my mind for weeks.
"Am I in danger?"
For the first time all morning, Ronan looks surprised. Not offended. Not angry. Surprised. The reaction alone makes my stomach tighten. Because if the answer is no, shouldn't that have been immediate?
Ronan reaches for me. His hand settling lightly against my jaw. I freeze. The gesture should feel affectionate. Instead it feels strangely calculated. Like he's trying to soothe me. "You worry too much."
I pull slightly away. "Then answer me."
Something flashes behind his eyes. Gone before I can identify it. Then he sighs. Softly. Almost tired. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."
The words settle somewhere deep inside my chest. Because they sound sincere. Painfully sincere. Like he means them. And that's the problem: for one brief moment, I almost believe him. Almost convince myself that everything is about protection.
The guards. The cameras. The schedules. The restrictions. The arguments. Maybe this is what love looks like to him. Maybe he's scared. Maybe he's trying.
The thoughts arrive automatically now. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous.
Ronan presses a kiss against my forehead. The gesture feels practiced. Then he steps away.
"Stay here." The words aren't a request.
They're an expectation. A command wrapped in concern. And before I can decide which one bothers me more, he's gone.
The bedroom door closes behind him. Silence immediately fills the space. I stand there for a long moment. Listening. Waiting. Eventually the sound of a car engine drifts up from the driveway below. Then another. Then nothing. Just silence.
I walk to the window. Watch the gates open. Watch Ronan's SUV disappear down the long winding drive. Watch the gates close again behind him.
Locking. Sealing. Containing. The estate suddenly feels enormous. And somehow smaller than ever.
I leave the bedroom an hour later. The staff nod politely as I pass. A housekeeper offers a smile. A guard opens a door. Everyone is kind. Everyone is professional. No one actually speaks to me. Not really. Because conversations imply familiarity.
Friendship. Choice. The staff works here. The guards answer to Ronan. And I...I don't seem to belong anywhere anymore.
By the time I reach the library, the loneliness has lodged itself somewhere I can't quite reach, heavy enough to ache.
I glance toward my phone. Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the message thread.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Me:
Tell me something exciting.
I hit send. Deciding that was probably a strange thing to say. The response takes less than a minute.
Taibhse:
That is alarmingly vague.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Me:
I'm aware.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Taibhse:
Are you being held hostage?
I laugh despite myself. But…if I am not allowed to leave does that mean I am being held hostage?
Me:
No.
A second later.
Taibhse:
Should I interpret this as a cry for help?
Me:
No.
Taibhse:
Interesting.
I shake my head.
Me:
I'm just tired of hearing the same things every day.
The response doesn't come immediately this time. When it finally does, it feels different. Less teasing.
Taibhse:
Lonely?
The word lands and stays, heavier than it should. Because somehow he always manages to find the thing sitting underneath the thing. My fingers hover.
Me:
Maybe.
I stare at the message before adding:
I just wanted to hear something different.
The typing bubble appears instantly. Disappears. Appears again. I find myself smiling while I wait.
Taibhse:
Okay.
A second message follows.
A man once tried to hire me to determine whether his neighbor was a spy.
I blink.
Me:
Was his neighbor a spy?
Taibhse:
No.
Me:
Then why did he think he was?
The response comes right away.
Taibhse:
The neighbor owned six identical lawnmowers.
I stare at the screen. Then laugh.
Me:
That's ridiculous.
Taibhse:
That's what I said.
Me:
What was the actual explanation?
Several seconds pass.
Taibhse:
The neighbor really liked lawnmowers.
A real laugh gets out before I even try to stop it. The kind I haven't heard from myself much lately.
Me:
You're making this up.
Taibhse:
I wish I was.
I grin. The next message appears before I can respond.
Taibhse:
Your turn.
My brow furrows.
Me:
My turn what?
Taibhse:
Tell me something interesting.
I stare at the screen. Then out across the grounds. Then back down again.
Me:
I got banned from the kitchen when I was eight.
The response appears before I've even set the phone down.
Taibhse:
That feels like a story.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Me:
I decided to make my father breakfast.
Several seconds pass.
Taibhse:
That seems statistically likely to end badly.
I laugh softly.
Me:
Wait for it.
Three dots appear.
Taibhse:
Oh no.
The smile grows.
Me:
I was making pancakes.
Taibhse:
Still sounds wholesome.
Me:
I set a dish towel on fire.
The response is instant.
Taibhse:
There it is.
I laugh hard enough that I nearly drop my phone. A second message follows.
Taibhse:
How much of the kitchen survived?
Me:
Most of it.
Taibhse:
"Most" is carrying a lot of weight in that sentence.
I bite back another smile.
Me:
My father said the flames only reached "concerning" levels.
A full minute passes before the next response. When it comes, I can practically hear the amusement behind it.
Taibhse:
That sounds like something a man would say while actively watching his house burn down.
A laugh escapes me. Because he isn't wrong. Not even a little.
Me:
My mother disagreed.
Taibhse:
I imagine she had several thoughts.
Me:
Most of them were loud.
The response takes longer this time.
Taibhse:
Did your father help?
The question is simple. But something about it makes my smile soften. I look out over the estate grounds before answering.
Me:
No.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
Taibhse:
No?
Me:
He sat at the counter drinking coffee and told me mistakes were how people learned things.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. The memory feels sharper than it should. Warmer.
Taibhse:
Your mother must have loved that.
A laugh escapes me.
Me:
She threatened to ban both of us from the kitchen.
The response doesn't come right away.
When the reply lands, it's only three words.
Taibhse:
I like him.
And for some reason, staring at those three words makes my chest ache. In a good way.