25. Maeve
Maeve
I don't think I've ever hated this house more.
Not because of the guards. Not because of the cameras. Not even because Ronan has barely spoken to me in two days.
It's because there is nowhere to hide from my own thoughts.
I drift from room to room with a basket of laundry balanced against my hip, folding clothes that don't need folded and reorganizing drawers that were already organized.
Anything to stay busy. Anything to stop replaying the fundraiser.
It doesn't work.
The memory follows me anyway.
I can still see my mother's face. Still feel her arms wrapping around me. Still hear her laugh when she pulled me into the conversation and immediately started introducing me to everyone around her.
For ten minutes I had felt normal.
Not Mrs. Gallagher. Not somebody being watched. Not somebody being managed.
Just Maeve.
The feeling had been so unexpected that I'd nearly cried.
Then Ronan had appeared.
I close a drawer harder than necessary. The sound echoes through the room. Immediately I sigh. Because now I'm angry.
Again.
The emotion has become disturbingly familiar lately.
I move toward the window. The gardens stretch across the estate below.
Perfect. Controlled. Maintained.
Just like everything else here. My chest tightens.
Because I remember exactly what happened next.
The room. The silence. The way every conversation had stopped when Ronan walked in.
The way my mother's smile vanished. The way my stomach dropped before he'd even spoken.
"Maeve." Just my name. Nothing else.
And somehow I'd known.
I rest my forehead against the cool glass.
Because that's the part that won't leave me alone.
Not his anger. Not the embarrassment. The apology. The way it had immediately fallen from my mouth. Instinctively. Like I'd already learned the correct response.
My mother's eyes had widened.
Confusion flashing across her face. Concern quickly following.
The memory twists something painful inside my chest.
Because the more distance I get from the moment, the worse it feels.
My mother lives this life too. She understands expectations. Appearances. Family obligations.
But I cannot remember a single time my father has spoken to her the way Ronan spoke to me.
Not once. I can remember arguments. Raised voices. My mother threatening to murder him on at least three separate occasions.
But not like that. Never in that tone.
The realization follows me downstairs. Into the kitchen. Into the library. Into every quiet room of this giant house.
And for two days, Ronan has done nothing except make it worse.
He's either gone. Or locked inside his office.
The rare moments we do cross paths are worse. Brief. Cold. Disappointed.
Like he's waiting for me to understand what I did wrong. And apologize properly this time.
The problem is I still don't know. I saw my mother. I talked to her. I smiled.
The thought settles heavily in my chest.
Because somehow that feels important.
Like maybe that's the real issue.
Not that I left the bar.
That I was happy.
I sink into one of the chairs in the library and pull my phone from my pocket.
The movement has become embarrassingly familiar.
Dangerous or comforting. Probably both.
The screen lights immediately. And just like that, some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
Because over the last two days, while Ronan ignored me and this house slowly swallowed me whole, someone else didn't.
The thought should make me feel guilty.
Instead it makes me smile.
I think about the ridiculous debate over cereal being soup. The argument about whether motorcycles are statistically safer than horses. He had insisted cereal could not be soup because milk lacked “the necessary savory intent,” which might be the most ridiculous sentence anyone has ever sent me.
The way Taibhse somehow manages to answer simple questions in the most complicated way possible.
He never asks why Ronan is angry. Never pushes when I avoid a question. Never tells me what I should do. He simply stays.
A laugh escapes me. Soft. Unwanted. Real.
The sound surprises me enough that I glance around the empty room.
As if someone might have heard it. As if someone might question where it came from.
The loneliness settles beside me again.
Quieter this time. Less sharp.
Because for the first time in weeks, I don't feel completely alone with it.
And that realization might scare me more than anything else.