5. Maeve
Maeve
The alarms started just after midnight.
Not loud enough to panic me at first. More irritating than frightening, the sound muffled somewhere deeper in the estate while lights flickered briefly beneath the bedroom door.
I'd shot upright anyway, heart already racing beneath silk sheets while Ronan cursed under his breath beside me and reached for his phone.
For nearly twenty minutes the house had moved around us in restless motion. Footsteps in the hallway. Voices downstairs. Security radios crackling faintly through the open bedroom door while camera notifications flashed one after another across Ronan’s phone screen.
He hadn’t let me see it. That bothered me more than the alarms themselves.
“It’s nothing,” he’d said eventually while buttoning his shirt near the edge of the bed. “System malfunction.”
At midnight. Across the entire estate.
Reasonable. Everything was always reasonable.
I watched him pace once across the bedroom, phone pressed to his ear while quiet irritation sharpened the edges of his voice. Even angry, Ronan rarely raised his tone. He became calmer instead. Colder. More precise.
More dangerous.
“There shouldn’t be vulnerabilities,” he snapped quietly into the phone before noticing I was watching him.
His expression smoothed. Like a curtain dropping.
“They’re fixing it first thing tomorrow,” he told me afterward while climbing back into bed beside me. “Go back to sleep.”
I tried. But long after Ronan’s breathing evened beside me, my eyes stayed fixed on the blinking green light tucked near the bedroom ceiling.
Camera.
For the first time since they’d been installed, I found myself wondering who exactly Ronan believed he was protecting me from.
The next morning the estate feels tense in the subtle quiet way houses do when wealthy men are angry.
Staff move quicker. Security speaks softer. Even breakfast arrives with less conversation than usual.
Ronan stands near the kitchen island reading emails from his tablet while two men in black security polos move somewhere upstairs wondering what the hell happened last night.
My opportunity sits directly in front of me. If Ronan is distracted by strangers inside the house, he won’t want me underfoot. The realization arrives fast enough that I speak before I can second guess myself.
“I was thinking maybe I could have brunch with my parents today.”
Ronan’s attention doesn’t lift from the tablet. “Today?”
I set my coffee cup down carefully. “I haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“That’s dramatic.” Heat flickers faintly beneath my ribs. Not because the comment is cruel. Because lately every emotion I express somehow becomes exaggerated once it leaves my mouth.
I smooth my voice anyway. “I miss them.”
Ronan finally looks up. For a second I think he’s going to say no outright, and something humiliatingly desperate tightens in my chest at the possibility.
Not because I need permission. At least...I don't think I do. The realization lands anyway. I'm becoming increasingly aware...That I'm asking for it.
“I’d rather you stay close to the estate while strangers are inside the house,” he says finally.
There it is again. Reasonable. Protective. The kind of concern that sounds loving enough to make me feel guilty for resisting it.
I force myself to hold his gaze anyway. “Please.” The word leaves softer than I intended.
Ronan studies me for several seconds too long before setting the tablet aside. “Fine. But meet them at Gallagher’s on Seventh.”
One of his family’s restaurants. Public. Controlled. Surrounded by his staff. Not my parents’ estate. Not private. My stomach tightens despite the relief that follows the yes.
“I don’t want you far from me while the system’s being repaired,” he continues calmly. “Especially not today.”
I nod slowly while something quieter moves through my chest beneath the gratitude. Because maybe the reason he prefers public places has less to do with safety and more to do with control.
At a restaurant, I’ll smile. Behave. Play the perfect wife beneath expensive lighting and watchful eyes.
At home with my parents? My father would notice too much. The thought unsettles me enough that I shove it away.
Ronan is trying to protect me. That’s all. I need to stop turning everything into something uglier than it is.
****
By noon, rain taps softly against the restaurant windows while my mother reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“You look tired, darling.” The concern in her voice nearly undoes me on impact.
I smile quickly before she can study me too closely. “I was up half the night because the estate security system decided to lose its mind.”
My father grunts from across the table. “Gallagher should’ve hired better people.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips free. God, I missed this. Not the restaurant exactly. Not the brunch. Just…this.
The easy warmth between my parents. The familiar sound of my father complaining about literally everything while my mother pretends not to adore him for it. The way he automatically reaches to refill her coffee before she even notices the cup is empty.
Small things. Normal things. Maybe that’s why they feel so precious lately.
“How’s married life treating you?” my mother asks gently.
I glance down at my mimosa, watching bubbles rise slowly through the glass. “Good.”
The lie comes easier every time I say it. Not because I believe it completely. Because I want to.
Marriage takes adjustment. Patience. Work. Everyone says so.
My mother smiles softly over the rim of her coffee cup, dark curls brushing her shoulders as she reaches for the little glass jar of cream beside her plate. “The first year is always the hardest.”
Across the table, my father snorts into his espresso. “Only because your mother nearly divorced me twice.”
My mother lets out a quiet laugh before nudging his arm with her fingertips. “Cormac.”
“What?” he asks, unapologetic. “You did.”
“You deserved it both times.”
My father leans back in his chair, one hand sliding lazily across the back of hers where it rests near the sugar bowl. “I was young and stupid.”
“You were arrogant,” my mother corrects dryly.
“I’m still arrogant.”
“Yes,” she says with another small smile, “but now you buy me jewelry afterward.”
That earns a deeper laugh from my father, warm and easy and entirely unashamed while he leans sideways to press a kiss against her forehead like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The warmth between them wraps around me painfully. Not because it’s performative. Because it isn’t. Because even after all these years, loving each other still seems effortless for them in ways I don’t fully understand anymore.
Something twists unexpectedly in my chest. Because I’m trying so hard. God, I’m trying. Trying to be patient enough. Understanding enough. Soft enough. Perfect enough that maybe one day Ronan will look at me the way my father looks at my mother.
Maybe this is simply the difficult beginning part people survive before marriage becomes easier. Maybe if I stop resisting every small correction, Ronan will stop feeling disappointed with me. The thought settles, heavy, inside me.
Across the table, my father watches my expression too closely. “Maeve.”
I blink slightly. “Hm?”
His dark eyes narrow just enough that guilt crawls up my spine like I’ve done something wrong without realizing it. “Where the hell have you been lately?”
There it is. Not angry. Concerned. Which somehow feels worse.
I force a small laugh. “Busy.”
“With what?”
“Marriage. Events. Travel.”
“Maeve, are you happy?”
I open my mouth to answer— to ask them if their beginning was just as difficult—“Mrs. Gallagher,” one of my security detail cuts into my thoughts. “Mr. Gallagher asked that we return to the estate.”
Perfect timing. Too perfect.
My father’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly. I stand before the tension can become visible enough for anyone nearby to notice.
“Of course.”
My mother hugs me tightly before I leave, and for one dangerous second I almost ask her if marriage is supposed to feel this exhausting all the time.
But the question dies before it reaches my mouth. Because what exactly would I even say? Ronan likes cameras too much? Ronan redirects conversations? Ronan makes me feel guilty for wanting privacy?
It sounds ridiculous.
By the time I slide into the backseat of the SUV, rain has started again outside. The security detail settles into the front while the city blurs gray beyond the windows.
For one brief irrational second, a thought slips through. What if they were listening to us? What if that’s why they interrupted right then?
The idea is ridiculous enough that I nearly laugh at myself. Paranoid. That’s all this is. Too many cameras. Too little sleep. An overactive imagination spiraling into nonsense.
Still…I find myself glancing toward the driver’s mirror anyway.
Just once.
****
The estate comes into view nearly ten minutes earlier than I expected.
I frown slightly as the gates begin opening. “I thought the system repairs were supposed to take all afternoon.”
“They’re ahead of schedule,” the driver says simply.
Of course they are. Everything in Ronan’s world always runs exactly on time.
Rain taps softly against the SUV windows while the house rises from the gray afternoon like something carved from cold stone and expectation. By the time the vehicle rolls to a stop near the front entrance, one of the security men is already moving toward my door with an umbrella.
I barely notice him. Because the front door opens at the exact same moment. And suddenly there’s a man I’ve never seen before standing inside my house.
Not staff. Not security. Something else entirely.
He’s bent slightly over one of the hallway security panels near the entrance, dark hair falling messily across his forehead while tattooed fingers move quickly over exposed wires and glowing screens.
Black long sleeve Henley pushed to his forearms. Glasses sliding slightly down his nose.
Focused enough that he doesn’t immediately notice the SUV pulling into the drive.
Then he looks up. And my breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
Not because he’s attractive. Although he is. Painfully so, honestly, in that dangerous kind of way certain intelligent men become when they look like they spend more time thinking than sleeping.
No. It’s his eyes. Dark. Sharp. Intense enough to feel invasive.
Like the second his gaze lands on me, he sees too much. Not my dress. Not my makeup. Me. The feeling is so immediate and unsettling that my pulse stumbles once against my ribs.
For one strange suspended moment, neither of us moves. Rain falls around me. Security radios crackle somewhere behind me. The estate door remains half open between us.
And he just…looks at me. Not appreciatively. Not politely. Knowingly.
As though we're already in the middle of a conversation I don’t remember starting..
The feeling lands low in my stomach, strange and sharp and deeply unsettling. Not attraction exactly. Something more instinctive than that.
Recognition without understanding. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly the moment he sees me. Tiny enough most people would miss it. I don’t.
Surprise. Like he wasn’t expecting me home yet. The thought sends a strange chill across my skin before I can stop it.
Rain hums softly behind me while security moves around us, but the entire entrance feels too still. Too quiet.
And the stranger just watches me. Not rudely. Not appreciatively. Intently.
The kind of look that makes heat crawl up your spine because it feels less like being admired and more like being studied. Like he'd skipped every polite introduction and gone looking for the parts of me no one else ever seemed to notice.
My pulse stumbles once against my ribs.
Then one of the estate guards steps between us carrying equipment, breaking the moment. The stranger looks away first, attention dropping back toward the exposed wires and blinking system panel like nothing happened at all.
I force myself to move again toward the staircase, but halfway up the foyer steps I glance back without thinking.
He’s watching me again.