11. Maeve
Maeve
The first thing Ronan changed after the fundraiser was my breakfast.
The second was my schedule.
By the following Monday, a personal trainer started arriving at the estate three mornings a week at eight sharp.
“Just until you’re feeling more like yourself again,” Ronan had said while knotting his tie in the mirror behind me.
Like myself.
The irony almost made me laugh.
Now I stand barefoot on the black gym mats in the estate’s private fitness room with sweat cooling slowly down my spine while Sandra watches me reset my stance across from her.
“You’ve done this before,” she says carefully.
Not accusatory. Confused.
I flex my fingers once before lifting my gloves again. “A little.”
That’s technically true.
If “a little” means: Cormac O’Donnell deciding at twelve years old that his daughter should know how to break a man’s nose before she ever learned how to flirt.
My father believed women in our world should know how to protect themselves.
Not because he expected violence.
Because power respected preparedness.
“Again,” Sandra says.
I move automatically this time.
Step. Pivot. Strike.
The heavy bag swings hard enough the chains above it rattle sharply through the room.
Sandra blinks.
Interesting reaction considering this is the fourth session we’ve had together.
“You’re holding back,” she says.
I lower my gloves slowly. “I’m trying not to break the equipment.”
That finally earns a laugh from her. Real one too. Not the polite professional versions she usually gives me.
Sandra’s probably mid-thirties. Blonde ponytail. Former athlete shoulders. The kind of woman who looks like she genuinely enjoys intimidating men at gyms for fun.
And for the past two weeks, she’s been increasingly unable to figure me out.
I can tell. Because nothing about this arrangement makes sense. Not to her. Not really.
She was clearly expecting: spoiled mafia wife wants to get skinny.
Instead she got: a woman who can deadlift almost as much as the trainer and throw a punch correctly on instinct.
Which unfortunately raises questions.
“Okay,” Sandra says while crossing her arms lightly. “I’m gonna ask something and you can absolutely tell me to mind my business.”
“That usually means it’s going to be invasive.”
“Probably.”
I pull my gloves loose slowly while moving toward the water station. “Go ahead.”
Sandra hesitates briefly before asking, “You know you don’t actually need me, right?”
There it is. The question sitting quietly between us since session one. I unscrew the water bottle carefully before answering.
“Ronan thinks it’s important I stay healthy.”
Sandra’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not disagreement exactly. Discomfort.
Because she’s been in this gym long enough now to notice certain things too.
The cameras in the corners. The security presence outside. The fact I never leave the estate alone anymore.
Small things. Still—I can practically see the conflict moving behind her eyes every time she looks at me.
Like some part of her instincts are screaming that something isn’t right here while the logical side keeps answering: But she’s rich. But he’s powerful. But he’s polite. But she says she’s fine.
“You’re already healthy,” Sandra says carefully.
I stare down into the water bottle instead of at her. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“I’m serious.” There’s frustration beneath the words now.
Not at me. At the situation. At the fact she clearly feels something is wrong but can’t quite touch it.
“I train women all day,” she continues. “Most people don’t move the way you do unless they’ve been doing this for years.”
My throat tightens slightly around the memory of my father standing behind me in one of the old family warehouses correcting my stance while I complained dramatically at fourteen.
Again, mo stóirín. Again.
“You drop your shoulder before a left hook,” Sandra says now. “That’s muscle memory.”
I smile faintly despite myself. “My father taught me.”
“Military?”
I almost laugh. “No. Irish.”
That actually makes her snort softly.
“Honestly that tracks.”
The room settles quiet for a moment afterward except for the faint hum of the treadmills and rain tapping softly against the gym windows overlooking the estate grounds.
Sandra studies me for another second before speaking more carefully this time.
“You don’t have to answer this either,” she says. “But… are you doing this because you want to?”
The question lands gently. Which somehow makes it hurt worse. Because the truthful answer should be simple.
And yet suddenly it isn’t.
Do I want to be here?
No.
But I want Ronan happy.
I want this marriage to work.
I want things to stop feeling so tense between us lately.
I want to stop disappointing him without understanding exactly how I’m doing it.
So instead of answering honestly, I lift one shoulder lightly. “It’s important to him.”
Sandra's face falls and she goes quiet again.
And in the silence that follows, I realize something unsettling: That’s the first time I’ve answered a question about myself entirely through Ronan’s feelings instead of my own.
The realization lodges low and heavy beneath my ribs before I can shake it loose.
Sandra looks like she wants to say something else.
Instead, she simply nods once and reaches for the towels stacked near the mirrored wall.
“We’re done for today,” she says.
I peel the gloves from my hands slowly while my eyes drift toward the security camera mounted near the ceiling.
The lens stares silently back at me.
Watching. Always watching.
And for one strange impossible second—the camera shifts slightly away from me before settling still again.
***
The shower should help.
Usually it does.
Usually twenty minutes beneath scalding water gives me enough quiet to settle my thoughts back into manageable places again, but today the conversation with Sandra keeps replaying in my head no matter how hard I try to let it go.
You don’t actually need me, right?
The question clings to me while steam curls thickly through the master bathroom mirrors.
Not because Sandra was accusing. Because she sounded confused. And that feels worse.
By the time I step back into the bedroom wrapped in one of the estate robes, exhaustion sits heavy in my bones in a way the workout never caused. Emotional exhaustion. The kind that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel harder than it should.
The bedroom is quiet. Cold. Perfectly clean. Nothing in here feels lived.
I stand there for a moment staring at the massive walk-in closet before realizing exactly what I want.
Not designer cashmere. Not silk. Not the polished version of myself Ronan keeps slowly building piece by piece.
I want my hoodie. The old navy blue one my father bought me when I was sixteen after I spent nearly an hour arguing with him inside a tiny gift shop near Galway because they only had one left and it was three sizes too big.
“It’s ridiculous,” he’d told me while I hugged the thing dramatically against my chest anyway.
“I love it.”
“You’ll drown in that thing.”
“I’ll grow.”
And eventually I had.
Mostly.
The sleeves still swallow half my hands when I wear it, the cuffs fraying years ago from constant use while the inside stayed impossibly soft no matter how many times it went through the wash.
Whenever I got sick growing up, I wore it. Whenever I missed home at boarding school, I wore it. Whenever life felt too loud—I wore it.
The thought settles warmly through me for the first time all day.
Finally. Something that still feels like mine.
I move toward the closet automatically, already picturing the faded navy fabric balled somewhere near the back shelf where I usually kept it folded beneath sweaters Ronan would never willingly let me wear in public.
But when I reach for it—nothing’s there.
I pause.
Then start moving hangers aside more carefully. Silk. Cashmere. Cream wool. Black dresses. No hoodie.
My brow furrows slightly. Weird. I crouch lower, checking the shelf beneath it next.
Nothing. Maybe it's in the laundry.
The explanation comes easily enough at first while I move deeper into the closet searching through drawers and folded stacks.
Still nothing. The warmth from earlier starts fading slowly beneath my ribs. I check the laundry basket. The sitting room. The chair near the bedroom windows.
Nothing.
Now my pulse kicks once harder.
I head downstairs still barefoot, robe tied tightly around my waist while one of the evening house staff looks up immediately from the dining room hallway.
“Marisol,” I call softly. “Have you seen my navy hoodie? The oversized one?”
Her expression changes instantly. Tiny shift. Tiny hesitation. But enough.
“No, ma’am.”
Something cold curls low in my stomach. “It was upstairs this week.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
She won’t fully meet my eyes. Not directly. My heartbeat stumbles strangely.
“Could it have gone to laundry?”
“I can check.”
But she says it too quickly. Too carefully. Like she already knows the answer.
I stand there silently while unease slowly spreads through my chest.
“It’s just a sweatshirt,” I say finally, more to myself than her.
Marisol gives a tiny nod. Still won’t look at me. That’s what finally does it. Not the missing hoodie. Not even the strange tension tightening through my chest. It’s the realization that the staff look nervous.
Like they know something I don’t.
I move through the rest of the downstairs rooms anyway, searching places I know it won’t be because not trying feels worse now.
Kitchen. Laundry room. Reading room.
Nothing.
By the time I make it back upstairs, my chest feels tight enough to ache.
Because it wasn’t expensive.
That’s the thing.
Ronan buys me beautiful things constantly now. Dresses that cost more than cars. Jewelry heavy enough to feel ridiculous against my skin. Sweaters softer than anything sixteen-year-old Maeve O’Donnell could’ve imagined owning.
And somehow losing one old oversized hoodie hurts worse than all of it.
I step back into the closet slowly, staring at the rows of polished neutral colors hanging perfectly spaced apart.
Cream. Black. Gray. Elegant. Expensive.