Maeve
Okay, Taibhse.
I’ll listen.
The message glows softly against my screen while my pulse pounds so hard it makes my fingers shake.
What did I just do? The bathroom suddenly feels too small. Too warm.
I reread the conversation again. And again. And again.
Please don’t cry.
My stomach twists violently. No. No this has to be Ronan. It has to be.
Because nobody else should know I hide in this bathroom. Nobody else should know about my parents. Nobody else should know I was crying.
My eyes snap toward the ceiling automatically even though I already know there aren’t cameras in here.
Or at least—I thought I knew.
Cold panic crawls up my spine. What if there are? What if this whole room isn’t safe anymore either? Suddenly I can almost feel eyes on me again. Watching. Waiting.
My breathing starts coming too fast while I stare at the locked bathroom door.
He’s outside.
The thought lands so hard I physically flinch. He’s waiting for me to come out. My throat tightens painfully.
Because now that the fear is there, my brain starts building the scene automatically: Ronan standing calmly in the hallway. My phone in his hand. That cold quiet disappointment in his eyes.
Tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
Heat floods instantly into my face at the memory of the text.
God.
I grip the edge of the bathroom counter hard enough my knuckles ache.
Think.
If this is Ronan—if this is some kind of test—what was the right answer? Should I have told him immediately? Should I have ignored it? Should I not have answered at all?
The silence outside the bathroom stretches endlessly. I can’t stay in here forever. The waiting stretches unbearable, nerves fraying with every second that passes while I stare at the door like it might explode open.
Finally, slowly, I unlock it.
The click sounds deafening. I freeze instantly. Nothing. No voice. No footsteps.
The hallway beyond the bathroom sits dim and empty beneath soft golden lighting.
Still, my chest feels tight enough to hurt while I step cautiously into the corridor.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to brace for impact.
I glance toward the upstairs landing. Nothing. Toward the bedroom. Nothing. Then faintly from downstairs, I hear Ronan’s voice.
Calm. Even. Distracted. Talking on the phone in his office. My brow furrows slightly.
Confusion cuts sharply through the panic.
Because if he knows—if this was him—wouldn’t he be angry?
I move quietly toward the staircase, bare feet nearly silent against the hardwood floors. I stop again, gripping the banister while light spills faintly from beneath Ronan’s office door below.
He laughs softly at something someone says through the speakerphone. Normal. Completely normal. Like nothing happened at all.
The realization should calm me. Instead it somehow makes everything worse.
Because if it isn’t Ronan—then who the hell is it?
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I make my way back toward the bedroom.
The entire estate feels different now, less stable somehow. Like the walls shifted slightly while I wasn’t looking.
I should delete the messages.
The thought follows me into the bedroom while I stare at my phone again beneath the dim bedside lamp.
A shaky laugh almost escapes me at the absurdity of it before fear swallows it again.
Because none of this is romantic. None of this is safe. And yet…
Please don’t cry.
Something painful twists beneath my ribs at the memory of it. I slide the phone beneath my pillow before I can talk myself out of it.
Then immediately hate myself for doing it.
By the time Ronan finally comes upstairs nearly an hour later, every muscle in my body feels wound too tight. I shut my eyes quickly the second I hear the bedroom door open. Pretend to be asleep. Breathe evenly. Don’t panic.
The room fills with familiar sounds.
Ronan shoes hitting the floor near the chair. The bathroom door opening.
Normal. Everything sounds horribly normal.
Water runs briefly in the sink before silence settles again. Then footsteps cross slowly through the bedroom toward the bed.
Closer. Closer.
My heartbeat pounds so hard I’m terrified he’ll hear it through the blankets.
I brace instinctively for anger. For disappointment. For the who were you talking to?
Instead the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. That’s all. No accusations. No confrontation.
Just the quiet rustle of blankets while Ronan settles beside me in the dark.
I keep my breathing painfully even.
Please don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything. Please—Ronan exhales tiredly beside me before the bedside lamp clicks off.
Darkness swallows the room.
And lying there beside my husband while the unknown number burns like a secret beneath my pillow—And that's almost worse.
Because if this wasn’t him—then someone else is inside my life.
***
I barely sleep. Every time I drift off, I wake again convinced someone is standing over the bed watching me.
By morning my nerves feel scraped raw beneath my skin.
Ronan notices. He’s already dressed for work when I finally step into the kitchen, dark suit perfectly pressed while steam curls from the black coffee beside his tablet. Morning light spills softly through the massive windows, painting everything gold and warm and painfully normal.
I still feel like I swallowed electricity sometime around midnight.
Ronan looks up the second I enter. His eyes narrow slightly. “What’s wrong?”
The question catches me off guard enough that I pause halfway toward the island. “Nothing.”
“Mhm.” His attention lingers on my face another second too long. “You look exhausted.”
Because I spent half the night convinced my husband was psychologically torturing me through anonymous text messages.
Instead I force a small shrug. “I don’t feel very good.”
The concern arrives instantly. Real concern too. That’s the confusing part about Ronan. He notices everything.
“That’s exactly why I’ve been trying to get you to take better care of yourself,” he says while setting his coffee down. “You run yourself down until you get sick.”
Something bitter rises hot in my throat so quickly I almost laugh. Because now I know. The meal plans. The trainer. The controlled portions. Not health. Control. And suddenly hearing him frame it as concern makes something inside me recoil sharply.
I smooth my expression anyway, before the reaction fully reaches my face.
“I’m fine.”
Ronan studies me quietly for another moment before crossing the kitchen toward me. His fingers brush lightly against my forehead, checking for fever.
The gesture should feel caring. Instead my body goes tense automatically. His hand stills briefly against my skin like he notices.
“I’ll cancel Sandra today,” he says calmly. “You should rest.”
The relief that flashes through me feels immediate and humiliating. Because part of me genuinely did not want to spend another hour inside that gym today pretending this entire situation felt normal.
“Okay,” I murmur.
Ronan presses a brief kiss against my temple before stepping back again. “I’ll be home late tonight.”
Then he leaves. Just like that. The front door shuts softly somewhere deeper in the estate while quiet spreads through the kitchen.
For several seconds, I just stand there staring down into my coffee while anxiety still crawls uneasily beneath my skin from the night before.
Then my phone vibrates against the marble countertop. My pulse jumps instantly.
Unknown:
I’m still deciding if contacting you was psychologically irresponsible.
I stare at the message for several long seconds. A startled breath almost escapes me. Because that—that is not what I expected. Not threatening. Not smooth. Not manipulative.
Just strangely honest in a way that catches me completely off guard. Like whoever’s behind the screen typed the thought before deciding whether he should actually say it.
And that feels far more dangerous. Because for the first time since the messages started—they feel real.
Slowly, I type back.
Me:
Then maybe you should stop.
The typing bubble appears immediately. Disappears. Then reappears again.
Unknown:
Probably.
Not currently succeeding though.
Despite myself, my mouth twitches slightly. God. This person is strange. Another message appears before I can answer.
Unknown:
You stopped crying eventually. That seemed statistically positive.
A soft disbelieving laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound surprises me almost as much as the text itself. Because somehow the concern hidden beneath the awkward wording feels more sincere than if he’d simply asked whether I was okay.
Me:
Who are you?
This time the typing bubble takes longer. Long enough that my heartbeat slows slightly while I wait for it.
Finally…
Unknown:
Someone who doesn’t like him very much.
The warmth from moments earlier fades immediately. Ronan. He means Ronan. My fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
Me:
You work for him.
This time there's no delay at all. The response comes back.
Unknown:
Absolutely not.
Me:
You have to work for him. Tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
The second the message sends, embarrassment floods hot through my chest. Because now it sounds ridiculous written out like this. Small. Like I’m asking permission to exist comfortably inside my own life.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Unknown:
That sentence alone makes me want to commit several felonies.
A shocked laugh slips free before I can stop it. I clap my hand quickly over my mouth, glancing instinctively toward the empty hallway. My heart slams for entirely different reasons now. This should feel frightening. Instead it feels absurdly easy talking to him.
The typing bubble appears again.
Unknown:
Still want me to prove I’m not his?
My stomach tightens instantly. Because this is the moment where instinct matters. My father spent years teaching me that fear and intuition were not always the same thing. Fear made people freeze. Instinct kept them alive.
Learn the difference, mo stóirín.
And somewhere beneath all the anxiety and confusion twisting through me now—my instincts are strangely calm. I should say no. I should block the number. Tell Ronan. Pretend none of this ever happened.
Instead, with slightly shaking fingers, I type:
Yes.
This time there’s no delay at all. The response comes instantly this time.
Unknown:
Okay. Go upstairs.
My hands shake before I even finish reading it. I stare at the message. Then toward the empty hallway beyond the kitchen. Then back at the screen again.
Unknown:
Take your phone. Don’t tell staff where you’re going.
The calm certainty in the messages sends another wave of adrenaline through me.
Still—I move. Slowly at first. Then faster once I reach the staircase. The estate feels impossibly quiet around me today. No Sandra. Minimal staff movement. Security chatter faint somewhere downstairs.
My phone vibrates again the second I reach the upstairs landing.
Unknown:
Turn left.
I do. The hallway camera nearest the guest wing shifts, slow and deliberate, toward the opposite wall. . My footsteps stop instantly. The camera stays there. Not watching me. A chill races sharply down my spine. Oh my God.
The phone buzzes again.
Unknown:
Keep walking.
I should stop. I should absolutely stop.
Instead my heart pounds harder while I continue down the hallway toward the back staircase leading toward the lower garage entrance.
Every camera I pass turns away moments before I reach it.
Not dramatic movements. Tiny. Subtle. Like the house itself is quietly looking elsewhere.
My breathing grows uneven by the time I reach the lower level. No alarms. No guards.
Nothing.
The garage access door clicks open before I even touch the handle. I freeze.
The phone vibrates.
Unknown:
Blue Range Rover. Second row.
I stare at the screen in complete disbelief. Then toward the waiting SUV.
This is insane. Actually insane.
And yet somehow my body keeps moving anyway.
The garage is empty except for the soft hum of fluorescent lighting overhead while my pulse pounds violently enough to make my hands shake.
Every lesson my father ever taught me screamed not to get into a stranger's car. Every lesson Ronan had taught me over the last six months screamed not to disobey him.
Somehow...I reached for the handle anyway.
I slide into the driver’s seat. The engine starts immediately. My mouth goes dry.
The garage doors begin lifting before I even shift into reverse.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
By the time I reach the estate gates, panic and adrenaline are crashing together so hard I can barely think straight.
Then the gates swing open automatically. No guards stand outside. No checkpoint. No questions. Just open road stretching endlessly ahead beneath gray morning skies.
Freedom.
The realization hits so suddenly my chest physically aches around it. I drive. Fast.
The estate disappears farther behind me with every passing second while my hands tighten around the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
Then my phone vibrates.
Unknown:
The car’s GPS is off.
Another message follows.
Unknown:
Enjoy your visit.
I smile even though this is all absolutely crazy. Ronan is going to be pissed when he finds out I left. But, I can’t find it in me to care. I am going to get to see my parents. I lift the phone wanting to text them back. Thank them for helping me. Instead I change the contact in my phone.
Taibhse.
For the first time in months...I smile without checking whether anyone is watching.