Maeve
Rain taps softly against the windows while my father signs paperwork across the room.
Scratch of pen. Turn of paper. Low jazz humming quietly from the old record player near the bookshelf.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
I sit curled into the leather chair beside the fireplace with my knees tucked beneath me, watching him work while warmth from the flames slowly melts some of the tension that’s been lodged between my shoulders for weeks now.
My father glances up briefly over the rim of his glasses.
“You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes, mo stóirín.”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth automatically. “You’re very interesting.”
“That’s the first lie you’ve told since walking in.”
I look down quickly at the mug warming my hands. Caught. Of course.
Cormac O’Donnell built an empire reading people before they spoke. There was never any chance I’d walk into this house upset and he wouldn’t notice immediately.
Still—he hasn’t pushed. Not once.
Even after I walked through the front doors this morning tense enough to snap in half and quietly asked him not to call Ronan.
The memory twists low in my stomach now. Because I genuinely didn’t know what he would say. This alliance matters. Ronan matters. The marriage matters.
For one horrible suspended second, standing in the front hallway with rain dripping from my coat and panic clawing at my throat, I truly thought my father might reach for his phone and tell my husband exactly where I was.
Instead he stepped forward, kissed my forehead, and told me that couples fight. You can come home anytime you want.
The ache that memory leaves behind almost feels worse now—because he meant it. My father sets another signed paper aside before looking up again.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” The question lands softly. Carefully.
Like he already knows I’m balancing too close to some emotional edge.
I shake my head before I can reconsider it. “Just tired.”
“Mhm.” His eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious. Worried. And suddenly I have to look away because guilt blooms sharp and ugly beneath my ribs.
I shouldn’t have left the estate like this. Shouldn’t have lied. Shouldn’t have disappeared without telling Ronan. Maybe he really was just worried.
The thought has been circling endlessly through my head all morning. Protection. Everything Ronan does always comes back to protection eventually.
The security. The cameras. The schedules. The trainers. Maybe he really believes he’s taking care of me.
Maybe this is simply what loving a powerful man looks like.
The thought settles heavier the longer I sit with it. Across the room, my father finally removes his glasses and leans back in his chair.
“You’ve gone quiet on me again.”
I blink back toward him. “Sorry.”
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs softly.
Something in my chest tightens painfully. I don’t feel like myself lately. Not fully. I feel edited.
Like pieces of me keep disappearing quietly while everyone around me acts like it’s normal.
My father watches me for another long moment before speaking again.
“Marriage takes time.”
There it is. The thing everyone keeps saying. Adjustment. Patience. Compromise.
“Your mother nearly killed me the first year,” he continues with a small smile.
Despite everything, a quiet laugh escapes me.
“She still threatens you sometimes.”
“She enjoys keeping me humble.”
The warmth in his voice cuts straight through me. Because my parents look at each other like partners. Like equals. Like home. I used to think all marriages eventually became that.
My father stands slowly when I push to my feet a few minutes later.
“I should go before traffic gets worse.”
He studies my face carefully enough that my stomach tightens again. And for one terrifying second, the words nearly come out. I think something’s wrong. I think I’m disappearing. I don’t know how to fix this.
But then he steps around the desk and rests one warm hand against the side of my head.
“Ronan’s a hard man,” he says quietly. “But he’ll provide for you. Protect you.”
Protect. That word again.
The guilt hits almost instantly this time. Maybe that’s all Ronan has been trying to do from the beginning.
Protect me. And here I am sneaking away from him like he’s someone dangerous instead of my husband.
My throat tightens painfully. “I know.”
My father pulls me into a hug before I can say anything else. I close my eyes immediately. Cedarwood. Smoke. Home.
The embrace wraps around me so naturally it almost physically hurts to pull away again.
“You know where to find me,” he murmurs against my hair.
I nod quickly before emotion can fully reach my face.
Then force myself toward the front doors.
Rain drizzles lightly across the estate grounds while security opens the SUV for me near the drive.
My chest feels heavier with every step toward the vehicle— because I need to get back before someone notices I’m gone.
Before Ronan worries. Before this turns into something bigger than it already is.
I slide into the driver’s seat and freeze.
There’s a coffee cup sitting in the holder beside the console. My pulse stumbles hard. Slowly, I reach for it. Warm. The scent hits me the second I lift the lid slightly.
French vanilla. My favorite.
A sharp ache moves unexpectedly through my chest because Ronan used to know that once.
Before black coffee. Before meal plans. Before adjustments.
My eyes shift slowly toward the passenger seat. Brown paper bag.
My fingers shake slightly as I pull it closer and unfold the top.
Soup container. Still warm. And beneath it—a folded note.
The paper crackles softly between my fingers while rain taps against the windshield overhead.
You said you didn’t feel well this morning.
I hope this helps.
— Taibhse
My throat tightens instantly. Not because of the soup. Or the coffee. Because he listened. Somewhere inside all the cameras and systems and shadows—someone listened.
The paper trembles slightly between my fingers.
Not because I’m cold. Because somewhere beneath the fear and confusion and complete insanity of this entire situation—something warm unfurls quietly inside my chest.
And that feels infinitely more dangerous than the messages ever did.
I glance toward the passenger seat again.
Soup. Coffee. French vanilla. The detail of it aches , because it means he listens. Notices.
And suddenly I can’t stop comparing that to the way Ronan looked at me this morning while explaining why I needed to eat differently. Train harder. Take better care of myself.
The thought leaves something heavy sitting behind my ribs. I lift the coffee cup slowly and take a sip before I can overthink it.
Warm. Sweet. Comforting. Familiar.
My eyes sting unexpectedly. God. When was the last time something felt familiar?
Outside the windshield, the O’Donnell estate blurs softly beneath the rain while my pulse begins climbing again.
Because this—this little pocket of peace—is ending.
I have to go back.
The realization settles cold and immediate through me. Back to cameras. Back to schedules. Back to wondering whether every room in that house is really mine anymore.
Was this even worth it?
The question circles endlessly while I stare blindly through the rain.
I saw my father for less than three hours. Drank coffee in his office. Listened to him tease my mother over speakerphone because she apparently rearranged his meetings again.
Normal things. Tiny things.
And somehow it felt like breathing for the first time in months.
My throat closes around a sound I don't let out. Because now I know exactly what’s missing when I’m at Gallagher estate.
Not freedom. Softness. Ease. The ability to exist without constantly thinking about whether I’m disappointing someone.
A fresh wave of anxiety crashes through me at the thought of going back.
What if Ronan already knows?
The question hits hard enough my stomach twists sharply.
What if security noticed? What if someone checked the cameras? What if this entire drive back ends with Ronan standing in the foyer waiting for me?
My fingers tighten around the coffee cup.
The estate suddenly feels very far away. And not nearly far enough at the same time.
I should leave the note here. Throw it away. Delete the messages. Pretend none of this happened before it spirals into something dangerous.
Instead I carefully fold the paper smaller and tuck it into my purse.
The movement feels intimate somehow.
Like keeping a secret.
My pulse jumps again at the realization.
“This is insane,” I whisper aloud to the empty SUV.
Because it is. Completely.
I barely know this person. Don’t know his face. Don’t know his real name.
Only a strange series of texts, a ghost in my walls, and the overwhelming feeling that somewhere in the middle of all this chaos—someone saw me hurting and couldn’t ignore it.
The thought lodges somewhere I can't quite name. Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone.
The text thread stares back at me immediately.
My thumb hovers uncertainly over the keyboard.
What am I even supposed to say to him?
Thank you for illegally helping me escape my husband and emotionally destabilizing me with soup?
A startled laugh escapes me despite myself.
The sound fades quickly though.
Because underneath all of this—underneath the warmth and relief and terrifying pull toward this faceless stranger—fear still sits waiting.
What happens when I get home?
My father used to tell me that courage wasn’t fearlessness. It was choosing to walk forward while fear clawed at your throat.
Right now, fear feels lodged somewhere near my heartbeat.
The phone sits in my hand.
Thank you.
Two simple words.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard anyway, because despite how insane this entire situation is, part of me wants him to know the coffee mattered. That the soup mattered. That somebody noticing I wasn’t feeling well mattered.
The realization alone nearly makes me close the entire message thread.
This is dangerous. Not physically. Not yet. But emotionally?
God.
I barely know this person and already he feels woven into my thoughts in a way that should absolutely concern me.
So instead of replying, I lock my phone and toss it into the passenger seat.
Then immediately miss the strange comfort of seeing the messages there.
Pathetic.
By the time Gallagher estate finally comes into view through the rain, anxiety has wrapped so tightly around my ribs it hurts to breathe correctly.
The gates open slower than usual.
Or maybe it only feels that way because the guards are watching the SUV more carefully this time. I feel the looks immediately. The shift in attention. The curiosity.
They know I left. Of course they do.
Nerves knot low in my stomach while I guide the SUV down the long drive toward the garage entrance beneath the estate.
Every instinct in my body braces for impact.
Maybe Ronan is already home. Maybe he’s waiting inside. Maybe—The garage door lifts slowly.
And there he is.
Declan.
Ronan’s head of security stands near the lower entrance with his hands clasped in front of him, dark suit immaculate despite the rain outside.
Waiting.
The second I park, tension slides sharply through my chest.
Here it is. I shut off the engine slowly before reaching for my bag and coffee.
The scent of French vanilla fills the SUV again.
Warm. Sweet. Dangerous.
My fingers tighten around the cup. Then I open the door and step out.
Declan watches me carefully while I round the front of the SUV.
Not aggressive. Not angry. Just assessing. That somehow irritates me more.
“Mrs. Gallagher.”
I stop near the entrance to the main house but don’t look away from him.
“Yes?”
His gaze flicks briefly toward the SUV. “You left the estate this morning.”
Not a question. I can practically hear the expectation beneath it anyway. Explain yourself. My hands curl into fists before I notice.
Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the lingering warmth from sitting in my father’s office this morning being reminded what it felt like to be loved without conditions.
Or maybe I’m just tired. Tired of being watched. Questioned. Managed.
I straighten slowly, lifting my chin the same way my father taught me years ago whenever men tried to mistake kindness for weakness.
“This is my house too,” I say calmly. “I don't require your permission.”
The words settle heavily into the garage. The words surprise me almost as much as they surprise him.
Declan actually looks surprised. Good—because suddenly I realize something terrifying. I’ve spent so long trying to keep everyone comfortable lately that somewhere along the way people stopped expecting me to push back at all.
His expression smooths quickly back into professionalism, but I still catch the flicker of hesitation before he dips his head once.
“Of course, ma’am.”
Then he reaches for his pocket. My eyes follow the movement automatically. His phone. Of course. Every instinct in my body immediately tells me who he's calling. Maybe he's confirming I'm home. Maybe he's asking where I've been. Maybe—No. I already know.
Fear flashes hot and immediate through my chest—but this time something steadier rises with it.
Anger, because I should not feel like a child sneaking back past curfew inside my own home.
I tighten my grip on the coffee cup before stepping past him toward the door.
“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Declan,” I say coolly.
Then I leave him standing in the garage holding the phone to his ear while my pulse pounds violently against my ribs and Taibhse’s note burns like a secret inside my purse.