17. Maeve
Maeve
The kitchen feels too quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows while I sit alone at the massive marble island picking at soup I’m no longer hungry enough to eat.
Taibhse’s soup.
The thought alone sends guilt twisting low through my stomach. I shouldn’t have brought it home. Shouldn’t have hidden the note inside my purse. Shouldn’t keep replaying the warmth in his strange awkward texts through my head like they matter.
And yet—my eyes keep drifting toward the clock anyway.
Ronan is late. Later than usual. The tension sitting beneath my ribs tightens another notch.
By the time the front door finally slams somewhere deeper in the estate, my pulse is already racing.
Not because of the sound. Because of the footsteps after it. Fast. Heavy. Angry. Every muscle in my body locks instinctively.
The kitchen doors swing open hard enough to hit the wall.
Ronan storms inside still wearing his suit jacket, rainwater darkening the shoulders while fury radiates off him so sharply it almost steals the air from the room.
Not controlled tonight. Not polished. Angry. Actually angry. My stomach drops immediately.
“Where were you?” The question cracks through the kitchen so sharply one of the younger house staff near the stove visibly startles before disappearing out the side entrance without being told.
Smart.
I set the spoon down slowly before answering. “I went out.”
Ronan laughs once. Cold. Disbelieving.
“I’m aware you went out, Maeve.” He steps farther into the kitchen. “Who told you that you could leave the house?”
The words hit so hard my brain almost stumbles over them. Could. For a second I genuinely wonder if I misheard him.
Then anger flashes unexpectedly hot through my chest. “I wanted coffee and soup,” I say carefully. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
Ronan’s jaw tightens visibly. “There’s coffee here.”
I blink at him once. “What?”
“There’s coffee in this house,” he says sharply, gesturing toward the kitchen around us. “And if you wanted soup, the staff would’ve made it.”
Something cold twists slowly beneath my ribs — somehow this conversation no longer feels like concern at all. It feels like permission.
“You should have called me before leaving,” Ronan continues, voice lower now but infinitely more dangerous. “I had security searching half the city for you.”
My pulse jumps hard. Searching.
I grip the edge of the island harder beneath my fingers. “I didn’t realize I needed authorization to leave my own home.”
The room goes still.
Ronan’s eyes darken immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.” The words leave before I can soften them.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Rain beats harder against the windows behind him while tension stretches so tightly through the kitchen it feels suffocating.
Then Ronan steps closer. Not touching me. Still—my body instinctively straightens anyway.
“You are mistaken about something,” he says quietly. The softness in his voice feels infinitely more frightening than yelling would. “We are married now.” Another step closer. “I expect to know where my wife is.”
The words wrap tightly around my chest. Ownership. Expectation. Control.
I force myself to lift my chin anyway. “I am an adult, Ronan.”
His eyes lock onto mine instantly. “And it is your job to listen to me.”
The words land like a slap Not loud. Not dramatic. Worse. Certain. Like this conversation should already be understood between us. My throat tightens painfully. Ronan stares at me another second longer before finally stepping back again.
And somehow that feels worse too. Because he doesn’t wait for my response. Doesn’t care about it. He simply turns toward the doorway, loosening his cufflinks with sharp controlled movements while my heartbeat pounds violently against my ribs.
“Next time,” he says without looking back, “you call me first.”
Then he walks out of the kitchen before I can speak again.
Leaving me standing there with cold soup, shaking hands, and the horrifying realization that somewhere along the way—Ronan Gallagher stopped speaking to me like a wife.
And started speaking to me like something that belonged to him.
My job. The words refuse to leave me alone. Not partner. Not wife.
Job.
As though marriage came with an employee handbook I'd somehow failed to read.
****
Three days pass before I realize I’m counting them. Not because I miss my parents. Although I do. Not because Ronan is still angry. Although he is.
But because three days have passed and my phone hasn't vibrated once. The realization annoys me enough that I nearly throw the thing across the room, because that is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
I shouldn't be waiting for messages from a stranger. I shouldn't know the exact amount of time since he last texted me. I shouldn't find myself glancing toward my phone every time I leave a room.
And yet...Here I am.
The estate feels different after the argument in the kitchen. Not louder. Not quieter. Tighter. Like someone pulled invisible strings throughout the house and drew everything closer together.
The guards walk different routes now. I notice it every day.
The same faces appear over and over again. Men who used to stay outside now drift through hallways. Men who used to stand near entrances somehow end up near whichever room I'm sitting in.
It's subtle enough that nobody else would question it. But I do. Because I grew up watching powerful men maneuver around one another. I know surveillance when I see it.
And lately Declan has become impossible to ignore. Every time he passes me, his phone appears. A glance. A text. Gone again.
The first day I convinced myself I was imagining things. The second day I knew I wasn't. By the third, I stop pretending.
Ronan is tracking me. Not just with cameras anymore. With people.
The realization settles heavily against my chest while I sit curled into one of the window seats overlooking the back gardens. Rain streaks the glass beyond me, turning the world outside gray and blurred while an untouched book rests forgotten in my lap.
I've read the same page six times. I couldn't tell someone a single thing that happened on it.
My eyes drift toward my phone sitting beside me.
Immediately, I look away.
No. Absolutely not.
The temptation itself is embarrassing. What would I even say?
Hello, mysterious criminal who infiltrated my security system.
Thank you for the coffee.
Thank you for making me realize how lonely I've become.
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I hate that thought most of all. Because loneliness feels like a betrayal.
I have a husband. A house full of staff. Security. Friends. Family. People speak to me all day long. No one actually talks to me.
The truth sits ugly and uncomfortable in my chest.
The only person who has asked what I wanted in weeks is someone whose face I've never seen.
I close my eyes. That thought hurts more than it should. Maybe because part of me knows how dangerous it is.
My father always warned me that isolation changes people. That loneliness makes you reach for things you normally wouldn't.
Maybe that's all this is. Maybe Taibhse just happened to appear at the exact moment I needed someone to remind me I wasn't invisible.
The thought follows me as I leave the sitting room and wander aimlessly through the estate.
One hallway. Then another. Then another. The house is beautiful. Expensive. Impressive. And I've never felt more trapped inside it.
By the time I reach the library, my chest feels tight enough to ache. I push through the doors and pause automatically. This room used to be my favorite. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dark wood. Leather chairs. The smell of old books and polished oak.
A room built for quiet. For breathing. For being alone.
I take three steps inside. And suddenly music blasts through the speakers.
I jump so hard I nearly drop my phone. "What the—"
The opening riff fills the room instantly.
Everlong.
My mouth falls open. No. Absolutely not.
I stare at the stereo system while the Foo Fighters pour through the library, loud enough to chase away every ounce of silence that's haunted this house for days.
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Small at first. Then bigger. Because there is no possible way this is happening naturally. No possible way the music randomly starts the second I walk into the room. Playing my favorite song.
My eyes slowly drift toward the security camera mounted in the far corner.
The smile arrives before I even notice it forming. "You are unbelievable."
The camera doesn't move. Doesn't react. Just hangs there innocently on the wall. Watching. I fold my arms.
The music keeps playing. The camera never moves. And somehow...For the first time since marrying Ronan Gallagher... This house feels like it remembers I live here too.