Page 16 of Override

The corner of my mouth lifts. I shouldn't keep score. But…Point to me.

The conversation drifts naturally toward investments, charity donors, and shipping contracts dressed up as legitimate business ventures, leaving me exactly where women like me have stood for generations—beautifully dressed, politely silent, and underestimated while powerful men discuss fortunes over crystal glasses and expensive cigars.

And maybe that should bother me more than it does.

The truth is, I've always understood how rooms like this work. Women in families like mine learn early that observation is often more valuable than conversation. Men reveal astonishing amounts when they're convinced you're only paying attention to your manicure.

My fingers smooth absentmindedly over the bracelet circling my wrist before I catch myself and let my hand fall.

The diamonds glitter beneath the ballroom lights. They're beautiful. That should be all I notice.

A dull tenderness pulls beneath the fitted bodice of my gown when I straighten my posture, disappearing almost as quickly as it comes. I tell myself it's from the boning in the dress, or maybe sleeping wrong again.

I'll ask Dr. Whitmore the next time I see him. Assuming our schedules don't change. The thought disappears as quickly as it came.

Tonight, exhaustion sits heavier beneath my skin than usual, settling somewhere deep behind my ribs. When another camera flash erupts near the ballroom staircase, all I can think about is how desperately I want five uninterrupted minutes where nobody expects anything from me.

Not to smile. Not to charm. Not to perform. Just...Five quiet minutes.

My eyes catch briefly on one of the security cameras mounted near the ceiling. Then another. Then another.

A strange unease moves through me. “There seem to be more cameras tonight,” I murmur.

Ronan barely glances upward before taking my champagne flute from my hand and replacing it with sparkling water. “Security increased after the Moretti situation last month.”

Reasonable. Everything always sounded reasonable when Ronan said it aloud, which made it nearly impossible to explain why certain conversations left me feeling smaller afterward.

Ronan takes my champagne flute smoothly from my hand and replaces it with sparkling water. “You’ve barely touched this anyway.”

I take the water without argument because arguing turns simple moments into discussions, and discussions lately always seem to end with me somehow feeling childish for bringing things up in the first place.

The cameras bother you?

He’s trying to protect you.

You miss your parents?

You’re both busy.

You feel watched?

You belong to dangerous families, Maeve.

Every concern eventually circles back to the same conclusion: Ronan is being logical. I’m being emotional. And maybe he’s right.

I’ve started noticing cameras more at home too. New ones near the upstairs hallway. Another installed outside the terrace doors last week. Motion sensors that flicker to life whenever I move through certain parts of the estate late at night.

Protection. That’s always the word Ronan uses. Protection sounds kinder than surveillance.

“You’re frowning again.”

I smooth my expression instantly before turning toward him. “Sorry.”

Ronan’s fingers slide briefly beneath my chin, tilting my face toward his. To anyone watching, the gesture probably looks affectionate. Intimate even.

And maybe part of it is. That’s the hardest part to explain to myself some days. Ronan isn’t cruel.

He can be attentive. Protective. Thoughtful in ways that still catch me off guard occasionally. Last month he flew in flowers from Ireland because I mentioned missing vacationing with my parents. Two weeks ago he had my favorite pastries waiting in the kitchen after I complained about the chef overbaking everything.