Page 30 of Override

Then something else flickers across her expression so quickly most people would miss it. Recognition. Not actual recognition. Instinctive recognition. Like some part of her notices me too. The thought settles low and dangerous beneath my ribs before I can stop it.

Absolutely not.

I drag my attention back toward the open panel beside me, forcing my fingers to resume reconnecting wires even while awareness of her stays sharp in the edges of my mind.

Focus.

You are here because Ronan Gallagher is potentially controlling and surveilling his wife because of external threats her father is worried about. You are not here to psychoanalyze why making eye contact with Maeve Gallagher suddenly feels like someone rewired part of your nervous system.

Important distinction.

Behind me, I hear her footsteps cross the foyer slowly before disappearing toward the staircase. I wait exactly three seconds before looking up again.

She glances back at the same moment.

Chapter 7

Maeve

By the third week after the security system updates, the house starts feeling different in ways I can’t properly explain.

Not worse exactly. Just…stranger.

Like something invisible has shifted beneath the surface while everyone around me continues pretending nothing changed at all.

The cameras still sit in their corners blinking soft green through the hallways. Staff still move through the estate with careful professionalism. Ronan still kisses my forehead before meetings and asks whether I’ve eaten lunch and rests his hand against my back during dinners like a husband who adores his wife.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious enough to point at. And yet every morning lately feels like waking up inside a version of my life that’s been adjusted slightly while I slept.

Small things disappear first. A cream cardigan I’ve had since college. Then a pair of worn black leggings I always steal on rainy mornings when I don’t feel like being Mrs. Ronan Gallagher for an hour.

Then one of my old concert shirts vanishes from the laundry rotation completely. Individually, none of it matters. Together, it leaves something unsettled moving quietly beneath my skin.

I stand in the middle of my closet one Thursday afternoon staring at the empty space where the cardigan used to hang while one of the house staff reorganizes shoes behind me.

“Marisol,” I ask carefully, “have you seen the cream sweater that used to be here?”

She pauses immediately. “No, ma’am. I thought perhaps you donated it.”

“No.” I smooth my fingers slowly over the empty hanger beside it.

Weird.

The cardigan wasn’t expensive. It had actually started pilling near the sleeves years ago, and my mother complained constantly that I refused to replace it despite having more than enough money to buy newer things.

Still… I liked it. The familiarity of it maybe. Or the fact it had existed before this house and this marriage and all the careful polished expectations that seemed to follow me everywhere lately.

Marisol continues folding clothes while I stare deeper into the closet. Something else is missing too. The realization comes slowly. A pair of old jeans. Two oversized sweaters. One of the hoodies I sleep in sometimes.

Nothing expensive. Nothing Ronan would ever notice missing. A strange heaviness settles low in my stomach.

Not because of the clothes. Because somewhere beneath the confusion, another thought surfaces.

The cream cardigan would have covered the fading bruise along my ribs better than most of my newer sweaters.

The realization unsettles me enough that I immediately push it away. That had been weeks ago. And entirely my fault. I should have let the conversation end. I should have stopped arguing. I should have apologized sooner.

Instead, Ronan had needed to correct me.