Page 14 of Override

Beside her, Sloane studies the entire exchange over the rim of her wineglass before looking at me. “That’s mildly terrifying.”

“What is?” I ask her.

“The silent communication thing you all do.”

“We were in the military,” Matt says simply.

“That explains literally nothing.” She leans back in her chair.

“It explains the trauma,” Bullet says.

“Again,” Rachel cuts in, “not family dinner conversation.”

I lean back slightly in my chair, letting the noise move around me while my laptop runs surveillance updates beside my plate. The strange part is how normal this all feels now.

None of us are related. Not technically.

But somewhere between deployments, Grayline missions, Rachel patching us up in this kitchen, Matt threatening bodily harm if anyone disappeared for too long, and years of showing up at this table—this became family anyway. Loud. Questionably legal. Violently loyal family.

My phone buzzes beside my plate. Gallagher alert. Instantly my focus narrows.

My thumb taps twice against the side of the phone before I unlock it.

Across the table Sloane watches me carefully for half a second before leaning toward Rachel slightly.

“There,” she murmurs. “That look. That’s what serial killers do before documentaries are made about them.”

Wheels points dramatically. “THANK YOU.”

Chapter 3

Maeve

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being looked at for hours at a time.

Not spoken to. Not listened to. Not truly seen. Looked at.

Women like me are raised for it from birth, polished carefully until we know how to stand straight beneath scrutiny without ever letting it touch us. Smile softly. Keep your shoulders back. Speak just enough to seem charming, but never enough to embarrass the men around you. Wear the diamonds. Represent the family well. Pretend not to notice when powerful men discuss violence and politics over expensive whiskey while complimenting the color of your dress in the same breath.

Performance disguised as elegance. And unfortunately...I'm very good at it.

The ballroom glitters beneath crystal chandeliers and generations of old money, crowded with politicians, investors, judges, and men dangerous enough that most normal people would cross the street to avoid them if they ever saw who they truly were outside rooms like this. Music drifts from the quartet near the staircase while camera flashes erupt beside the entrance every few seconds, capturing smiling wives, tailored suits, and carefully curated perfection for magazines that will call tonight glamorous instead of what it actually is.

Business.

Everything is always business.

"Smile, mo chroí." Ronan's hand settles against the center of my back just as another photographer raises his camera.

I smile instantly. The automatic response unsettles me more than I'd like to admit.

Six months ago I would've rolled my eyes first. Teased him for sounding bossy. Maybe leaned in close enough to whisper something sarcastic beneath my breath just to see if I could make him laugh in public.

Now my body reacts before my thoughts catch up.

I smile before I decide to. My shoulders straighten without conscious thought. Somewhere along the way, keeping Ronan happy stopped becoming a choice I made and settled into muscle memory.

That realization sits heavier than it should.