Page 15 of Override

Ronan guides me farther into the ballroom, his palm never leaving the small of my back. To anyone watching, we probably look beautiful together. Powerful. Untouchable. The kind of couple magazines love to describe with words like dynasty and legacy.

And maybe we are.

Ronan Gallagher was a good match on paper. That's what everyone said when our fathers arranged the marriage. Strong family connections. Shared business interests. Old Irish blood tying itself tighter together through strategy instead of affection, the way marriages in our world often did.

I understood that before I walked down the aisle. Love wasn't always the foundation for families like ours. Loyalty was.

Still, growing up with parents like mine had probably ruined me in ways I didn't fully understand until after the wedding. My father still looked at my mother like she was something precious after thirty years together, and my mother still reached for his hand without thinking whenever he entered a room. Men like Cormac O'Donnell were rare even in ordinary marriages.

In families built on power, violence, and loyalty sworn in blood? Men like him were practically mythology. Maybe that had been my mistake.

Maybe I'd stepped into marriage expecting warmth when most powerful marriages were built more like alliances than love stories.

That doesn't make Ronan cruel. Difficult sometimes, yes. Demanding more often than I'd expected. Controlling lately, though he always seemed to have a reason for it.

Marriage required adjustment. Compromise. Patience. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

My mother always said love wasn't measured by grand gestures. It was measured in choosing each other every day. Maybe this was just choosing.

"You're drifting again."

I blink back toward the conversation just as one of the older women near the auction tables smiles politely at me. I hadn't even realized I'd stopped listening.

Ronan's thumb presses lightly against my spine.

Tiny. Controlled. Enough. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me he's there. My muscles tighten before I can stop them.

The reaction disappears almost as quickly as it comes, hidden beneath another practiced smile before anyone notices.

"I’m sorry," I say automatically.

His expression never changes, but something flickers briefly behind his eyes before he smooths a hand over my lower back again.

"You don't need to apologize so much." His voice is gentle enough that guilt settles in before the words do.

Then why does it constantly feel like I should? The thought slips through, sharp enough to tighten something low in my stomach.

I bury it beneath another smile. Because that's easier. Because lately, almost everything is.

One of the older women near the auction displays smiles warmly as we approach, diamonds glittering against the deep navy silk wrapped elegantly around her throat. "Mrs. Gallagher, you look absolutely stunning tonight."

I glance down at the black gown currently attempting to crush at least three internal organs and offer her an easy smile. "That's because the dress is distracting everyone from the fact I've been held hostage in six-inch heels for the last three hours."

The woman laughs immediately.

Ronan's hand tightens ever so slightly against my back. Barely noticeable. Just enough that I notice.

"Maeve inherited her dramatics from her mother," he says smoothly.

I tilt my head toward him, lowering my voice just enough to sound teasing instead of sharp. "And thank God for that. Imagine how dull I'd be otherwise."

The woman laughs harder this time, clearly delighted. Warm satisfaction blooms briefly in my chest.

Small. Petty. Still satisfying.

Ronan smiles too, but I know him well enough now to recognize the difference between his genuine smiles and the polished public versions. This one never quite reaches his eyes.

A marriage should be about partnership, not winning.