Page 18 of Override

Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But enough that I do.

My shoulders lower. My jaw unclenches. The breath I'd apparently been holding slips the tightness around my ribs eases at last. . The silence in here feels different. Softer. No quiet electronic hum. No blinking lights tucked into corners. No invisible awareness pressing against my shoulders while I remove my jewelry, wash my face, or simply exist.

I brace both hands against the marble sink and stare at my reflection for a long moment. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect diamonds. Perfect wife.

The words should comfort me. Instead they feel like someone else's. I reach up slowly, removing one diamond earring before the other. Then my necklace. Then the bracelet.

One piece at a time, until the woman staring back at me finally begins to look familiar again. For the first time all evening, I take a full breath. Deep enough that the tightness around my ribs finally eases.

Rain taps softly against the window above the clawfoot tub while the house settles into its familiar nighttime silence. My eyes drift around the room. No cameras. No blinking lights. No one watching.

I hadn't realized how exhausting it was to exist beneath someone's gaze until I found one place where I didn't have to.

That realization settles slowly, painfully, in the center of my chest. Because maybe the most frightening part of all this isn't the cameras. Maybe it's that this tiny bathroom has become the only place in my own home where I remember what it feels like to breathe.

Chapter 4

Keaton (Skee)

By day eight, I know the Gallagher estate better than the men being paid to protect it.

That probably says something unhealthy about me. I choose not to examine it too closely.

Rain hammers steadily against the Grayline office windows while six monitors cast shifting shades of blue across the room. Half-eaten takeout containers litter the desk beside enough empty energy drink cans for Rachel to stage an intervention, and a nest of charging cables that would probably qualify as a fire hazard if anyone besides me cared enough to look.

Personally, I think the chaos encourages creativity. The Gallagher estate occupies the largest monitor. Everything else exists to explain it.

Security logs scroll across one screen. Financial records populate another. Vehicle movements update in real time on a third while my latest decryption runs unnoticed in the background. I've spent the better part of a week buried inside Ronan Gallagher's life, and so far all I've managed to prove is that the man is either deeply paranoid...or genuinely expecting a threat.

Possibly both. His security isn't random. That's what bothers me. Every camera has purpose. Every motion sensor covers a blind spot. The lock logs update at precise intervals. Vehicle trackers route through encrypted private servers expensive enough to make Fortune 500 companies jealous.

It's excessive. But excessive isn't suspicious. Men in our world stay alive by planning for the worst day of their lives.

Which means every time my instincts whisper that something feels wrong, I force myself back toward the evidence.

Maybe Gallagher has enemies. Maybe there's an active threat against the family. Maybe someone already tried to take his wife. Maybe this really is protection. My feelings don't matter. The data does.

Unfortunately...The data keeps refusing to cooperate.

I tap twice against the desk while another spreadsheet expands across the left monitor. Financial routing. Offshore accounts. Shipping manifests.

Enough shell companies buried beneath Gallagher Holdings to hide half the eastern seaboard if someone knew where to dig.

Dirty money. Expected. Weapons. Expected. Political payoffs. Expected.

What I can't find is anything substantial enough to justify turning a private residence into a monitored compound. No incoming chatter. No credible threats. No active contracts. No unusual movement from rival families.

Nothing.

My eyes drift to another monitor. Except… Every Tuesday at exactly 9:17, Maeve Gallagher leaves the estate with a single driver.

No escort. No additional security. No deviations. She parks three blocks from a private medical clinic.

Walks inside. Signs the visitor log. Not as Maeve Gallagher. The last two times has been as Mary Collins.

Cash payment. Forty-three minutes. Then she goes home. The clinic's internal records are cleaner than most government servers I've hacked.

The receptionist's terminal says Mary Collins. The security footage says Maeve Gallagher.