Page 36 of Override

Rachel watches me the same way she watches thunderstorms rolling toward the house. Like she knows something’s coming before everyone else does.

I decide I dislike that look too.

Wheels is still arguing with Sloane about mozzarella sticks when I finally pull the laptop back out in the passenger seat of my car.

Pure instinct. The Gallagher feed reconnects instantly.

And there she is.

Maeve sits curled sideways in the library beneath soft yellow light, knees pulled loosely to her chest while her forehead rests against them like she’s trying to disappear quietly enough the world might forget she exists for a little while.

The chaos from the parking lot fades instantly into silence. Something settles low and heavy beneath my ribs while I stare at the screen.

Then Rachel’s voice cuts through the rain beside me. Soft this time. Careful.

“Are you okay, Keaton?”

And for the first time in weeks—I genuinely don’t know how to answer her.

Chapter 9

Maeve

By the time Ronan arrives at the fundraiser, I already know he’s angry.

Not because he says anything immediately.

Because I know him well enough now to recognize the signs before he ever opens his mouth.

The controlled stillness in his shoulders. The sharper set of his jaw. The way his eyes scan the ballroom once like he’s cataloging every irritation waiting for him inside it.

Most people would never notice. That’s the thing about Ronan. His temper rarely looks like anger. It looks like control pulled too tight.

The fundraiser hums softly around us beneath gold chandeliers and orchestral music, the ballroom crowded with politicians and investors and wives wrapped in diamonds expensive enough to fund small countries. Waiters weave between conversations carrying champagne while photographers hover near the entrance waiting for important people to pretend they enjoy charity work.

I stand near one of the marble columns speaking with an older donor couple when Ronan finally crosses the room toward me in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.

And the second his eyes land on my dress—something in his expression hardens.

Not dramatically. Just enough. My stomach folds in on itself.

Ah. The dress.

I glance down reflexively at the champagne-colored silk draped against my body. Elegant. Soft. The boutique owner called it timeless when she helped zip me into it earlier this afternoon.

Apparently timeless was the wrong choice.

Ronan stops beside me and slides one hand against the small of my back for appearances while greeting the couple politely.

Warm hand. Cold eyes.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says smoothly. “Meeting ran over.”

The woman beside me smiles warmly. “Your wife has been saving you from terrible small talk for the last twenty minutes.”

Ronan’s fingers flex once against my spine.

Tiny. Controlled. A warning.