Page 72 of Override

“She still brings it up at dinner.”

“She’s dramatic.”

“She married me. Her judgment’s questionable.”

A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“There you are,” Matt says quietly.

The comment lands harder than expected. Because apparently even disappearing into cyber-stalking a mafia wife hasn’t stopped Matt from noticing when I’m not myself.

Dangerous man.

The call disconnects a minute later while I pull into the final stop on Maeve’s fabricated route, a small coffee shop tucked along the river.

Quiet. Local. Cameras already wiped clean. Perfect.

Rain taps softly against the windshield as I kill the engine and grab my jacket from the passenger seat.

Then, unable to help it, I glance once more toward the route map still glowing across the laptop screen.

I shove the laptop closed and head inside.

Warm air and roasted coffee hit me while soft music hums through the café. People type behind laptops near the windows while the barista looks up tiredly from behind the register.

Normal. God, I forgot places like this existed.

I step up to the counter. “French vanilla coffee,” I say. “To go.”

Chapter 15

Maeve

Rain taps softly against the windows while my father signs paperwork across the room.

Scratch of pen. Turn of paper. Low jazz humming quietly from the old record player near the bookshelf.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

I sit curled into the leather chair beside the fireplace with my knees tucked beneath me, watching him work while warmth from the flames slowly melts some of the tension that’s been lodged between my shoulders for weeks now.

My father glances up briefly over the rim of his glasses.

“You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes, mo stóirín.”

A faint smile pulls at my mouth automatically. “You’re very interesting.”

“That’s the first lie you’ve told since walking in.”

I look down quickly at the mug warming my hands. Caught. Of course.

Cormac O’Donnell built an empire reading people before they spoke. There was never any chance I’d walk into this house upset and he wouldn’t notice immediately.

Still—he hasn’t pushed. Not once.

Even after I walked through the front doors this morning tense enough to snap in half and quietly asked him not to call Ronan.

The memory twists low in my stomach now. Because I genuinely didn’t know what he would say. This alliance matters. Ronan matters. The marriage matters.