Page 52 of Override

“It’s just a sweatshirt,” I say finally, more to myself than her.

Marisol gives a tiny nod. Still won’t look at me. That’s what finally does it. Not the missing hoodie. Not even the strange tension tightening through my chest. It’s the realization that the staff look nervous.

Like they know something I don’t.

I move through the rest of the downstairs rooms anyway, searching places I know it won’t be because not trying feels worse now.

Kitchen. Laundry room. Reading room.

Nothing.

By the time I make it back upstairs, my chest feels tight enough to ache.

Because it wasn’t expensive.

That’s the thing.

Ronan buys me beautiful things constantly now. Dresses that cost more than cars. Jewelry heavy enough to feel ridiculous against my skin. Sweaters softer than anything sixteen-year-old Maeve O’Donnell could’ve imagined owning.

And somehow losing one old oversized hoodie hurts worse than all of it.

I step back into the closet slowly, staring at the rows of polished neutral colors hanging perfectly spaced apart.

Cream. Black. Gray. Elegant. Expensive.

None of it looks like me anymore. I can't remember the last thing I chose.

The realization lands so suddenly I actually grip the edge of the dresser to steady myself.

Because somewhere over the last few months—my closet stopped belonging to Maeve O’Donnell.

And became Mrs. Gallagher’s instead.

****

Ronan gets home just after ten. I hear him before I see him. The quiet rumble of his car in the drive. The front door opening downstairs. Low voices from security.

I’m sitting near the bedroom windows pretending to read when he finally walks into the room carrying two garment bags over one arm.

The sight alone makes something inside me sink.

“Long day?” he asks while loosening his tie.

I close the book carefully in my lap. “Something like that.”

Ronan studies me for half a second longer than necessary before crossing farther into the room. His attention flicks briefly toward the closet. Then back to me.

“I bought something for you.”

The garment bags settle across the end of the bed with soft, expensive rustling while something in my pulse turns unsteady for reasons I can't fully explain.

Ronan unzips the first bag smoothly before pulling out a sweater.

Navy blue. My breath catches instantly. Not because it’s the same hoodie.

Because it isn’t. The sweater is beautiful. Cashmere. Soft. Elegant. Perfectly tailored.

And almost the exact same shade of dark navy as the sweatshirt my father bought me when I was sixteen.