Page 7 of His Possession

Maeve’s stomach churned at the sound of his name. She turned away, pretending to busy herself with the tools scattered across her workstation. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I’m cautious,” Sabella said, her voice firm. “But this could be an enormous opportunity for us.”

“So now it’s okay to deal with McMahon and the O’Neill Syndicate because there’s money involved?”

“It’s not like I’m getting involved with them personally. The O’Neills have money, connections, influence. With their backing, the gallery could expand. We could host bigger shows, attract international clients?—”

“And become another cog in their machine,” Maeve interrupted, her voice rising. She faced Sabella, her eyes flashing with anger. “You think this is about art? They don’t care about what we’re creating here. To them, this is just another way to launder money.”

Sabella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Maeve snapped, “and so do you. I know men like McMahon and O’Neill. They don’t give without expecting something in return.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Sabella’s gaze softened slightly, and she leaned forward, her tone more careful. “Maeve, I know this scares you. But think about what this could mean for your career… for my gallery… for both of us. We’ve both worked so hard to get where we are, and this could take things to the next level.”

Maeve shook her head, the frustration bubbling up again. “I’ve worked hard to build something that’s mine. Taking their money... It would taint everything I’ve fought for.”

“Or it could be the push you need to go even further,” Sabella countered. “You don’t have to say yes right away. Just... think about it.”

“Why are you even talking to me about this? It’s your gallery. I’m just one of the artists.”

Sabella paused as if looking for the right words. “Because Foster made it very clear that without you as a kind of resident artist, there was no deal to be had.”

Maeve didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back to her sculpture, her hands finding the clay once more. The cool, pliable material gave her something to focus on, something tosteady her as the enormity of the conversation settled on her shoulders.

Sabella didn’t press further. After a moment, she stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll leave you to it. But think about it. Opportunities like this don’t come around often.”

Maeve didn’t look up as Sabella left, the click of her heels fading into silence. Her chest felt tight, her mind spinning with everything her friend had said. McMahon’s name echoed in her thoughts, tangled up with the image of his intense gaze and the low timbre of his voice.

She could still feel the heat of his presence, the way he’d looked at her as if he was daring her to defy him. It had been thrilling in a way she hated to admit, but it also terrified her. McMahon devoured people whole, and Maeve, having fought too long for her freedom, would not let him consume her.

But Sabella wasn’t wrong. The gallery, and Maeve’s art, were thriving, but it wasn’t invincible. The thought of losing everything she’d built, of watching both of their dreams crumble because she couldn’t swallow her pride, sent a cold spike of fear through her.

Maeve’s hands faltered on the sculpture, her movements slowing as the conflict warred within her. She wanted to reject the offer outright, to walk away from the O’Neills and their money without a second thought. But the logical part of her mind wouldn’t let her ignore the potential benefits. This wasn’t just about her—it was about Sabella’s gallery, Maeve’s art, and both of their futures.

The thought made her heart hurt. Rory’s involvement was the complication she couldn’t get past. His presence was like a storm, unpredictable and dangerous, pulling her toward him even as her instincts screamed to stay away.

Maeve stepped back from the sculpture. Her reflection stared back at her from the smudged glass of a nearby window, herexpression tight with frustration. She hated feeling trapped, cornered by forces she couldn’t control.

And yet, part of her wondered if this was what she’d been searching for all along. Not the danger, but the fire. The thrill of something bigger, something that pushed her beyond the limits she’d set for herself.

Maeve’s fingers brushed against the edge of her worktable, her gaze drifting to the unfinished sculpture. The bound hands stared back at her, frozen in their eternal struggle. She could feel the significance of the choice before her, the lines between freedom and captivity blurring in ways she hadn’t expected.

Rory McMahon was a risk. A temptation. But he was also a challenge—a force that refused to be ignored. And Maeve wasn’t sure how she wanted to handle him… or herself.

She exhaled slowly, the decision still out of reach. For now, all she could do was wait. Wait, and hope that when the moment came, she’d have the strength to choose the right path, but the question remained, which was the right path?

The steady tap of Maeve’s sculpting tool against the clay echoed through the studio, a rhythmic sound that usually helped her focus. Tonight, it did little to calm the turmoil swirling in her chest. The raw edges of her latest piece jutted upward like jagged teeth, unfinished and untamed—much like her own thoughts.

She exhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped back to study the work. The bound hands were there again, their fingers stretched as if clawing for freedom. The symbolism wasn’t subtle, but subtlety wasn’t her strength. She created what she felt, and lately, she felt like she was suffocating.

A knock at the door broke her focus. Maeve frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late, and Sabella had left. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour. Still, she crossed the room, her hand hesitating on the handle for a moment before pulling it open.

Rory McMahon filled the doorway.

Her breath caught as she took him in. The sharp cut of his suit, the dark glint in his eyes, the sheer force of his presence—it was overwhelming, the way he seemed to command the space without effort. His gaze swept over her, taking in the streaks of clay on her hands and the faint smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She felt exposed, as if he were cataloging every detail, every flaw.

“Miss O’Connell,” he said smoothly, his voice low and rich like the whiskey she imagined he drank.

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