Page 17 of Override

Men who are monsters don’t do things like that. Do they?

“That’s better,” he murmurs softly before releasing my chin.

The quartet changes songs again while applause rises somewhere near the auction stage, but suddenly all I can think about is how badly I want silence.

Not loneliness. Just quiet. A moment where nobody is looking at me.

****

Hours later, rain streaks across the windows of the town car while the city glows gold beyond the glass. My feet ache from hours in six-inch heels, and my cheeks ache from smiling while Ronan scrolls through emails beside me, one hand resting absently on my knee.

Possessive without seeming possessive. Another thing he's very good at.

"I was thinking..." I begin carefully after several minutes of silence. "Maybe we could have dinner with my parents this weekend."

Ronan loosens one cufflink without looking up from his phone. "This weekend?"

"Mhm."

"We have the Connelly dinner Friday."

"That's Friday."

"And Sullivan requested a meeting Saturday morning."

Not no. Never no. Just movement. Deflection. Redirection wrapped so neatly in reason that pushing any harder somehow feels unfair. I turn back toward the rain-streaked window instead of arguing.

Lately every conversation feels like trying to hold water in my hands. The tighter I grip, the faster everything slips through my fingers.

"We haven't seen them in a few weeks," I say.

His thumb strokes once across my knee. "We've both been busy."

There it is again. Reasonable. God...I'm starting to hate reasonable answers. Neither of us speaks again before the gates swing open.

The estate rises from the darkness, all stone, iron, and carefully placed security lights, beautiful in the cold, intimidating way expensive things often are. Home.

The word feels different lately. Heavier. Upstairs, Ronan disappears into the master bathroom while steam begins curling beneath the door moments later.

I stand alone in our bedroom, slipping my earrings free one at a time before my gaze drifts, almost automatically, toward the tiny green light blinking inside the smoke detector.

One camera. Another near the sitting area. One farther down the hallway. I don't consciously count them anymore. I just know where they are.

The realization lands somewhere deep inside my chest. Not fear. Something quieter. Something sadder.

I cross toward the dresser and reach behind me for the zipper of my dress, easing it down inch by inch. The fitted bodice finally loosens. Relief washes through me. As the fabric slips from one shoulder, the mirror catches something just beneath my ribs.

A yellowing bruise. Fading now. Almost gone.

I stare at it for only a second before pulling the dress back into place. Dr. Whitmore said it would disappear within a week.

I'd believed him. I still do. Don't I?

The thought lingers just long enough to make my stomach twist before I push it away. I'm tired. That's all.

Before I let myself think too hard about it, I step into the hallway and make my way toward the unused guest bathroom near the library.

The only room upstairs without surveillance. Ronan joked once that no one important ever used it. The second the door clicks shut behind me, something inside me unwinds.