Page 53 of Override

The room suddenly feels too quiet.

Ronan holds it up slightly between his hands. “I realized most of your casual clothes were outdated.”

The words land gently. Carefully. Like he genuinely believes he’s improving something.

My fingers tighten slowly around the edge of the book still resting in my lap.

He took it.

The realization settles cold and absolute through my chest before he even says another word. No one misplaced the hoodie. No laundry accident happened.

Ronan took it.

And somehow the worst part isn’t even losing it. It’s this.

The replacement.

As if comfort and memory and home can simply be exchanged for something prettier.

“You didn’t like that old sweatshirt anyway,” Ronan says absently while setting the sweater across the bed between us. “This is much more appropriate.”

Appropriate.

I stare at the cashmere for one long suspended second.

Then another.

Because suddenly I understand something I’ve been trying very hard not to understand for months now.

Ronan doesn’t hate me.

That would almost be easier.

He loves the version of me he’s building.

And he genuinely cannot see why that hurts.

The realization cracks quietly through my chest.

“Maeve?”

I blink hard once before forcing my face to move again.

Smile. Breathe. Respond normally.

Years of mafia upbringing kick in automatically before emotion can fully surface.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly.

And God. That’s the worst part. It is beautiful.

Ronan’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly at my response. Like he’d been expecting resistance and is pleased not to find it.

“Try it on tomorrow,” he says while unbuttoning his cuffs. “I think the color will suit you better.”

Better.

I nod once. “Thank you.”