Page 61 of Override

The message glows softly against my screen while my pulse pounds so hard it makes my fingers shake.

What did I just do? The bathroom suddenly feels too small. Too warm.

I reread the conversation again. And again. And again.

Please don’t cry.

My stomach twists violently. No. No this has to be Ronan. It has to be.

Because nobody else should know I hide in this bathroom. Nobody else should know about my parents. Nobody else should know I was crying.

My eyes snap toward the ceiling automatically even though I already know there aren’t cameras in here.

Or at least—I thought I knew.

Cold panic crawls up my spine. What if there are? What if this whole room isn’t safe anymore either? Suddenly I can almost feel eyes on me again. Watching. Waiting.

My breathing starts coming too fast while I stare at the locked bathroom door.

He’s outside.

The thought lands so hard I physically flinch. He’s waiting for me to come out. My throat tightens painfully.

Because now that the fear is there, my brain starts building the scene automatically: Ronan standing calmly in the hallway. My phone in his hand. That cold quiet disappointment in his eyes.

Tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

Heat floods instantly into my face at the memory of the text.

God.

I grip the edge of the bathroom counter hard enough my knuckles ache.

Think.

If this is Ronan—if this is some kind of test—what was the right answer? Should I have told him immediately? Should I have ignored it? Should I not have answered at all?

The silence outside the bathroom stretches endlessly. I can’t stay in here forever. The waiting stretches unbearable, nerves fraying with every second that passes while I stare at the door like it might explode open.

Finally, slowly, I unlock it.

The click sounds deafening. I freeze instantly. Nothing. No voice. No footsteps.

The hallway beyond the bathroom sits dim and empty beneath soft golden lighting.

Still, my chest feels tight enough to hurt while I step cautiously into the corridor.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to brace for impact.

I glance toward the upstairs landing. Nothing. Toward the bedroom. Nothing. Then faintly from downstairs, I hear Ronan’s voice.

Calm. Even. Distracted. Talking on the phone in his office. My brow furrows slightly.

Confusion cuts sharply through the panic.

Because if he knows—if this was him—wouldn’t he be angry?

I move quietly toward the staircase, bare feet nearly silent against the hardwood floors. I stop again, gripping the banister while light spills faintly from beneath Ronan’s office door below.