Page 151 of Override

I kept pushing. As if what he'd done to me had somehow started with me.

Ronan drags both hands through his hair, destroying the careful style for the first time since we left our bedroom. “That isn’t what I meant.”

My fingers remain pressed against my neck. The skin is beginning to throb beneath them, each pulse matching the frantic beat of my heart. “What did you mean?”

“I don’t know.” His voice cracks with frustration, and I brace before I can stop myself. His eyes catch the movement. Pain flashes across his face, followed almost immediately by something harder. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The sentence sinks into me slowly. Not I shouldn’t have done it. Not You didn’t deserve it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, as if it were an unfortunate mistake neither of us caused. A glass slipping from someone’s hand. A car skidding on wet pavement.

Not a choice he made while looking directly into my eyes.

“You put your hand around my throat.”

“I know.”

“No.” My head moves before I’m aware of shaking it. “I don’t think you do.”

“Maeve—”

“You grabbed me because I said I wanted to see my parents.”

“You shoved me.” The words come too quickly. His expression changes the second they leave him, but he can’t pull them back. Neither of us can.

I stare at him, waiting for the familiar instinct to rise. The one that tells me to smooth everything over before his anger finds another place to land. I should apologize for shoving him. I should explain that I was frightened and didn’t mean to embarrass him. I should make my voice softer and reassure him that I understand how much pressure he’s under.

The responses are so deeply carved into me that I can feel each one waiting behind my teeth. None of them come out. Because he had been hurting me when I shoved him. Because I asked him to stop.

Because my husband’s fingers had closed around my throat, and I am suddenly so tired of searching for the perfect arrangement of words that will make his choices my fault.

“You were hurting me.”

“I wasn’t going to—” He stops, jaw tightening. “I would never seriously hurt you.”

My hand drops from my neck. The air feels cold against the damp skin beneath my palm. “You already did.”

His eyes close as though I’ve struck him.

For a moment, the only sounds are the low hum of the garage lights and the engine of the SUV ticking softly as it waits for us. The vehicle is ready. The follow car is waiting beyond the drive. Somewhere outside this room, people believe we are about to leave for another carefully orchestrated evening where I will smile when expected and stand at Ronan’s side while everyone tells us what a beautiful couple we make.

They have no idea that his hand had been at my throat only minutes before. They wouldn’t believe me if I walked out and told them. I’m not sure I would have believed me yesterday.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan says again. His voice is quieter now, stripped of the certainty he wears like another expensive suit. “God, Maeve, look at me.”

I don’t want to. I do anyway. His face is pale. There is real regret in his eyes, and the sight of it hurts in a way his anger never has. Because this is the part that has always confused me. He isn’t cruel every moment.

There are mornings when he brings me tea without being asked. Nights when he settles his hand at the small of my back and tells me I’m beautiful as though he believes it. He remembers which flowers I prefer and makes donations in my name and speaks about our future like it is something precious he is building for both of us.

Those moments are real. So are the cameras. So is the locked gate. So is the handprint I can already imagine forming beneath my skin.

For too long, I’ve treated the good pieces as evidence that the others couldn’t possibly mean what they felt like.

Standing in the garage with my throat aching, I finally understand that one does not erase the other.

“I love you,” he says.

The words land differently now. Once, I would have reached for them. Tonight, they sound too much like another lock clicking into place.