Page 49 of Override

“Okay,” Sandra says while crossing her arms lightly. “I’m gonna ask something and you can absolutely tell me to mind my business.”

“That usually means it’s going to be invasive.”

“Probably.”

I pull my gloves loose slowly while moving toward the water station. “Go ahead.”

Sandra hesitates briefly before asking, “You know you don’t actually need me, right?”

There it is. The question sitting quietly between us since session one. I unscrew the water bottle carefully before answering.

“Ronan thinks it’s important I stay healthy.”

Sandra’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not disagreement exactly. Discomfort.

Because she’s been in this gym long enough now to notice certain things too.

The cameras in the corners. The security presence outside. The fact I never leave the estate alone anymore.

Small things. Still—I can practically see the conflict moving behind her eyes every time she looks at me.

Like some part of her instincts are screaming that something isn’t right here while the logical side keeps answering: But she’s rich. But he’s powerful. But he’s polite. But she says she’s fine.

“You’re already healthy,” Sandra says carefully.

I stare down into the water bottle instead of at her. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“I’m serious.” There’s frustration beneath the words now.

Not at me. At the situation. At the fact she clearly feels something is wrong but can’t quite touch it.

“I train women all day,” she continues. “Most people don’t move the way you do unless they’ve been doing this for years.”

My throat tightens slightly around the memory of my father standing behind me in one of the old family warehouses correcting my stance while I complained dramatically at fourteen.

Again, mo stóirín. Again.

“You drop your shoulder before a left hook,” Sandra says now. “That’s muscle memory.”

I smile faintly despite myself. “My father taught me.”

“Military?”

I almost laugh. “No. Irish.”

That actually makes her snort softly.

“Honestly that tracks.”

The room settles quiet for a moment afterward except for the faint hum of the treadmills and rain tapping softly against the gym windows overlooking the estate grounds.

Sandra studies me for another second before speaking more carefully this time.

“You don’t have to answer this either,” she says. “But… are you doing this because you want to?”

The question lands gently. Which somehow makes it hurt worse. Because the truthful answer should be simple.

And yet suddenly it isn’t.