Page 63 of Override

Ronan notices. He’s already dressed for work when I finally step into the kitchen, dark suit perfectly pressed while steam curls from the black coffee beside his tablet. Morning light spills softly through the massive windows, painting everything gold and warm and painfully normal.

I still feel like I swallowed electricity sometime around midnight.

Ronan looks up the second I enter. His eyes narrow slightly. “What’s wrong?”

The question catches me off guard enough that I pause halfway toward the island. “Nothing.”

“Mhm.” His attention lingers on my face another second too long. “You look exhausted.”

Because I spent half the night convinced my husband was psychologically torturing me through anonymous text messages.

Instead I force a small shrug. “I don’t feel very good.”

The concern arrives instantly. Real concern too. That’s the confusing part about Ronan. He notices everything.

“That’s exactly why I’ve been trying to get you to take better care of yourself,” he says while setting his coffee down. “You run yourself down until you get sick.”

Something bitter rises hot in my throat so quickly I almost laugh. Because now I know. The meal plans. The trainer. The controlled portions. Not health. Control. And suddenly hearing him frame it as concern makes something inside me recoil sharply.

I smooth my expression anyway, before the reaction fully reaches my face.

“I’m fine.”

Ronan studies me quietly for another moment before crossing the kitchen toward me. His fingers brush lightly against my forehead, checking for fever.

The gesture should feel caring. Instead my body goes tense automatically. His hand stills briefly against my skin like he notices.

“I’ll cancel Sandra today,” he says calmly. “You should rest.”

The relief that flashes through me feels immediate and humiliating. Because part of me genuinely did not want to spend another hour inside that gym today pretending this entire situation felt normal.

“Okay,” I murmur.

Ronan presses a brief kiss against my temple before stepping back again. “I’ll be home late tonight.”

Then he leaves. Just like that. The front door shuts softly somewhere deeper in the estate while quiet spreads through the kitchen.

For several seconds, I just stand there staring down into my coffee while anxiety still crawls uneasily beneath my skin from the night before.

Then my phone vibrates against the marble countertop. My pulse jumps instantly.

Unknown:

I’m still deciding if contacting you was psychologically irresponsible.

I stare at the message for several long seconds. A startled breath almost escapes me. Because that—that is not what I expected. Not threatening. Not smooth. Not manipulative.

Just strangely honest in a way that catches me completely off guard. Like whoever’s behind the screen typed the thought before deciding whether he should actually say it.

And that feels far more dangerous. Because for the first time since the messages started—they feel real.

Slowly, I type back.

Me:

Then maybe you should stop.

The typing bubble appears immediately. Disappears. Then reappears again.