Page 31 of Override

The memory flashes across my mind before I can stop it. His voice. Calm. Controlled. Disappointed more than angry.

"You're making this harder than it needs to be, Maeve."

I'd gone to one of the private clinics two days later. Not Dr. Whitmore. Another one. Different part of the city. Different name on the paperwork. Different doctor. The bruising had looked worse than I expected by then.

I probably should have gone sooner. Instead I'd waited until I could convince myself I was overreacting. Like always.

“You’re sure nothing was sent for donation?” I ask again.

Marisol looks almost nervous now. “No, ma’am.”

I nod slowly even though something about the answer doesn’t fully settle right inside me. Maybe I’m forgetting things. Maybe the house staff moved them somewhere else. Maybe I’m becoming overly sensitive because lately every corner of this estate feels like it’s watching me breathe.

The thought slips through my mind just as I step back into the bedroom.

And for one brief strange second, the camera near the sitting area shifts slightly away from me.

Tiny movement. Barely noticeable. I stop walking. The camera stills instantly. My eyes narrow.

That’s…new.

For several seconds I just stand there staring at the small black lens mounted near the ceiling while quiet unease curls low beneath my ribs. Then I shake my head at myself and continue toward the bathroom.

You’re imagining things, Maeve.

God knows there are enough cameras in this house now to make anyone start feeling paranoid eventually. Even so, I find myself glancing back toward it again before disappearing into the hallway.

That evening Ronan comes home carrying shopping bags. Designer ones.

“You bought something,” I say as he steps into the bedroom.

His mouth curves faintly at the edges. “Observant.”

“That’s at least four bags. Either you bought me gifts or murdered someone wealthy.”

“Can’t it be both?”

A surprised laugh slips free before I can stop it. For one brief moment, Ronan looks almost pleased by the sound. Then he sets the bags across the bed and begins pulling folded sweaters and dresses from tissue paper one by one. Cream cashmere. Soft black wool. Tailored neutral colors.

Beautiful things. Expensive things. Things that look like they belong in this house.

“I noticed some of your wardrobe needed updating,” he says while unfolding another sweater carefully between his hands. “You deserve better pieces than some of the things you’ve been wearing.”

The words shouldn’t sting. And maybe they wouldn’t if they didn’t land directly against the strange hollow feeling already sitting in my chest from the missing clothes earlier.

I force a smile anyway. “They’re beautiful.”

Because they are. That’s part of the problem. Everything Ronan gives me is beautiful.

Dinner that night happens at one of the private rooftop restaurants downtown overlooking the rain-soaked city lights. Ronan talks business between courses while his hand rests against my knee beneath the table, warm and possessive and somehow always reminding me exactly where I belong.

Around us, soft music hums beneath conversation while wealthy couples laugh over expensive wine. I should feel lucky. And maybe I do. That’s the confusing part.

Ronan can be thoughtful in ways that still catch me off guard. Last week he rerouted an entire business dinner because I mentioned a migraine that morning. Two nights ago he stayed awake with me when I couldn’t sleep and rubbed slow circles against my back until my breathing finally settled.

Men who don't care don't stay awake rubbing your back until you finally fall asleep. They don't buy you beautiful clothes. They don't rearrange meetings because you have a migraine.

They don't make sure you're seen by a doctor afterward. The thought lodges itself inside me, heavy and immovable. Maybe the corrections are only happening because I keep making mistakes.