Page 88 of Override

“Next time,” he says without looking back, “you call me first.”

Then he walks out of the kitchen before I can speak again.

Leaving me standing there with cold soup, shaking hands, and the horrifying realization that somewhere along the way—Ronan Gallagher stopped speaking to me like a wife.

And started speaking to me like something that belonged to him.

My job. The words refuse to leave me alone. Not partner. Not wife.

Job.

As though marriage came with an employee handbook I'd somehow failed to read.

****

Three days pass before I realize I’m counting them. Not because I miss my parents. Although I do. Not because Ronan is still angry. Although he is.

But because three days have passed and my phone hasn't vibrated once. The realization annoys me enough that I nearly throw the thing across the room, because that is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

I shouldn't be waiting for messages from a stranger. I shouldn't know the exact amount of time since he last texted me. I shouldn't find myself glancing toward my phone every time I leave a room.

And yet...Here I am.

The estate feels different after the argument in the kitchen. Not louder. Not quieter. Tighter. Like someone pulled invisible strings throughout the house and drew everything closer together.

The guards walk different routes now. I notice it every day.

The same faces appear over and over again. Men who used to stay outside now drift through hallways. Men who used to stand near entrances somehow end up near whichever room I'm sitting in.

It's subtle enough that nobody else would question it. But I do. Because I grew up watching powerful men maneuver around one another. I know surveillance when I see it.

And lately Declan has become impossible to ignore. Every time he passes me, his phone appears. A glance. A text. Gone again.

The first day I convinced myself I was imagining things. The second day I knew I wasn't. By the third, I stop pretending.

Ronan is tracking me. Not just with cameras anymore. With people.

The realization settles heavily against my chest while I sit curled into one of the window seats overlooking the back gardens. Rain streaks the glass beyond me, turning the world outside gray and blurred while an untouched book rests forgotten in my lap.

I've read the same page six times. I couldn't tell someone a single thing that happened on it.

My eyes drift toward my phone sitting beside me.

Immediately, I look away.

No. Absolutely not.

The temptation itself is embarrassing. What would I even say?

Hello, mysterious criminal who infiltrated my security system.

Thank you for the coffee.

Thank you for making me realize how lonely I've become.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. I hate that thought most of all. Because loneliness feels like a betrayal.

I have a husband. A house full of staff. Security. Friends. Family. People speak to me all day long. No one actually talks to me.