Page 59 of Override

You work for Ronan.

The words hit like a punch. I stop moving instantly. Then another message appears.

Unknown:

Tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

Something in me snaps so violently I actually laugh once in disbelief. Not amusement. Anger. Cold immediate anger flooding so fast through my chest it leaves me dizzy for half a second.

“She thinks I’m his.” The words leave out loud to the empty apartment.

Of course she does. Of course she thinks that.

Every person watching her life right now belongs to Ronan in some way.

Security. Staff. Drivers. Systems.

Everyone watching her answers to him eventually.

Except me.

And suddenly the idea of her believing otherwise makes something vicious rise hard inside my chest.

My fingers fly across the keyboard harder than intended.

Me:

I don’t work for Ronan.

The response sends instantly. This time I don’t regret it. The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Unknown:

Prove it.

I stop breathing. Because honestly?

Fair request.

And now my brain—traitorous psychologically damaged thing that it is—starts spinning immediately.

How do you prove you’re not part of the cage when the only thing she’s ever known is men controlling access to her life?

The pacing starts again, worse this time. Kitchen. Turn. Living room.

Think.

What does she want most right now? Not freedom. That’s too big. Something smaller. Something believable.

Then it hits me so suddenly I physically stop moving.

Parents. Her father. She wants her father.

The idea unfolds in my head all at once after that, systems and routes and schedules clicking together automatically like puzzle pieces.

Ronan has a standing investor call tomorrow morning. Security rotates at nine-thirteen. The west gate cameras still route through my bypass.

Holy shit. I can do that.