The mansion is quiet in the soft, lazy way afternoons are supposed to be.

You’re curled on one of the chaise lounges in the sunroom, scrolling on your phone, bodyguards stationed discreetly outside the doors like shadows that belong to Ronan more than to you. It’s normal now. If you’re not with him, you’re never alone. His rule. His order. His obsession.

You don’t fight it anymore.

The front doors open with familiar weight.

You feel him before you see him.

Ronan’s presence changes the air—control, authority, possession. His coat is still on when he enters, expression sharp, eyes immediately finding you like nothing else in the room exists.

“Come,” he says simply. “I haven’t eaten.”

You smile faintly. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He walks straight to you, leans down, kisses your forehead, then your mouth—slow, grounding, claiming. “It’s an us problem,” he replies. “You’re eating with me.”

The kitchen staff moves quickly the second you enter the dining room. Silverware. Plates. Crystal. Dishes placed with practiced precision. The table fills with food—rich sauces, warm bread, meats, pastas, fruits, soups.

Then your plate is set down.

A salad.

Not even a full one.

Smaller than usual.

Sparse. Bare. Almost decorative.

Ronan doesn’t say anything at first.

He looks at the table.

Then at your plate.

Then at you.

Silence stretches.

The staff freezes.

Slowly, his expression changes—not explosive anger, not cold rage—something tighter. More dangerous. Controlled.

“This,” he says calmly, pointing to your plate, “is not dinner.”

You shrug lightly. “I’m not that hungry.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even look at the staff.

“Leave,” he says quietly.

They don’t hesitate.

The room empties.

The doors close.

Only you and him remain.

Ronan leans back in his chair, eyes locked on you with unnerving focus. “You chose this,” he says.

It’s not a question.

You pick at a leaf. “It’s just a salad.”

“You are skin and bones,” he replies flatly. “And you’re still dieting.”

“I have a job,” you say softly. “I have to—”

“No.” One word. Absolute. Final.

He reaches forward, takes your fork out of your hand, and pushes the salad away from you like it offends him.

“You do not starve yourself for a contract,” he says. “Not in my house. Not in my life.”

You swallow. “You don’t understand the industry.”

“I understand control,” he counters. “And I understand destruction disguised as discipline.”

Silence.

His voice lowers.

“You are disappearing in front of me.”

That lands heavier than anger ever could.

“I watch you every day,” he continues quietly. “Your bones. Your wrists. Your collarbones. Your weight. Your appetite. Your excuses.”

Your chest tightens. “Ronan—”

“I protect you from men,” he says. “From weapons. From bullets. From threats. And you think I will stand by while you harm yourself?”

He stands, walks around the table, and kneels in front of your chair. His hands come to your thighs, firm, grounding, warm.

“You are mine,” he says. Not ownership—devotion. “And I do not love fragile things that break in my hands. I love living ones.”

Your eyes burn. “I’m not trying to disappear.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “You’re trying to be perfect.”

His grip tightens slightly. “Perfect kills you.”

He straightens, picks up his own plate, then reaches for yours.

He replaces the salad with real food.

Protein. Bread. Warm dishes. Color. Weight.

“You eat,” he says calmly. “With me. Not alone. Not in pieces. Not in punishment.”

You hesitate.

He leans down, forehead touching yours. His voice drops to a vow.

“I will cancel shows. Contracts. People. Careers. Entire rooms of men before I watch you starve for approval.”

A beat.

“You are already enough.”

Your breath shakes.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips—slow, grounding, claiming.

“Now eat,” Ronan murmurs. “With me. Like my fiancée. Not like a ghost.”