45. Aoife
Aoife
“Please, Aoife,” Bridget begs. “Come home. At least for a visit.”
“I already told you,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying not to snap. “I’m not coming back.”
She blows out a frustrated breath. “I can’t stand seeing you and Ruairi torn apart like this. Over a man.”
Like this is some petty feud, some childish grudge I’m holding because of Eamon.
“It’s more than that,” I say, my tone sharper than I intend.
“Then explain it to me,” she pleads.
I take a slow breath, forcing down the bitterness in my throat. “Ruairi sent Cian to Dublin.”
Bridget goes silent.
“When he showed up, I gave him the benefit of the doubt,” I continue. “I spent the day with him, just to see what he was playing at. And then he sent pictures of us to Ruairi like I was some kind of trophy to be won.”
Bridget inhales sharply. “Oh, Evie?—”
“And do you know what Ruairi did in response? He sent me the most vile, hateful messages. He called me a whore.” My voice cracks. “And when that wasn’t enough? He set fire to Eamon’s club.”
Bridget gasps. “He what?”
“Obsidian, Eamon’s club. He ordered it to burn while people were inside.” My stomach twists at the memory. “One of Eamon’s men is in the hospital with severe injuries. Innocent people could’ve died. And for what? To make a point? To control me?”
Bridget’s quiet for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, and I hear the sincerity in her voice. “You have to understand that your brother is worried about you. He’d do anything to keep you safe.”
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temple. Why does everyone keep excusing him? “That doesn’t make it okay, and where I appreciate the apology, it doesn’t change anything,” I say, my patience fraying. “Not until it comes from him.”
She’s about to say something else, but a voice from the front desk interrupts me.
“Sorry, Brie. I have to go. I’m the only one here today.”
She sighs. “Okay. Just promise me you’ll think about it, alright?”
I don’t answer before I hang up, shoving my phone into my pocket as I step back behind the desk.
A man stands there, waiting, dressed like he belongs in a boardroom, but everything about him screams back alley.
“Welcome to the Emerald Briar. Are you here to check in?”
“I have a meeting with Mr. O’Sullivan,” he says, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of business.
“Who can I tell him is here?” I ask, keeping my voice professional and polite.
“Jerry Callahan,” he replies.
I nod and pick up the phone, dialing Eamon. When he answers, I keep my voice neutral. “Mr. O’Sullivan, there’s a Mr. Callahan here to see you.”
Eamon doesn’t ask questions, just says, “Tell him to wait at the bar. I’ll be down shortly.”
After hanging up, I offer the man a polite smile. “He asked that you wait in the bar.”
As he moves toward the lounge, I busy myself behind the desk, going through routine tasks until Cian strolls over. He leans casually against the counter, giving me a slow once-over. “A girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her time behind a desk.”
I don’t bother hiding my boredom. “Oh? And what exactly should I be doing?”
“Something much more fitting.” His grin widens. “Something where your looks won’t go to waste.”
“You mean like sitting around looking pretty while some man tells me what to do?”
Cian chuckles. “Now, would that be so bad?”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds boring.”
His smirk lingers. “I’d make sure you weren’t bored, mo bhanríon .”
I swallow down my disgust at the pet name. “Is that supposed to make me swoon?” I ask, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, handsome.”
Then, I let my eyes rake over him, taking in his attire. “By the way, shouldn’t you be dressed for a wedding? Or is crashing them more your style?” I ask, my tone dry.
He shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bet you won’t believe this.”
“Try me.” I cross my arms, unimpressed.
“The bride got cold feet. Called the whole thing off at the last minute.”
“No way,” I gasp, clutching my chest like I’m seconds from swooning. “What a shocking turn of events.”
“Swear on my life.” He shifts, pressing his forearms on the counter. “Which means I’m here, with no obligations, for the rest of the day. Thought maybe you and I could do something about that.”
“And what exactly did you have in mind?”
He pauses, letting his gaze drift over me, slow and suggestive. “Ditch work and come out with me. One night, just us, before I have to slip away in the morning.”
Before I can come up with an excuse, a familiar presence moves behind him.
Eamon.
He steps up, his expression unreadable. “Is everything okay here?”
Cian turns, momentarily caught off guard, but recovers just as quickly. His grin is all confidence, his tone light but deliberate. “No trouble at all. Just trying to convince this one to run off with me for a few hours.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” His movement is controlled as he extends a hand. “Eamon O’Sullivan—owner of the hotel.”
Cian takes it without hesitation, matching his confidence. “Cian O’Leary,” he replies, his confidence unshaken. “Didn’t realize I’d get the pleasure of meeting the man in charge.”
Eamon holds his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before releasing his grip. “Pleasure,” he says, though his tone makes it clear it’s anything but. “Careful, though. Not everything that looks good is meant to be touched.”
Cian doesn’t waver. If anything, his smirk deepens, like he’s enjoying whatever game he thinks he’s playing. “I’m sure you know how it is. When you have something this good, it’s hard to walk away.”
Eamon doesn’t react right away. Instead, he studies Cian until his mouth curves into something that resembles amusement.
“That so?” His voice is almost casual, but there’s a lazy sort of challenge beneath it.
He glances at me, his gaze lingering just long enough to make a point before looking back at Cian.
“Can’t say I know the feeling,” he continues, his tone light but deliberate. “When something’s really yours, you don’t have to chase it down.” He smiles, slow and easy, but his eyes stay cold. “It stays exactly where it belongs.”
Cian doesn’t miss a beat. “Evie and I have been close for years. Her father approved the match long ago,” he says, adjusting his cuff like this conversation is nothing more than a formality.
“I know she’s up here in Dublin trying to spread her wings, but I want to take her back home. Get married right away.”
Eamon’s gaze slides to me. “That true, Evie ?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Cian cuts in smoothly. “She’s shy. Doesn’t like to talk about relationship details in public. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” Eamon nods slowly. “You’re a lucky man, then, to have someone as special as her.” His lips curve into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of young love.”
My stomach twists. What the hell is he doing?
“As a matter of fact,” Eamon continues, “why don’t the two of you have dinner in my restaurant? On the house.”
My breath catches. “That’s far too generous, and I?—”
“I insist,” Eamon interrupts. “And don’t worry about your shift. I’ll have someone cover for you.”
Cian grins. “That’s very kind of you.”
Eamon takes out his phone, already typing, his attention seemingly elsewhere.
“I can wait until someone gets here,” I offer.
“No need,” Eamon replies, not bothering to look up. “I wouldn’t dare keep your betrothed from whatever grand plans he has for tonight.”
Speechless, I force a tight smile. “Cian, do you mind if I change out of my uniform first?”
“Of course,” he says.
As I gather my things, Eamon stays making small talk with Cian. His questions are casual and polite. Just a man making conversation. But I know better. He’s asking all the right things, pulling at the threads of whatever story Cian’s spinning.
And Cian? He doesn’t hesitate. Lie after lie rolls off his tongue with practiced ease.
“I’ll meet you in the restaurant,” Cian says as I walk toward the elevator.
I nod but say nothing, keeping my expression carefully neutral until the door shuts behind me in the penthouse.
My phone buzzes.
Ruairi: Bridget told me she invited you home to see Saoirse, but you declined.
Aoife: After your last message, of course I said no.
A few seconds later, his response comes.
Ruairi: I was out of line.
Aoife: You think?
Ruairi: We miss you. We want to see you.
My fingers hover over the screen. For a moment, I consider giving in but decide on a different approach.
Aoife: I’ll come if Eamon can accompany me.
Ruairi: I will not have that bastard in my home.
Aoife: Then I’m not coming.
Ruairi: You need to stop playing games, Evie. Walk away from him before it’s too late.
Aoife: Or what?
His response comes fast.
Ruairi: You’ll see just how dangerous things can get.
A threat. A promise.
Ruairi: You don’t want to test me on this.
I’m done with his warnings. His attempts to control me. If Ruairi thinks he can scare me into submission, he’s wrong.
He doesn’t get to decide where I go, who I trust, or who I let into my bed. Let him rage. Let him threaten. I won’t bend for him, especially not when I’ve just started to stand on my own.
My gaze flicks to my phone again, but this time, it’s not Ruairi I’m thinking of. It’s Eamon. I tap out a message, fingers steady.
Aoife: What game are you playing? Giving me time off to have dinner with Cian?
Eamon’s reply comes quickly.
Eamon: An opportune moment. You spend more time with him. I control the variables. I also wanted to see if he knew about us.
Aoife: And?
Eamon: He doesn’t. Clearly, Ruairi doesn’t tell him everything.
If Eamon wants to play games, I’ll raise the stakes.
A slow smile curls at my lips.
I slip into a deep burgundy dress—the color of temptation and defiance. The fabric hugs every curve, the hem skimming high on my thighs, daring anyone to look too long. A pair of razor-thin heels with crimson soles complete the look. Dangerous, elegant, and impossible to ignore.
When I step into the restaurant, all heads turn. But there’s only one reaction I care about.
And when my eyes find Eamon’s from across the room, I know I’ve won. His jaw tightens. His grip on his drink flexes. But he can’t do anything, or he’ll give us away.
Cian’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “No more shy and innocent tonight?” he asks, voice husky.
“I thought I’d try something different,” I say as I slide onto the seat across from him.
Cian’s practically drooling. Subtlety clearly isn’t his strength. But it’s not his attention I’m after. My eyes slip over his shoulder to the man behind him.
Eamon O’Sullivan is seething. And I’m enjoying every second of it.