54. Aoife
Aoife
I take a slow sip of my tea, the warmth doing little to settle the unease curling in my stomach.
Outside, the late afternoon light spills through the curtains, too golden, too bright, like it’s trying to peel back the layers and expose something I don’t want to face.
Maybe it is. I called off work and spent the day in the penthouse.
I needed space to think. To figure out my next move.
It’s been weeks since I locked Ruairi in the pit, but it feels like a lifetime. Every hour gnaws at me, pressing heavier against my chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. I haven’t laid a hand on him. I haven’t needed to.
The darkness does the work. The silence. The slow, merciless bleed of time.
I know what it does to a mind. I know what it strips away. And I know what it’s doing to him. I don’t want to break him.
I only need him to bend. To see that I’m right, that I deserve my place at his side. That we’re stronger together than apart.
If he would only surrender, I could end this. We could stitch back what’s been torn open. But deep down, I know the truth—some wounds never heal.
And some fractures run too deep to mend.
My phone rings, cutting through the silence and making my stomach twist.
Glancing at the screen, I see that it’s my sister-in-law. A cold rush of dread spikes through me as I answer.
"Hey," I say, forcing my voice light.
"Hey," Bridget echoes. Her voice sounds even, but there’s a brittleness underneath.
"Everything okay?" I ask, pretending not to notice.
"Have you talked to Ruairi lately?" she asks.
I shift the mug in my hand, gripping it tighter. "Not since we had lunch a few weeks ago. Why?"
"He said he’d be home the next morning," she explains, the words tumbling out now. "But he never came back. I thought maybe he was still with you."
I keep my voice steady. "No, I haven’t seen him since we had dinner."
She hesitates. "Did anything happen between you two?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," I say, making my voice casual. "He wouldn’t hear me out. We argued, and I left him at the pub."
“For the record, I don’t think Ri is right keeping you in the dark. You have just as much right to this Syndicate as he does.”
There’s a pause, then she asks, “So, I guess this means you’re not coming home?”
My chest tightens. “I was willing to compromise,” I say carefully. “I told Ruairi I’d come home for a visit as long as Eamon could come with me, but he refused.”
Bridget sighs. “Try to see this from his point of view. Eamon’s his enemy. You’re asking him to welcome the man he’s at war with into his home.”
“Eamon wasn’t his enemy until Ruairi made him one,” I say, defensiveness creeping into my tone.
“I don’t want to fight with you. That’s not why I called.” She goes quiet. “I’m really starting to worry about Ruari. I’ve been calling and texting him," Bridget explains. "At first, I thought he just needed space, but it’s been too long."
I exhale slowly like I'm thinking. "Why didn't you reach out sooner?"
"I didn’t want to make things worse if you and he needed time," she trails off, uncertain. “You know how your brother can be.”
"Cian mentioned that there was some trouble brewing with one of their Derry contacts," I say, thinking aloud. "They wanted Ruairi involved directly. Maybe he decided to handle it while he was here. It would make sense."
"You really think so?" she asks a thread of desperate hope in her voice.
"It’s possible," I say. "You know how he is when he gets something in his head. He shuts everyone out until it’s done."
"Yeah," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.
"Maybe check with Ronan," I suggest, shifting the weight off myself. "If anyone knows where Ruairi is, it’ll be him."
"Okay," she says, latching onto the suggestion. "I’ll give him a call."
"Let me know what you hear," I offer like I'm not choking on the lie.
We hang up, and I set my phone down on the counter, staring at it like it might come to life and expose me for what I really am.
A liar.
A traitor.
A Quigley.
I press my palms to the counter, forcing a breath into lungs that don’t want to obey.
I chose this path. There’s no turning back now.
Even if it damns me.
Even if it tears everything I love to pieces.