Chapter 4 #3
There’s very little for me to agree to, beyond marrying him.
It’s mentioned that I’m expected to be faithful—notably, nothing is said about that for Sean—that I’m expected to produce heirs for the Flannery name.
The rest of it is all about Sean—his agreement to marry me, to subsume the Connelly fortune, connections, holdings, and contracts under his name, to produce children to carry on those things after us, to remain loyal to the Council in his dealings, and be beholden to their ultimate decisions in all things.
His responsibilities, it seems, are numerous, while mine on the surface are very simple.
Say yes, say I do, open my legs only for Sean, produce children.
It stirs an unfamiliar anger in me to see it laid out so black and white.
I always knew this was my future—a marriage to someone who would be chosen for me—and that my role in the marriage would be straightforward.
I saw my sister agree to it, and I knew I would eventually as well.
I didn’t allow myself to think about it often enough to be angry.
In fact, I realize, as I read through the contract, I haven’t allowed myself to be angry about anything in my life that maybe I had a right to.
I was never angry at Siobhan for her cruel tongue. Never at Desmond for his bullying or his controlling ways after our father died. Never at my father for his micromanagement of our lives. I accepted all of it, remaining as small and quiet as I could so that the worst of it would all pass me by.
But in the end, the worst of it found me anyway. It’s sitting right in front of me, impatiently waiting for me to sign so that we can get this over with.
I look at the clause informing us that there can be no divorce. I knew this, obviously. Our world doesn’t allow for divorces. But I read it again anyway, looking up when I’m finished.
“What if this doesn’t work?” I say slowly, thinking of my sister and Ronan, of how miserable they both were. “If we can’t stand each other, if we’re unhappy, what if I want out? If Sean—”
"There won't be a divorce," Sean says flatly, making me jump. "So that doesn't matter."
I look up at him, my pulse beating faster. "But if—"
"There won't be," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The Council wouldn't allow it. Once we're married, we're married. That's final."
The words should terrify me—and they do—but there's something else, too. A certainty, a commitment, even if it's a cold one. He might not want this marriage, but he's not planning an escape route either.
We're both trapped. Maybe that should be comforting. It's not.
I sign where I’m supposed to, feeling defeated. Connor takes the paperwork from me. "Congratulations," he says, though his tone suggests he knows how inappropriate the sentiment is. "You're all set for the ceremony."
Sean stands immediately, fishing in his pocket for his keys. He's leaving without a word, without even looking at me.
"Wait," I hear myself say. I stand up without thinking, my heart pounding. Sean pauses, his back to me, tension in the line of his shoulders.
"Could we… could we talk?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. "Just for a few minutes? I just thought—maybe we should try to get to know each other a little. Before—"
"No."
The word is hard and final.
"But we're getting married in a week," I press, desperation creeping into my voice. "We're going to be living together, sharing a life—shouldn't we at least try to—"
He turns then, and the look on his face stops the words in my throat. It's not hatred, exactly. It's worse. It's nothing. Complete emptiness, like I'm not even worth the energy of emotion.
"We're not going to be friends, Maeve," he says, and that strange feeling rolls through me again at the way my name sounds when he says it, rolled across his tongue in his thick accent.
"We're not going to share cozy conversations and get to know each other. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us. Just show up on the wedding day, and let’s get this finished. "
Each word lands like a slap. I feel my eyes burning, but I refuse to cry in front of him. "Fine," I manage. "I understand."
Something flickers across his face, that flash of emotion that I’ve seen before but can’t read, but then it's gone, and he's walking away, leaving me alone in the office with the two Council members and Father McCleary.
“Maeve,” Father McCleary says gently. “Are you alright?”
I swallow hard, still fighting back tears. “Fine,” I manage, my fingers trembling as I head toward the door.
Five minutes later, I’m in the car being driven home. But home feels less like a sanctuary than it ever did.
In a little over a week, I’m going to have to share it with a stranger.
—
The Monday of the week I’m getting married, I find myself at the bridal boutique that Meredith recommended, all alone for what should be one of the most fun days of my life.
Instead, I feel wholly alone. Siobhan wouldn’t have been a blast to shop for a wedding dress with, but at least, if she were still alive, I would have had my sister here with me.
She would probably have made cutting comments about what shade of white I should pick that wouldn’t clash with my hair, which is more ginger than copper, and about my figure in the silhouettes I like… but I wouldn’t have been alone.
I wouldn’t have had to ignore the look of pity on the saleswoman’s face when she asked me if anyone was coming, and I had to shake my head no.
The boutique has been closed down for my appointment, a private one arranged by Meredith.
There’s a small tea service set out with tiny sandwiches and little cakes, a pot of Earl Grey cream tea, and a flute of champagne, in case I want to nibble or drink.
In other circumstances, I probably would have found it adorable and exciting.
But my stomach is twisted in so many knots that I’m pretty sure trying to eat or drink anything right now would result in me vomiting long before I got the first dress on.
The saleswoman—Abby—asks me about my preferences and tries to hide her clear frustration when I tell her that I really don’t know.
I never dreamed about my wedding, but I will admit that I fantasized from time to time about a wedding dress.
The truth is, though, that every fiber in me resents the idea of wearing my dream gown to marry a man who clearly hates me, who I’m being forced into wedlock with.
Showing up in a fantasy of tulle and pearls and silk seems like a betrayal of a more innocent version of me, one who imagined that when a husband was picked for her, it might at least be someone she liked.
But there’s no fairy tale for me—at least not one in which I’m not forced to marry the villain of the tale.
Sean seems to fit that description nicely. If he’s the beast he seems to be, he’s certainly not going to turn into a charming prince.
Abby brings back a mountain of gowns in different styles and proceeds to zip, lace, and button me into each one as I look in the mirror and try to feel something about any particular choice.
There’s a plain white silk that makes my hair look far too orange, and the rest of me looks like a cupcake, and I almost choose it just out of sheer rebellion, to look as unappealing as possible.
But there is some vanity in me, and so I tell her no.
There’s a mermaid gown that’s so uncomfortable that I can’t stand being in it for even a full minute, several dresses that are too trendy or casual to get married in the fanciest church in Boston, others that don’t suit me at all.
Several are too sexy, with cutouts and low necklines that would get me kicked out of the church in an instant.
And then Abby brings out a dress so gorgeous that I can’t ignore it, even if I don’t want to get married to Sean in a dream gown.
Because for someone like me, who loves tea and Gothic novels and historical romances, rainy days and cuddling with my cat and imagining myself in far-off places, it is a dream.
The gown is a more antique style, in a champagne hue.
The bodice is corseted all the way down past my hips, with intricate gold and beaded embroidery and embellishments all along the bust, the sides, and across the sharp V that it creates of my waist. Champagne tulle falls straight down from beneath the corset, and the sleeves are a froth of layers of tulle that fall in a handkerchief style down to my elbows.
Above the bust of the corset, illusion lace covered in more goldwork embroidery rises all the way up to a high-necked collar.
Down the back, small pearl buttons close the back of the collar, and the lace covering my shoulders ending just above the corset lacing.
It’s modest, stunning, and the most unique dress I’ve ever seen.
“We don’t sell many from this designer,” Abby begins, “most brides prefer a more modern style. But since you haven’t liked anything you’ve tried on so far…”
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, feeling my throat tighten. I wish more than anything that I could have found this dress for a wedding I want, to walk down the aisle to a man I love, and see the look on his face.
But that was never going to happen for me. I stare at the dress and try to take some solace in the fact that at least I found something beautiful to wear… something that feels like me.
“Do you want to try it on?” Abby asks. I don’t need to—I already know it’s the one, but I nod anyway. I slip on the dress as she buttons and laces it in the back, and my reflection in the mirror makes my breath catch.
I don’t look like a traditional bride, per se, but I do look like me. It looks like exactly what I would choose, given the option, and I nod as Abby looks at me over my shoulder.
“This one,” I tell her firmly, and she helps me out of it, zipping the dress into a garment bag as I slip back into my leggings and sweater, and boots.