Chapter 9 Sean
SEAN
The Connelly estate looks different in daylight.
Both times I was here before were at night—when the Council first showed up to tell Maeve about the marriage and when we came here for dinner.
Now, in the morning light, it looks less imposing, though still beautiful.
The red brick Georgian mansion rises three stories above manicured lawns surrounded by wrought-iron fencing, a long driveway flanked by trees leading to a circular ending in front of the house.
It’s stately and beautiful, and I fucking hate it.
Maeve was already dressed when I came to collect her this morning, wearing a pair of slim dark jeans and a soft-looking rose-pink sweater.
She averted her eyes when I stripped the bed of the bloody sheet and folded it, knowing it needs to go to Connor, and didn’t speak to me as we left.
She hasn’t said one word on the entire drive here, and I haven’t known what to say to her either, so we’ve just existed in silence.
The driver pulls up to the front of the entrance, and before I can reach for the door handle, he's already out and opening Maeve's door for her.
"Welcome home, Miss Connelly," he says, and there's genuine warmth in his voice.
"Thank you, Patrick." Maeve finally speaks, with a tiny smile on her lips that quickly fades. She doesn’t remind him that she’s Mrs. Flannery now, that this mansion doesn’t belong to her anymore—that everything here belongs to me by virtue of our marriage.
Smart girl, I can’t help but think. She’s powerless, owned by the Council and me now, and any agency she can keep for herself she’s going to need.
I climb out of the car myself before Patrick can rush around to open my door like I'm some kind of invalid. He flinches slightly when I emerge, and I catch the way his gaze darts to my scarred face before looking quickly away. It’s clear I’m frightening him.
Good. He should be nervous.
The front door opens before we reach it, revealing an older woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun. She's wearing a simple black dress, and she has an air of authority about her as she looks down her nose at me despite being several inches shorter. Her face softens when she looks at Maeve.
"Maeve, darling." Her voice softens as she pulls my wife into a hug. "I’m so glad you’re back. Are you alright, dear?”
"I'm fine, Mrs. Brady." Maeve returns the embrace, and I don't miss the way she seems to relax slightly in the older woman's arms. "I'm glad to be back, too.”
Mrs. Brady squeezes Maeve once more, then turns to look at me. Any warmth disappears entirely.
"Mr. Flannery." Her tone is polite. Nothing more. "Welcome to the Connelly residence."
"Mrs. Brady is the housekeeper," Maeve says quietly, and I catch the unspoken message: Be nice to her. She's family.
"Ma'am." I nod, keeping my expression neutral.
The housekeeper's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, clearly taking my measure and finding me wanting, before she steps aside. "I've had your rooms prepared. Maeve, I assumed you'd want to stay in your old suite, and I've had the master bedroom made up for Mr. Flannery."
"Actually—" Maeve starts, but I cut her off.
"That's fine. Thank you."
Separate rooms. Perfect. Exactly what I need right now.
Trying to sleep next to Maeve will only cause us both more grief.
I’m surprised she argued with it at all, but right now, I don’t particularly fucking care why.
I just want to make sure that I can keep as much distance between us as possible, as often as possible.
Maeve's jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue. Just follows Mrs. Brady into the house, with me trailing behind like some kind of unwanted stray they've taken in out of pity. My jaw tightens. I’m the owner of this house now, the man in charge, but I’ve never felt less like it. This isn’t my world in the slightest.
The interior is exactly what I expected.
High ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors that probably cost more per square foot than my entire apartment in Dublin.
Antique furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum.
Oil paintings of dead Connellys staring down from the walls with expressions ranging from stern to mildly constipated.
This is Maeve's world. This wealth, this history, this suffocating perfection.
And now, apparently, it's mine too.
The thought makes my skin crawl. I started working for the Council for revenge, not for wealth. They’ve kept me paid well enough to ensure I’m comfortable, but I’ve hardly spent any of it at all. Maeve probably thinks I married her for her money, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Mrs. Brady leads us through a maze of rooms—parlor, sitting room, library, dining room—all of them meticulously maintained, walls painted rich colors or patterned with wallpaper, everything heavy, antique, and old-fashioned.
It feels like a museum rather than a house, and I have the urge to avoid touching anything.
“Lunch will be prepared at one,” Mrs. Brady explains as we climb the grand staircase to the second floor. "There is staff available for any of your needs, and you’ll have someone particularly assigned to your comfort, Mr. Flannery, so if you’re in need of refreshments, an errand run, or—”
"How many staff are there?" I interrupt.
She blinks at me. "Twelve full-time, sir. Plus additional help for events and—"
"Christ."
Maeve flinches at my tone, and Mrs. Brady's expression goes frosty.
"The estate requires considerable upkeep, Mr. Flannery. The Connelly family has always taken pride in maintaining both the property and providing good employment to—"
"I'm sure they have." I force myself to sound less like an asshole. "I'm just not used to… this."
The understatement of the fucking century.
Maeve gives me a quizzical look, but she says nothing.
Mrs. Brady sniffs, clearly unimpressed, and continues down the hallway.
She stops at a door near the end and opens it to reveal a bedroom that's very obviously Maeve’s.
Soft blues and creams, white furniture, books everywhere.
A window seat overlooking the garden. The kind of room where a sheltered girl might grow up dreaming of a life she'd never be allowed to have.
"Your suite, Maeve." Mrs. Brady's voice gentles again. "I’ve tidied up and made sure everything is pristine for you."
"Thank you." Maeve steps inside, and I see her shoulders relax slightly. This is her sanctuary. The one place in this mausoleum where she feels safe.
I stay outside. I have no desire to invade it. No interest in making her feel worse than she already does.
"The master bedroom is just down the hall, Mr. Flannery." Mrs. Brady gestures vaguely. "I'll have Patrick bring up your luggage. Lunch will be served in the dining room at one," she reminds me.
She leaves before I can respond, and suddenly it's just me and Maeve in and out front of her childhood bedroom, with about six feet of expensive Persian rug and a doorway between us, and an ocean of things we're not saying.
“I don’t have to stay in here,” Maeve says quietly, not looking at me. "You can… I mean, if you'd rather I stay with you, I can—"
"No." The word comes out harsher than I intend. "Separate rooms is better."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "Okay."
Fuck. I'm handling this badly. I'm handling everything badly.
"Maeve—"
"I should unpack." She moves to the window, putting more distance between us. "Maybe rest a little, before lunch.”
I realize I’ve been dismissed. By my own wife, in a house that's technically mine now. I should probably be angry about that. Instead, I just feel tired.
"Fine. I'll see you at one."
I leave before I can say anything else stupid, before I can see the hurt and fear that I know is written all over her face.
—
The master suite is ridiculous.
There’s a king-sized bed with a canopy, and more antique furniture, as well as another of those expensive rugs stretched over the gleaming hardwood floor.
There’s a fireplace, for fuck's sake, and an ensuite bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a shower that could fit four people.
Three huge windows that overlook the estate, with a gorgeous view, and a balcony leading off of the bedroom.
It's easily three times the size of my entire flat in Dublin.
I drop my bag on the bed and move to the window.
From here, I can see the rolling hills of the estate’s land, one side of the gardens, a pool deck with a tarp stretched over a pool that’s likely been winterized.
It’s all excessive and luxurious and not what I ever imagined myself presiding over—nor have I ever wanted to.
My phone buzzes. A text from Liam, one of the Council members.
Documents are in the study. Review them today. We'll expect your report by week's end.
Right. Because in addition to figuring out what the fuck to do with my unwanted wife, I'm also supposed to take over management of the Connelly business interests. Properties, investments, holdings I know nothing about and care even less for. I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do with any of this.
I’m an assassin, not a bloody accountant.
I pocket my phone and head downstairs, following the route Mrs. Brady showed us. The study is exactly where she said it would be—first floor, east wing, overlooking the garden. Maeve’s father’s former study, used by her brother after their father’s death. It doesn’t feel like mine in the slightest.
It's a masculine room, with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
A massive desk dominates the center, and on it sit several stacks of papers.
There are filing cabinets behind it. My phone buzzes again, and I see a text with the password to the computer.
I was given keys yesterday, too. Presumably, they unlock some of these drawers.