Chapter 9 Sean #2
Twenty minutes later, I have a raging migraine.
I’ve been looking over legal documents, property deeds, and investment portfolios, and it’s all Greek to me.
I can plan an operation, handle weapons, kill a target from a thousand yards out.
But corporate finance? Estate management?
I'm about as qualified for this as I am for marriage. Which is to say, not at all.
I spend the next hour trying to make sense of it, growing more frustrated with each page.
The Connelly empire is large—properties in Boston, New York, Dublin, London.
Holdings in shipping, real estate, manufacturing.
Maeve’s father built his family something substantial, and it feels wrong that it’s all been handed over to me.
I have no stake in this, no desire to do anything with it, no ties beyond the ones that were forced on me yesterday.
But it’s all mine now.
And so is she.
I doubt Maeve knows how to access any of this, and that thought pisses me off more than it should. She grew up in this house, surrounded by wealth, and they kept her deliberately ignorant. Sheltered. Useless.
No wonder she was so easy for the Council to marry off.
"Mr. Flannery?" Mrs. Brady's voice from the doorway makes me look up. "Lunch is ready."
I glance at my watch. One o'clock already. "Thank you."
She doesn't leave. Just stands there, studying me with those sharp, knowing eyes.
"Something else?" I ask, more curtly than I mean to. But this house is mine now, after all, and Mrs. Brady is staff. I’m not accustomed to thinking of anyone that way, but maybe I’m going to have to, if I’m going to survive this.
If I’m going to help Maeve survive it, too.
"That girl has been through more than anyone her age should have to endure," she says quietly. "Her father, her siblings… she's lost everyone."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" She steps into the room. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's lost one more person. The man who's supposed to protect her."
My jaw clenches. "I'm not—"
"I don't care what arrangement the Council forced on you both," she interrupts. "I don't care if you wanted this marriage or not. But that girl deserves better than to be treated like a burden."
She's right. I know she's right. But knowing it doesn't help.
"I'll be there in a minute," I say flatly. It’s a dismissal, and I can see that the housekeeper knows it.
Mrs. Brady holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods and leaves.
I sit there for another thirty seconds, trying to get my shit together. Trying to figure out how the fuck I'm supposed to be a husband when I can barely function as a human being.
Finally, I push back from the desk and head to the dining room.
—
When I walk in a few minutes later, Maeve is already seated at one end of a table that could easily seat twenty.
She looks small. Fragile. Lost in this enormous room with its crystal chandelier and formal place settings.
She’s sitting to the right of the head of the table, and I’m briefly confused until I realize that, of course, I’m supposed to fucking sit there.
She doesn't look up when I enter.
I take the seat across from her. She looks up. “You’re supposed to sit there,” she says flatly, motioning to the seat next to her. I shrug.
“I’d rather sit here.”
Her mouth thins. I see something flicker in her eyes, but I can’t read what it is. Finally, she shrugs too. “Fine,” she says, and drops her gaze to her plate.
A young woman comes in a moment later, dressed in black, and brings us each a bowl of hot soup—French onion, I think, from the scent.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since dinner last night.
The woman sets down a bowl in front of each of us, fills our water glasses, and steps back.
"Thank you, Claire," Maeve says softly.
Claire nods and disappears out of the room.
We start to eat in silence—or rather, Maeve stares at her soup while I mechanically chew and swallow without tasting anything.
I’m pretty sure it’s fucking delicious, but I can’t focus on anything except how wan and miserable my bride looks sitting across from me.
This is unsustainable—this cold war between us, this careful distance. But I don't know how to bridge it without making things worse.
"I was looking at the estate documents," I finally say.
She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "Oh?"
"There's a lot here. Properties, investments, business holdings." I set down my spoon. "Did your father ever discuss any of it with you?"
Her expression shuts down. "No."
"Nothing? Not even basics about the family business?"
"I wasn't supposed to worry about those things." Her voice is tight. "I was supposed to be… decorative. Groomed for marriage, when the time was right."
My jaw tightens. "That's fucking ridiculous."
"That's my life." She stops talking as Claire walks in again, this time bringing plates of chicken salad sandwiches with slices of pickle and thick-cut chips. “It’s how things are.”
“Well, that’s fucking stupid.”
Maeve swallows hard. She looks down at her plate, at the sandwiches, and then drops her napkin onto the table suddenly, pushing her chair away.
"If you'll excuse me—"
"Maeve, wait."
But she's already leaving, her footsteps echoing in the hallway.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the half-eaten food, the empty chair across from me. Then I push back from the table and follow her.
—
I find her in the garden, on a bench near the roses. Her back is straight, her hands folded in her lap, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Go away," she says without turning around.
"No,” I tell her flatly, my irritation rising. Yes, this is a shitty fucking situation for her, but it is for me, too. I took the time to come out here and check on her; the least she could do is not sit there and fucking pout.
That’s not helpful, Flannery. You didn’t come out here to make it worse. I clench my teeth, breathing slowly as Maeve speaks again.
"I'm not hungry. You can report back to Mrs. Brady that I'm fine."
"I'm not here because of Mrs. Brady." I move around the bench so I can see her face. "I'm here because I was an asshole in there."
"You're an asshole everywhere." Her voice is flat. "It's not specific to the dining room."
Fair point.
I sit down on the bench, leaving space between us. "The documents in the study—there's a lot to go through. I'll need help understanding it all."
"Then hire someone who knows about business. I can't help you." She refuses to turn toward me, her voice empty.
"Because they never taught you."
"Because I'm useless." She finally looks at me, and there's the first hint of fire in those light blue eyes. "Isn't that what you think? That I'm just some sheltered, stupid girl who can't do anything for herself?"
"That's not—"
"I saw how you looked at me in there. Frustrated. Angry. Like I'm just one more problem you have to solve." She stands, facing me now. "Well, I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment. I'm sorry I don't know about the estate. I'm sorry I'm not the kind of wife who can just… just..."
Her voice breaks, and she turns away.
"Maeve—"
"I didn't ask for this either," she says, her voice shaking.
"I didn't ask to be married to someone who looks at me like he hates me.
Who can't even..." She stops, wrapping her arms around herself.
"I never had choices. Not about my education, not about my life, and certainly not about who I married.
So if you're angry about being stuck with me, imagine how I feel being stuck with you. "
The words hit like a physical blow. She's right.
About all of it. I have been treating her like a burden, like an obligation I resent.
Because she is those things. But she's also a person who didn't choose this any more than I did. My chest feels tight. I’m not equipped for any of this, and neither is she, and neither of us is the kind of person who can figure out how to make this work.
If there’s a hell, I have a feeling we’re both in it.
"You're not useless," I say quietly.
"Don't." She shakes her head. "Don't say things you don't mean just to make me feel better."
"I'm not." I stand, taking a step toward her. "I'm frustrated with your father. With your family. With the Council. With everyone who kept you in the dark about your own life. Not with you."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Okay. Sure. Whatever you want to say."
"It's the truth."
"Is it?" She turns to face me fully, and her eyes are damp with tears, glittering with anger. "Because you've done nothing but push me away since the moment we met. You made it very clear last night that you don't want me. That touching me is so repulsive you'd rather cut yourself open than—"
"That's not why I did that."
"Then why?" She moves closer, and I can smell her powdery, floral perfume. Fuck. She smells sweet and warm and feminine, and despite everything, I feel my cock twitch, swelling against my fly. "Why did you leave? Why do you look at me like... like..."
"Like what?" I growl, and my voice drops an octave. She freezes, her eyes widening, and something primal in me responds, my cock hardening until it’s straining painfully against the front of my jeans.
Fuck.
The space between us shrinks. I don't know if she stepped closer or I did, but suddenly there's barely a foot separating us. I can see the exact color of her blue eyes, the flush on her pale cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“I cut myself because I couldn’t fuck a woman who was shaking and crying at the thought of me touching her,” I bite out. “And I left because I couldn’t stop wanting you even though it made me feel like shit.”
Her breath catches. "I don’t understand—”
"You're eighteen years old. A virgin. You just lost your entire family. And I'm..." I force myself to stop moving closer. "I'm not good for you, Maeve. I'm not good for anyone."