Chapter 5 Velvet Vows & Bleeding Strings #2
The priest smiles at me. “I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Malloy.”
“So do I,” I reply softly.
A lie delivered perfectly. The priest gathers his coat, offers one last benediction, and lets himself out. The door closes behind him with a gentle click.
Silence. It lasts exactly one second. I stand so fast my chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“What the fuck was that?” I snap, turning on Finn. “Obedience? Patience? You sat there and let him talk like I’m already yours to manage.”
Finn’s expression hardens instantly. The pleasant host vanishes.
“You behaved,” he says. “Exactly as you were meant to.”
“I am not meant for anything,” I spit. “Especially not this—this performance you keep dragging me through.”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “You wanted to survive the month. That’s what this looks like.”
“I will survive,” I shoot back. “What I won’t do is smile through it while you brand me like cattle.”
His gaze flicks to the necklace at my throat. Dark. Possessive.
“You wore it,” he says.
“Because you threatened me.”
“Because you know what happens if you don’t.”
The air between us crackles, old anger and new heat tangling together again, sharp enough to cut.
“I hate you,” I say, meaning it this time without heat to soften it.
Finn exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight. “Aye,” he says. “I know.”
We stand there—too close, too angry, too aware of everything we are pretending not to feel. The house holds its breath around us and I know, with sickening clarity, that the polite part of the day is over.
The knock comes before either of us can say something we won’t be able to walk back. A sharp, polite rap at the door. Finn doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me.
“Yes?” he calls.
The door opens and one of the staff steps in, eyes carefully lowered. “The jeweller has arrived, sir. For the wedding bands.”
Of course he has.
Finn’s jaw tightens—not in irritation, but in calculation. “Send him through.”
The staff retreats immediately. I don’t look at Finn. I look down instead, fingers curling against the skirt of my dress, breath steadying as something cold settles in my chest.
Wedding bands. Plural.
The jeweller enters carrying a slim black case, expression professional and reverent in the way men get when they know exactly whose money they’re touching. He nods to Finn first. To me second.
“Lady Malloy,” he says.
He opens the case on the low table between us. Gold, platinum, sets arranged in neat rows, each one more ornate than the last. Old money designs, heavy, permanent. I stare at them like they might bite. Then I look at my hand. Bare.
No engagement ring. No promise. No lie dressed up as romance. Just the band Finn forced onto my throat like a substitute. I lift my eyes to him slowly.
“So,” I say coolly. “Straight to wedding bands, then?”
The jeweller freezes. Finn doesn’t flinch.
“You don’t need an engagement ring,” he replies.
I laugh once. Sharp, humourless. “Funny. Most men at least pretend.”
His gaze darkens. “You don’t want pretending.”
“No,” I agree. “I want honesty.”
I gesture lightly at my empty hand. “Seems a bit backwards, doesn’t it? Collar first. Ring later. Or not at all.”
The jeweller clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the inside of the case.
Finn steps closer, voice low. “Careful.”
“With what?” I ask sweetly. “Pointing out that I’m marrying you without so much as a question being asked?”
“You were never going to say yes.”
“And yet,” I reply, eyes flicking to the bands, “here we are.”
Silence stretches, heavy and loaded.
Finn finally exhales, slow and controlled. “Pick a set.”
I look at the rings again, then back at my bare hand.
“No,” I say quietly.
The jeweller swallows.
Finn’s gaze sharpens. “Róisín.”
I lift my chin. “If you’re going to own me,” I say evenly, “do it properly.”
The words hang there—dangerous, daring, irrevocable. Finn smooths his cuffs like this is any other morning.
“Very well,” he says calmly. “Please entertain our guest. I’ll return shortly.”
Not a question. Not a courtesy. He gives the jeweller a brief nod—dismissive but polite—then turns and leaves the room without another look at me. The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.
Silence floods in. I don’t move for a moment.
Then I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and cross to the tea tray like this is what I was born to do.
My movements are precise, unhurried. Lady Malloy to the bone.
I pour carefully, steam curling up between us, the clink of porcelain the only sound in the room. I hand the jeweller his cup first.
He takes it with a grateful little smile. “Thank you, miss.”
I sit opposite him with my own cup, ankles crossed neatly, hands steady around the china. I don’t drink.
He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “The O’Callaghan family have… exquisite taste. Very traditional.”
I meet his eyes over the rim of the cup. “Let’s not pretend,” I say quietly.
He blinks. “Pardon?”
I set the cup down with deliberate care. “Let's not pretend that this is a joyous occasion. Or that I’m here to coo over settings and carats like a girl picking ribbons.”
The jeweller swallows. His polite smile falters.
“I’m only here to do my job,” he says carefully.
“So am I,” I reply.
The rings sit between us, gleaming, patient. Waiting.
I glance down at my bare hand again, then back at him. “When my future husband returns, you may show him whatever he likes.”
I fold my hands in my lap. Perfect posture. Perfect stillness.
“But don’t ask me to pretend this is romantic,” I continue softly. “I don’t have the energy for lies today.”
The jeweller nods quickly. “Of course. Of course.”
Finn returns quietly. The jeweller straightens immediately, halfway to gathering his case, already sensing he’s overstayed his welcome.
“No,” I say.
The word is soft. Absolute. Both men look at me.
I don’t take my eyes off Finn as I continue, “You can stay.”
The jeweller hesitates, glancing between us like he’s just stepped into something sacred and dangerous in equal measure. Finn’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t contradict me.
“If you’re going to do this,” I say evenly, “do it properly.”
Finn frowns. “Róisín—”
“On your knees,” I interrupt, calm as a blade. “Like a gentleman. For a proper lady.”
The room stills. The jeweller’s eyes widen a fraction, but he says nothing. This is not in any handbook he owns. Finn doesn’t move. For a long moment, I think he won’t. That pride will win. That he’ll drag this back into threat and teeth and force. Then he exhales.
Something flashes across his face—surprise, irritation, something sharper underneath. He snatches the box from my hand and drops to one knee. The sound is solid. Real. It knocks the air out of my lungs.
He opens the box and the world tilts. I know that ring.
Not just recognise it—know it. The cut. The setting.
The rubies flanking the stone instead of emeralds, deep and deliberate, chosen to match something else he once swore would always be mine.
A cathedral of gold holding a diamond so clear it almost hurts to look at.
This isn’t new, this is old. Planned. Promised. Dreamed of in a different life, when we were young and reckless and stupid enough to believe love could outrun blood.
My chest tightens so hard I have to swallow to breathe. Finn looks up at me from one knee, eyes dark, bare, stripped of every layer but the truth.
“Róisín Malloy,” he says, voice low and unmistakably himself. Northern. Rough around the edges. Earnest in the way that hurts most. “I’ve loved you longer than I’ve hated you. And I’ll love you long after you stop pretending you don’t feel it.”
My vision blurs, throat burns.
“Marry me,” he says simply. “Not because they made us. But because it’s always been you.”
The room is silent. The jeweller might as well not exist. I nod once. Then again.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The word breaks something open in me. Finn stands, takes my hand with care that feels cruel in its gentleness, and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
We don’t speak. We don’t look away. Everything between us—love, rage, grief, betrayal—sits heavy and unresolved, humming like a string pulled too tight.
Finn releases my hand first. Straightens. And just like that, the mask settles back into place.
“Good,” he says quietly. Then, to the jeweller, businesslike once more, “Now let’s get on with the wedding band set.”
I stare at the ring on my finger. At the future we broke. At the one we’re being forced to build anyway. And I wonder which of us this marriage will destroy first.
I don’t speak. The jeweller clears his throat and opens a second case, then another, laying out pairs with careful hands. Bands meant to complement. Meant to match. Gold echoing gold. Weight chosen to sit beside the ring already claiming my finger.
“These would sit well together,” he says gently, sliding one pair forward. “Designed to balance the setting without overpowering it.”
I glance down. Look at them without really seeing them.
“That’s fine,” I say quietly.
The jeweller hesitates. “Are you certain, miss? We can explore other—”
“It’s fine,” I repeat.
My voice sounds distant to my own ears. Finn doesn’t look at me. He looks at the rings. Assesses. Decides.
“Yes,” he says. “Those.”
The jeweller nods quickly and retrieves his tools, moving with renewed purpose. He takes Finn’s hand first, measures, murmurs numbers under his breath. Then he turns to me.
“May I?”
I extend my hand automatically. He measures my finger carefully, adjusts once, then again. Notes everything down. He glances up at me, clearly unsure whether to ask the next question.
“Would you like an inscription inside the bands?” he asks politely. “A date. Initials. A phrase, perhaps.”
Finn shakes his head before I can answer. “No.”
The jeweller scribbles it down. “Very well.”
He talks about timelines. Custom casting. Final fittings before Valentine’s Day. The words wash over me without landing. I stare at the ring on my finger, the diamond catching light every time I move without meaning to.
This was supposed to be joy. This was supposed to be whispered and hidden and sacred. Instead it feels like something set too carefully into place long after the damage was done.
Finn’s voice cuts through faintly. Controlled. Efficient. “That’ll be all.”
The jeweller nods, packs up, promises delivery dates I don’t register. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just sit there, staring at my hand like it belongs to someone else entirely, while the future settles quietly around me without asking.
The jeweller leaves quietly, the door closing with a soft, merciful click. Silence settles. Finn exhales like the room has finally stopped holding its breath. He turns toward me, a trace of that infuriating calm slipping back into his posture.
“There,” he says lightly. “You got your way again.”
I don’t respond. I’m still staring at my hand. At the ring. At the weight of it. At everything it means and everything it cost.
Finn frowns. “Róisín?”
Nothing.
His tone shifts—just a little. Less sharp. “Are you alright?”
He steps closer. That’s the mistake. I move before he finishes the step.
Steel flashes into my hand—small, familiar, hidden where it always is.
I’m in front of him in a heartbeat, the blade pressed to his throat so precisely it’s almost tender.
The edge bites just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Finn freezes. Not fear. Recognition.
“Do not,” I say quietly, voice deadly calm, “ever touch me again.”
His pulse jumps beneath the knife.
“I hate you,” I continue. “For this. For all of it. For taking something that was meant to be mine and turning it into a cage.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.
“I would rather die,” I say, pressing the blade a fraction closer, “than lie in your marital bed and pretend this is love.”
The words land like gunshots. I pull the knife away cleanly, already stepping back. He reaches for me instinctively—I turn before he can. I walk out of the room with my spine straight and my blood roaring, the ring heavy on my finger, my necklace cold against my throat. I don’t look back.
The hours pass and I don’t leave my bedroom again. When staff knock, I don’t answer. When someone murmurs about lunch, I finally speak through the door, voice sharp and absolute.
“Bring it here.”
Silence follows. Then footsteps retreat. I lock the door. And for the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself breathe—knife in hand, heart in pieces, fury the only thing holding me together.