Chapter 6
Nora
Tomorrow, I’ll be his wife.
I feel as though I’ve entered an alternate universe. I’m marrying a man I’ve known for mere days—a man who terrifies half of Chicago.
“What are you thinking about?” Cillian’s voice comes from the doorway.
I turn to face him. “That I agreed to marry you.”
He moves into the room, his presence filling the space between us. “Are you having regrets already?”
The question demands honesty.
“No. I don’t regret it.”
Something eases in his expression. “Good. We’re going shopping today.”
“Shopping? For what?”
“You need clothes. And a wedding dress.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.
“I don’t need anything fancy—”
“Nora.” He takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that gesture I’m starting to love. “As my wife, you’ll be expected to dress a certain way.”
My wife. The possessiveness in those two words sends heat through my veins. I look at our joined hands—his scarred and powerful, mine small and pale against his.
“Okay.”
Two hours later, we pull up to a boutique with a name I can’t pronounce. The windows display clothing I’d never dare try on, with prices that would normally leave me gasping.
Cillian speaks into his phone as the car idles. “We’re here.”
He pockets his phone and announces, “They’re ready for us.”
“Ready for us?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
He tucks his phone away. “I had them close the store for our appointment.”
“The entire store?” I stare at him. “You can’t do that.”
“I already did.” He opens my door, offering his hand. “Come on.”
Inside, a woman with sleek dark hair greets Cillian warmly. “Mr. O’Rourke, welcome.”
“Marie. Thank you for accommodating us.”
Marie turns her professional smile to me, her assessment quick and thorough. “This must be your fiancée.”
Fiancée. Holy hell.
“Yes. Nora needs a complete wardrobe. And a wedding dress.”
Marie nods as though this is perfectly ordinary. “Of course. If you’ll follow me...”
She leads us to a sitting area with plush chairs and a platform surrounded by mirrors. Cillian settles into one of the chairs, completely at ease in this world of wealth I’m still trying to understand.
“What styles do you prefer, Ms...?” Marie trails off.
“Just Nora.” I don’t want to give her my last name. It won’t be mine much longer anyway.
“What styles do you typically wear?”
I glance down at my ragged jeans and sweater—purchases from a thrift store bargain bin. “I don’t know what I like. I’ve never...”
The words stick in my throat. I’ve never been asked. I’ve never had options. Preferences were luxuries I couldn’t afford.
Marie fills the awkward silence with professional kindness. “We’ll try a variety then. Why don’t we start with some everyday pieces?”
For the next hour, Marie brings outfit after outfit. Casual clothes, formal clothes, sleepwear, shoes. I try everything on, emerging from the dressing room each time to find Cillian’s eyes trained on me with absolute focus.
“That color washes you out,” he says to a beige dress.
“No, not that cut,” to a boxy sweater.
“Yes. That one,” to a pair of jeans that fit perfectly.
A pattern emerges. He prefers things that show my figure without being too revealing. He likes me in blue and green. He notices details I wouldn’t—the way a neckline frames my collarbones, how a particular shade brings out the gold in my eyes.
He’s learning me.
The realization hits as I try on another outfit. He’s also paying attention to and cataloging what makes me comfortable, what makes me smile, what makes me feel good. No one has ever cared enough to notice these things about me.
“What do you think of this one?” Marie asks, holding up a red blouse.
I hesitate. It’s beautiful, but so bright. I’ve spent my life trying to disappear.
“Do you like it?” Cillian asks, watching me.
“I... I don’t know if it’s me.”
“Try it.” His voice is encouraging, not commanding. “If you don’t like it, we don’t buy it.”
I take the blouse into the dressing room. The fabric is soft against my skin as I slip it on. When I look in the mirror, the vibrant red makes me look alive.
I step out before I can second-guess myself.
Cillian’s expression shifts—warmth crossing his features. “What do you think?”
I turn back to the mirror, studying the unfamiliar woman looking back at me. “I think... I like it.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
Those three words—we’ll take it—settle over me like a warm blanket. He asked what I wanted. He listened to my answer. He’s letting me choose. It’s actually…fun.
By the time Marie brings out dresses, the pile of approved clothing has grown to an amount I can’t comprehend. I’ve never owned so many things in my life.
“For everyday events,” Marie explains, presenting a rack of dresses.
I move through them, touching fabrics, considering colors. My hand stops on a simple green sheath dress. The color reminds me of Cillian’s eyes.
“I’d like to try this one.”
Marie smiles. “Excellent choice.”
In the dressing room, I slip the dress on. The fabric is soft and expensive. It hugs my body in a way that feels elegant rather than revealing.
I step out, my heart beating faster.
Cillian goes very still. His gaze moves from my face down the length of me and up again.
“Turn around.”
I comply, turning in a slow circle, feeling exposed under his scrutiny.
“Come here.”
I walk toward him, each step measured. When I reach him, he stands, moving around me in a slow circle. He stops behind me, close enough that I swear I can feel his body heat.
“Your hair.” Before I can respond, his fingers find my ponytail, gently pulling the elastic free.
I hold myself very still as his fingers run through my hair, arranging it over my shoulders. We’re reflected in the wall of mirrors—him behind me, much larger, his hands now resting on my shoulders.
“Beautiful.”
The word thrills me. In the past, I’ve usually associated male attention with fear or loathing. This is something far different. Something that makes me hyperaware of every point where his hands touch my shoulders, of how close his body is to mine, of the way my breathing has changed.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. The moment stretches between us, so charged I feel it in every nerve ending.
Marie returns with more options, and Cillian steps back. The loss of his warmth leaves me unsteady.
“We’ll take that one too,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Keep bringing more.”
The wedding dress selection comes last. Marie brings several options—elaborate gowns with beading and lace, full skirts that remind me of fairy tales.
Each one feels wrong. Too much. Too pretentious. Too...not me. Cillian promised a small wedding. He said it would be just the two of us and our witnesses.
“Is there something simpler?” I ask.
Marie considers me. “I think I have just the thing.”
She returns with a dress that steals my breath—a simple slip dress in ivory silk. No beading, no lace, just clean lines and gorgeous fabric.
In the dressing room, I slide it on. It fits like it was made for me, skimming over my body without clinging. When I look in the mirror, I see someone I almost don’t recognize—someone who could stand beside Cillian O’Rourke and not feel completely out of place.
I step out of the dressing room.
Cillian stands immediately. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin flush.
“Is it okay?” I ask when the silence becomes too much.
“It’s perfect.” His voice is tight. “You’re perfect.”
I turn to look in the mirror, and for a moment, I can almost believe him.
When I try to change back, the zipper catches.
“Cillian?” I call after struggling for a minute.
“Yes?” His voice comes from just outside the dressing room.
“I’m stuck.”
A pause. “Can I come in?”
My pulse picks up speed. “Please do.”
The door opens. Cillian fills the small space, and I’m suddenly aware of how little fabric separates us.
“It’s caught,” I say, indicating the zipper.
He moves behind me, his fingers finding the stuck zipper. I can feel his breath on my neck as he works to free it.
“Hold still.”
I freeze, barely breathing. His fingers brush against my spine as he frees the zipper and slides it down—not quickly, but with deliberate care.
I shiver.
The dress gapes open, revealing my back, the edge of my bra. His hand lingers at the base of my spine, his palm warm through the thin silk.
He leans closer. His breath is hot against my ear when he speaks. “I should go.”
But he doesn’t move. Neither do I. I can feel the heat of him behind me, the careful restraint in the way his hand rests against my spine. Part of me—a part I didn’t know existed until I met him—wants him to keep touching me. Wants him to slide that hand higher, or lower, or anywhere. Just...more.
He steps back. The loss of contact makes me want to lean backward into the space he occupied.
“I’ll be outside.”
The door clicks shut behind him. I release a shaky breath, my reflection showing flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
By the time we leave, we’re loaded down with shopping bags and an assurance that the rest of the items, those that are to be hand-tailored, will be delivered in the next day or two.
Instead of going straight back to the penthouse, Cillian takes me out into the city—not the tourist version, but his version.
The first stop is O’Rourke’s, the pub his grandparents founded, which is currently closed this week for renovations.
I see the corner where he had his first fistfight at twelve.
The park where his mother used to bring him and his brothers as kids.
I learn about him through these places.
At a bookshop, he hands me a basket and orders me to, “Pick whatever you want, but I want to see that basket filled before we leave.”
I choose with care. Classics I’ve wanted to read. A cookbook. A few romance novels I tuck under the other books so he won’t see the covers. He notices anyway, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
I realize that I’ve had more fun today than I’ve had in years. Maybe more fun than I’ve ever had in my entire life.
Cillian is… an enigma.
And in less than a full day, he will be my husband.
Why do I find myself counting the hours?
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, examining my reflection. The bruise on my face has faded to nothing. It’s only been a few days, but already I seem to have gained a little weight—my cheeks look fuller, my collarbones less pronounced, and my hair shines.
I look healthy. Almost happy.
Today, the girl from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks—the girl who, a week ago, had no money, no prospects, and a dismal future—will become Mrs. Cillian O’Rourke.
I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart race beneath my palm.
A knock on the door. “Nora? The car will be here in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I dress carefully in the silk wedding dress, slipping my feet into simple kitten heels. I’ve arranged my hair in soft waves this morning, and used the makeup the way the woman at the makeup counter showed me yesterday.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Cillian is waiting in the living room. He wears a dark suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. He looks devastatingly handsome.
His eyes widen when he sees me, and his expression softens.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smooth my hands down the silk. “You look nice too.”
We ride to City Hall in silence. Cillian holds my hand the entire way, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a gesture that’s becoming familiar—becoming ours.
Inside, we’re led to a private room. Finn is there, a man he introduces me to as his business associate. Also present is a woman in a sharp suit who introduces herself as Patricia Keller.
“I’m your lawyer,” she explains. “I’ve reviewed the contract on your behalf.”
I stare at her, then at Cillian. “You actually...”
“I told you I would,” he says.
Patricia opens a folder. “The terms are extremely favorable to you, Nora. You’re well-protected in this agreement. If you have any questions—”
“Is it fair?” I ask. “To him?”
Cillian’s hand tightens on mine.
Patricia glances between us. “Many of the provisions…lean in your favor. But Mr. O’Rourke insisted.”
I look at Cillian, this man who could have demanded anything from me.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods once.
The ceremony itself is brief. The officiant speaks about commitments and responsibilities, but I barely hear the words. All I can focus on is Cillian’s hand holding mine, the weight of this moment, the irrevocability of what we’re doing.
“Do you, Cillian Patrick O’Rourke, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” His voice is deep, certain, his eyes never leaving mine.
“And do you, Nora Elizabeth Murphy, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
This is it. The moment where I choose this life, this man, this future I never imagined I could have.
My voice shakes. “I do.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
Cillian steps closer, his hands coming up to gently cup my face. For a moment, he simply looks at me, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
Then he asks, so quietly only I can hear, “Is this alright?”
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
His lips touch mine—soft at first, questioning.
I freeze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the newness of it.
Then something in me relaxes, and I lean into the kiss.
His mouth is warm and firm but gentle. One of his hands slides into my hair while the other stays on my face, holding me like I’m something precious.
The kiss lasts only seconds, but when he pulls back, I can’t catch my breath. My first kiss, ever, and it’s at my wedding with my new husband.
The officiant hands us the marriage certificate. I stare at my new name written there: Nora O’Rourke.
I’m no longer Nora Murphy, the nobody girl from nowhere who didn’t matter to anyone.
I’m Nora O’Rourke, wife of Cillian O’Rourke, one of the most powerful men in Chicago.