Chapter 6 Keira
KEIRA
Ihear a vibrating followed by a ding, or at least I think I do. I rub my eyes and stretch. Morning already.
I hear the sound again and turn to reach for my phone.
My eyes are blurry as I swipe up, unlocking it.
A text:
See you at 8 for coffee.
It's from Delores Bennington.
Shit.
I thought that was tomorrow.
I roll onto my back and rub my eyes as I groan. Delores is one of those women who gives to charity just so she can hear her own name repeated at black-tie dinners. But she writes seven-figure checks to the Killaney Trust, and with that comes her demands for face time. Flattery. The whole nine.
I'm not too much of a fan of this, but her money funds real things: after-school programs, scholarships, shelter expansions. Things that matter.
I sit up and brush my hair out of my face. I scroll through my calendar, and there it is:
Coffee with Delores at Bistro Marque.
And underneath it, a reminder I added a few days ago: Asshole starts today.
My jaw tightens.
Perfect.
I toss my phone onto the bed and head for the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders. As I go over the day, my dad pops into my head.
He's been in Ireland for weeks now, recovering. The doctors say he's doing well, that his color's coming back, that he's strong.
But there's some fear clawing at me anyway.
Because what if he's not?
What if they're just saying that to keep us calm?
I sigh.
Either way, he told me to keep going. To keep the foundation running, to keep showing up, to keep being the face of the Killaney name in public.
So that's what I'm doing.
Even if it feels a little like I'm holding my breath underwater.
I finish showering, dry off, and pull open my closet. Something elegant. Sharp. Delores expects it.
I settle on a black tailored dress, a fitted blazer, and red bottoms. Minimalist jewelry, and I think I'll tame my red hair into a sleek ponytail.
Once I'm dressed, I give myself a once-over in the mirror. Perfect. It looks like I didn't just wake up furious at the world.
I grab my keys from the nightstand, my bag from the chair, and head downstairs.
When I get to the bottom, I pause and listen.
No footsteps. No voices.
I didn't stick around long enough to get the full details of how things would start today, but if Octavian's already here, he's probably waiting by the front entrance like some kind of stone statue.
Which means I should be able to slip out the back.
I move quickly, going through the side hall toward the garage. The marble floors betray my steps, so I try to keep them light.
I push through the door into the garage and scan the rows of cars.
My all-black Range Rover's parked in the third row, gleaming under the overhead lights.
I click the key fob, and it unlocks with a chirp.
I slide into the driver's seat, toss my bag onto the passenger side, and start the engine. The purr of the motor fills the space, smooth and powerful.
The garage opens, and I pull out.
When I turn left onto the main road, I look in my mirrors. No one's following.
I exhale slowly.
For now, I'm free.
I turn on the radio and start singing.
Bistro Marque sits on the corner of Main Road, all glass windows and white tablecloths. It's the kind of place where the coffee costs twelve dollars and the pastries are arranged like art and cost just as much.
I park in the lot behind the restaurant and walk around to the front.
When I walk in, Delores is already seated, perched near the window in her signature powder-blue suit.
She waves when she sees me, her smile bright and calculated.
"Keira, darling!"
I plaster on my own smile and cross the room, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
"Delores. You look stunning."
"Oh, stop." She waves a hand, but her smile widens. "Sit, sit. I already ordered you a cappuccino."
I settle into the chair across from her, smoothing my blazer.
"You're a lifesaver," I say.
"Well, you know me." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "I can't help myself. I see you on the schedule, and I just have to make sure we connect."
"I appreciate it," I say, keeping my tone warm. "Truly."
She beams.
The waiter brings my cappuccino, and I take a sip.
As I do, Delores launches into a story about her trip to the Hamptons, and I nod along, offering the occasional laugh or comment.
But my mind's already drifting.
Dad. Octavian. The Morrígans.
The threats.
I pull myself back, focusing on Delores as she shifts topics.
"So," she says, reaching into her handbag. "I wanted to give you this in person."
She slides an envelope across the table.
I glance down at it, then back up at her.
"Delores—"
"Open it," she says, her smile turning smug.
Ugh, she has me do this every time.
Inside are two checks.
A three-million-dollar one for the inner-city initiative, which she'll get thanked for profusely at our next gala, and another for one million dollars from her personal foundation.
That one's because I cleared up her little zoning-permit favor into a clean receipt. She gets to build her luxury hotel. I get one million for our private accounts, or should I say my account.
Daddy would've taken twenty percent.
Callum told me to keep it all.
Score one for big brother finally realizing I do more than pose for photos.
"This is incredibly generous," I say, even though the fees had already been arranged.
Those are the things you do in our world. Negotiate, and then when it comes due, act surprised.
"You earned it," she says, leaning back. "The work you do, Keira. It's inspiring. And I know how hard it is to navigate all this." She gestures vaguely. "The scrutiny. The expectations. The city officials."
I fold the checks carefully, tucking them back into the envelope and into my bag.
"Thank you," I say. "This will make a real difference."
She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand.
"I know you'll do great things with it," she says and looks at her watch. "Okay, I've got to run. Call my office, let's do lunch soon."
"Yes, absolutely," I say as she gets up.
As she leaves, the waiter comes over.
"Anything else?"
"No," I say, and he puts the bill on the table.
Of fucking course.
I step outside into the crisp Boston air and breathe in deeply. Well, I'm free for at least a few hours before a gala meeting.
What should I do?
I turn my head and freeze.
That thought dies instantly.
Octavian leans against the stone railing of the café patio, coffee in hand, phone in the other, not even bothering to look up.
I know he saw me.
I turn away and walk back to the parking lot.
Son of a bitch.
I walk back over to him.
"Where the hell is my car?" I ask.
He takes a sip of his coffee, not looking up from his phone.
"Figured you'd sneak out on your first day."
My blood runs hot at the sound of his voice.
"Okay, you got me. Now," I say, looking around, "where's my car?"
"Gone," he says.
"Gone? What the hell does that mean?"
"I had someone from the house come take it."
"You did what?"
He locks his phone, slips it into his jacket pocket, and finally looks up at me. "You don't need it."
I laugh bitterly. "Are you serious right now?"
"Yes," he says so damn casually and takes another sip of his coffee.
"Well, on whose authority did you do this?"
"Mine."
I stare at him, disbelief warring with fury.
"You can't just—"
"I can," he says, interrupting me. "And I did."
I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
I pull out my phone.
"Fine. I'll just call an Uber."
He shrugs. "You can, but I won't let you get in."
I want to throw something at him.
I tap the app anyway and show him my screen.
"There. One's already nearby. I'm leaving."
He doesn't move. Doesn't even react.
The Uber's two minutes away.
I cross my arms, refusing to look at him.
"You think you can control me," I say. "You can't."
"Like I told you, I don't need to control you, just keep you alive."
"Well, congratulations. I'm alive. You did it. Now back off."
A blue sedan pulls up to the curb, and the driver glances between us, confused.
I step toward the car.
Octavian moves faster. He's in front of me, blocking my path, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Move," I say.
"No."
The driver rolls down his window.
"Uh, Keira?" he calls out.
Octavian turns, his hand moving to his waistband.
He pulls a gun.
He doesn't wave it around. It's just there. That's the part that scares me.
"What the fuck, Octavian?!" I yell.
The driver's eyes go wide.
"She gets in," Octavian says, his voice low, "your brain splatters across your dashboard."
The driver lifts his hands up.
"Whoa, whoa, man. I'm just trying to make a living."
"Then leave," Octavian says and throws some money on the passenger seat.
The driver panics, and the sedan peels away, tires screeching.
I stand there, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"Protecting you is what I'm here for," he says as he tucks his gun away. "You want to risk things, then other people pay the price."
I stare up at him, unsure of how to even respond.
"My car's over there," he says, nodding toward a sleek black SUV halfway down the block. "Let's go."
I don't move.
He stops and looks back. "It's not a game, little rebel. Now let's go."
He starts walking, and reluctantly, I follow.
I huff as my heels pound the pavement, showing my frustration.
He glances back over his shoulder but doesn't say anything.
When we get to the car, he opens the back door and turns to me.
I stop, staring at him. At the open door. At the choice I don't really have.
"Get in," he says.
I arch a brow. "Say please."
His mouth twitches. "Not my style."
I slide in, furious.
Not at him. At myself.
He shuts my door and circles around to the driver's side, getting in without a word.
The engine starts, smooth and quiet.
I stare out the window, my hands clenched in my lap.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't gloat that he won.
Just drives while I sit here simmering.
And I really dislike that the car smells like his cologne, which reluctantly smells good.
"I told you I'd make this difficult," I snap, because I feel the need to say something, dammit.
"You're not difficult," he says. "You're predictable."
"Oh, stop acting like you know me so well," I say.
He looks up at me in the rearview mirror, smirks, and looks down
"Where do you want to go?"
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. I feel kind of silly that I look like I'm pouting, but he’s just so infuriating I don't know what to do.
As I look up at his face in the mirror, one thing becomes clear, and it might be the real source of what's really bothering me. I'm in this car because he's the first man who's ever told me no and meant it.
God help me, I'm starting to wonder what else he'll mean.