Chapter 11 Saoirse
Saoirse
The brownstone disappears in the rearview mirror as Declan navigates through Sunday afternoon traffic. My hands twist in my lap.
"You're fidgeting." His voice is low, but not unkind.
"I'm not fidgeting." I press my palms flat against my thighs.
His hand leaves the wheel and covers both of mine. The warmth presses through my skin, and I don't pull away. I thread my fingers through his instead.
Something between us shifted so completely yesterday, I feel like I’m living a brand new life—one where the old ghosts, the old haunts of my past, are buried and will stay buried.
What started on the kitchen counter turned into hours — a bath he ran without being asked, his hands working shampoo through my hair with a gentleness that undid me completely, then his bed, his arms, the particular silence of a man who doesn't know how to say things but uses his body like a language.
This morning, he held me closer when I stirred, his mouth at my temple, his voice rough with sleep.
We have time, he'd said.
Time. I've been turning the word over all morning like a stone in my pocket, checking its weight.
Time implies a future, and futures have never been mine to claim. But sitting here with Declan's hand holding mine, his thumb tracing absent circles on my knuckles, I let myself think it.
Maybe. Maybe I can have this. Him. A home that doesn't require an exit strategy.
I look at him. His jaw is set, eyes on the road, but his thumb keeps moving—that small, unconscious stroke that gives me more hope than I’ve dared have since…forever. Since forever.
Nothing prepared me for the estate.
Iron gates open to a driveway canopied by trees older than either of us. At the ends sits three stories of stone and elegance. The kind of house that looks more like a posh hotel.
"Breathe," Declan says, because I seem to need the reminder.
Declan rounds the car and offers his hand. I take it because my legs aren't steady and his grip is the only solid thing in a world that's suddenly very large.
"Stay with me," he murmurs in my ear. "You're safe."
Inside, I count exits before I can stop myself. The front door is behind us, and a hallway is to the left. At the end of the hallway, I see French doors and a garden beyond.
Declan's hand tightens on mine. He noticed me cataloging my surroundings.
"Old habits," I say.
"Keep them." His voice drops low enough that only I hear. “It's never a bad idea to know your exits. Even here."
Declan leads us into what I would call a formal living room. It's where the rest of the family is.
Nora crosses to me first, and her hug is sincere and genuine. "You look beautiful."
I don't feel it, but I smile gratefully.
Cillian nods from the window with sharp eyes. "Saoirse. Welcome to the family."
Ronan offers a handshake and an easy smile.
Lorcan grins from an armchair with the loose confidence of a man who has never once felt uncomfortable in his own skin. "There she is. The woman who tamed Declan O'Rourke."
"Shut up," Declan says, without heat.
And then Kathleen O'Rourke stands.
She's not what I braced for. Not a tower of cold authority.
She's compact, precise, elegant in the way that comes from decades of knowing exactly how to command a room.
Her gaze moves over me thoroughly, but not in an unkind way.
The gaze of a woman who notices everything and files it somewhere useful.
"Saoirse." A nod. "It's lovely to meet you."
"Thank you, Mrs. O'Rourke. Thank you for having me."
"Kathleen, please." She gestures toward the couch. "Sit."
I sit. Declan drops beside me, our thighs touching. His hand finds mine again.
Dinner is easier than I expect.
Lorcan carries most of the conversation, and when he's not telling a story about a bouncer that has Ronan pressing his lips together in a failed attempt at composure, he's asking me questions with the cheerful relentlessness of someone who genuinely wants answers.
Have I redecorated Declan's boring house yet?
What's it like being the wife of Declan O'Rourke?
Have I tried the bakery on Division? Why haven't I been to O'Rourke's pub yet?
I answer. More words come out of me than I intended.
Kathleen asks careful, measured questions. How I'm settling into married life, whether I need anything, and if the brownstone is comfortable. Polite. Not warm, but not pointed either.
I eat what's placed in front of me and carefully watch for traps and pitfalls.
They don’t come.
Nora catches my eye halfway through the main course and winks. I almost smile back.
After dinner, Kathleen insists that Nora and I retreat with her to another room while the men discuss business. Nora had warned me about this on her visit to the brownstone. Apparently, it's a tradition dating back to when Declan's father ran the family business.
In the drawing room, Kathleen pours us each a cup of tea. Everything about this is so foreign, I feel like I've entered a parallel dimension—drawing rooms and after-dinner tea, and business discussions.
Nora settles close to me on a settee, a quiet presence at my shoulder. “Saoirse’s been good for Declan," she tells Kathleen. "I noticed a big difference in him, don't you, Kathleen?"
“Mmm,” Kathleen hums, and I'm not sure if she's agreeing or disagreeing. Her gaze settles on me. "In this family, he's always been the one who has given the most and asked for the least in return." Her voice is even, unhurried.
I have no idea what she's trying to imply with those words.
Is she trying to tell me that I'm “the least” and Declan should've asked for more for himself?
Or is she just giving me inside information about my husband?
I glance over at Nora for her reaction, but Nora doesn't seem to know what to make of Kathleen's statement either.
“Umm, okay,” I finally respond. Suddenly, I need air. I feel stifled in this room.
Two weeks ago, I would've just started walking, but now I'm indoors in a drawing room in a mansion, wearing expensive clothes, and there are expectations placed on me. I can't just get up and walk out the door. I'm no longer free to roam the city whenever I feel like it.
“E-excuse me. Restroom?”
Kathleen gestures toward the hallway, and I bolt up and through the door.
The bathroom is crazy. Marble with gold fixtures and an ornately framed mirror. Running cold water over my wrists seems to settle me down a bit, and I don't linger for too long.
On my way back, I get a little turned around and end up right back outside the dining room. Low voices trail out into the hallway. I should walk past. I do walk past, but as I do, I hear someone say my name.
My feet stop. The next words are very clear and unmistakable.
“Saoirse’s gotta go.” There is no doubt that’s my husband’s voice.
"You're sending your wife away?" Cillian questions. "You sure you want to do that?"
“I’m sure,” Declan responds with no inflection, no feeling. “I’ve held off as long as I could, but…I just can’t stand it anymore. It’s time. I’ve gotta get her out of here.”
The words are like a slap in the face. A loud noise fills my head—it’s like a train engine, a roaring that fills my ears when something I was stupid enough to hope for gets pulled out from under me.
It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to be this stupid—stupid enough to let down my guard. Stupid enough to hope.
He's sending me away. He’s done with me. Of course he is. It’s how it always happens. No one ever wants me to stay permanently. Placements are always temporary.
I take one step back. Then another.
He’s getting rid of me because he’s done with me.
Temporary. I said it in my own head a hundred times. I just stopped believing it somewhere between the stray cat and the way he kept telling me, “You're mine.”
I walk back to the drawing room with my spine straight and my expression blank. Nora looks up questioningly when I sit, but I give her nothing.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Fine." The word comes out level, the way I've been saying it for years. “I’m fine.”