Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
RIAN
‘Nice of you to join us,’ Sean comments as we step into the drawing room.
His eyebrow flicks up. Out of all my brothers, he’s the one I actually admitted my feelings for Rebekka to first. The others joke and tease and make their innuendoes, but Sean knows the depth of my feelings, the extent of my obsession with her, and judging by the concern etched into his expression, he’s concerned about the fallout of this.
So am I.
God help me, I wish things could be different.
I knew she was exceptional the first time I saw her at her engagement party.
But now? Every hour I spend with her knots me tighter. Draws me in deeper. I want her so badly it hurts. Not just sexually. In every way.
But it isn’t fair.
Not to her, not to me.
Whether I like it or not, she’s married, and if Anthony ever discovered how far I’ve strayed, the friendship between us would become a war.
Not that he feels much like a friend these days. I barely recognise the man as the boy I grew up with.
Worse still, if Rebekka left him for me, she would lose everything—the publishing house, her reputation, her privacy. The press would devour her alive, and I’d be the villain in every headline.
This can’t possibly end well.
Which is why we have to stop.
For her sake. And for mine. Because this thing between us doesn’t just have the potential to shatter my heart, it has the potential to obliterate both of our worlds.
After tonight, I’ll let her go.
Just… not yet.
‘Rian was just showing me the library,’ Rebekka answers Sean smoothly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
‘I bet he was.’ Avery nudges Ivy, the two of them grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Clearly they don’t have a problem with their friend evening the score with her husband. Knowing them, they probably encouraged it, but still, it doesn’t make it right.
‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’ My mother’s eagle eyes dart between Rebekka and I like she’s only seeing us for the first time, and right there in that split second, I know she knows.
I never could hide anything from her, not even when I was a kid.
She presses her lips together with a thoughtful expression.
‘Drink?’ She motions to the tray of champagne filled flutes.
I reach for one and pass it to Rebekka, then head towards the sideboard where a crystal decanter is filled with our family’s finest whiskey.
Scarlett rises from her seat, smoothing a hand over her silver, sparkly dress. ‘Right, now we’re all here…’
‘You couldn’t be pregnant again?’ Caelon’s jaw almost hits the floor.
Scarlett’s laughter trickles from her tongue. ‘No!’
‘But I’m working on it.’ James winks at Caelon.
‘Yeah, we all heard you this afternoon.’ I roll my eyes.
‘Now we’re all here.’ Scarlett sashays across the room to where the record player is—a sleek, custom-built deck housed in a polished cabinet, and my mother’s pride and joy.
‘Let’s get this party started. Any requests?
’ She lifts a selection of records from the cabinet’s lower shelf, fanning them out with a mischievous grin.
‘Shall we go classic Sinatra, or something with a bit more swing?’
‘Sinatra,’ my mother says without hesitation, raising her glass. ‘New Year’s Eve deserves proper romance.’
‘“New York, New York” for Rebekka,’ Ivy calls across the room.
Scarlett slides the vinyl onto the turntable and lowers the needle with a flourish. A burst of brass fills the room. ‘Come on, everyone,’ she trills, beckoning everyone to the open space behind the couches. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve—no wallflowers allowed.’
Within minutes, the drawing room is alive. My father and mother glide across the room, staring into each other’s eyes like they’re newlyweds. Caelon twirls Ivy until she squeals.
‘Shh! Don’t wake the kids!’ Scarlett begs, as James spins her around with an ease that tells its own story about their afternoon. Even Layla persuades Sean to join her on the floor, though he insists she owes him a foot massage if she treads on his toes.
I hover for a heartbeat, whiskey in hand, watching Rebekka. She’s perched on the arm of a claret-coloured sofa, legs crossed, laughter spilling out as Ivy tries to teach her a few steps. She glances up at me, like she feels my eyes on her.
I set my drink down on the sideboard and stalk over to her. ‘Dance with me.’ I put my hand out.
She hesitates, but only long enough to finish her champagne before sliding her palm into mine. Her hand is small and delicate, and yet the jolt that shoots up my arm is anything but gentle.
For the next hour, the world shrinks to music and laughter.
We swap partners, clap along to ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, and howl with laughter when Killian attempts an overly ambitious spin and nearly tips Avery out the window.
The waiting staff produce another bottle of champagne, and the bubbles flow as freely as the jokes.
When the clock edges towards midnight, James places another couple of logs on the fire.
‘It’s nearly time, people,’ Avery claps her hands together with excitement.
She switches off the record player, reaches for the TV remote, and flips through the channels until the familiar skyline of Dublin fills the screen—RTé’s live countdown show, fireworks poised over the Liffey.
The couples drift back together, my brothers draw their women close, my parents sway with foreheads touching.
Zara looks at me. Technically, we’re the only two single ones here.
I extend a hand to her, then glance across the room at Rebekka.
She’s standing near the window, the glow of the snow-covered lawn behind her.
She meets my gaze, the faintest smile curving her lips, and the air between us tightens.
I beckon her over, offering her my other free hand.
The presenter on RTé’s countdown show calls out the numbers, fireworks poised over the Liffey. My family gathers closer, voices lifting together: ‘Ten… nine… eight…’
Rebekka slides her hand into mine, soft and cool from the windowpane.
The room falls away until there’s just her eyes, bright with reflected sparks.
‘Seven, six, five, four, three… two… one!’ The room erupts in cheers, champagne corks pop, and I pull her just a fraction nearer—close enough to feel the tremor of her breath against my collar as midnight breaks.
‘Happy New Year!’ Everyone shrieks.
So much for worrying about waking the kids up.
I pull Rebekka and Zara into me for a hug, squeezing both of them to the other side of my chest. But where my left arm stays firmly around my sister’s shoulders, my right one drapes around Rebekka’s waist, my hand gliding over the curve of her hip, tenderly stroking out all the affection I feel but can’t say out loud.
My lips press against her temple. ‘Happy New Year, sweetheart.’
She tilts her chin up until our eyes lock. Hers mirror the same question as mine.
How the hell will it ever be happy, given the situation?
Before either of us can speak, fireworks erupt beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering the snow-dark sky with streaks of fuchsia and gold.
They flare and shatter, trailing sparks that hang for a heartbeat before tumbling into nothing.
The glass hums with the boom of each burst, but it’s nothing compared to the detonation in my chest. Every colour outside mirrors the riot inside me—heat, ache, want, all crashing together in a storm I don’t dare name.
Around us, my family cheers, the women pressed to the windows, faces lit by the glow, while I stand rooted, fingers still curved at Rebekka’s waist, feeling like the sky isn’t the only thing about to split wide open.