Chapter 11 Verity
Verity
"Try this one." Saoirse thrust a cocktail dress at me. I frowned at the frothy pink tulle and sequined bodice.
"You're joking, right?"
"No, Ver, I'm not fucking joking. We've been through my entire closet and you've turned your nose up at all my suggestions!"
"Maybe that's because I don't want to go to the stupid party!
" I huffed and threw myself dramatically onto her super soft bed.
Saoirse needed to shut up. Yes, I liked to party as much as the next girl.
And yes, I also loved to dress up in pretty outfits.
But what I didn't love was spending the evening watching a bunch of sexpot women slobber all over her brothers.
And if I showed my face at this party, that's exactly what would happen.
"Tough shit, bitch. You're going even if I have to drag you downstairs in your PJs."
"Fuck you, whore."
She stuck her tongue out at me while shimmying her hips and then twerking for good measure. "Damn right. I'm embracing my ho phase."
I giggled, despite how annoying she was.
"Since you refuse to entertain the pink one, this is your only option." She held up a black glittery dress that would fall mid-thigh on me. And barely cover my boobs. I examined the cut and decided it wasn't the worst one in her collection.
"OK, fine. I'll wear this and show my face for an hour. Happy now?"
Excited shrieks hurt my ears. "Yes! You can be my wing woman."
"Why? Who have you got your eye on?"
A conspiratorial grin touched her lips. "Remember that guy I hooked up with at the Christmas Ball?"
"The one who ghosted you?" Which led to days of tears, threats to stop eating, and movie marathons featuring heartbroken heroines.
She waved her hand in the air. "Yes, but he had a good reason."
"Um, not sure a last-minute skiing trip counts as a good reason. Phones still work in ski resorts."
Saoirse threw me an exasperated look. "Yes, but he lost his phone, remember? Said he dropped it in a snowbank."
"And yet he still posted loads of photos on Instagram…" Funny that. Saoirse ignored my not-so-subtle jibe. Denial was a girl's best friend.
I'd spent a week mopping up the tears when her dream guy left her bed without so much as a backward glance and then ignored her messages for a week.
As an expert in toxic men, I sympathized. Her crush could have been Andrew Tate's identical, equally unpleasant, twin. But Saoirse didn't want to hear my thoughts about her mistake.
"That's not important. It's all in the past." She hopped up and down with excitement. "He's coming tonight! So let's do your makeup and then I can work on making myself look smoking hot."
All of Ireland's rich, famous, and dubiously connected queued around the large circular driveway in their Bentleys, Porsches, Maseratis, and Rolls, waiting for the assembled line of armed parking attendants to direct their vehicles.
Saoirse and I stood watching the guests teeter up the stone steps to the main entrance, where servers carrying trays of champagne flutes greeted them. It was all ridiculously OTT, but Declan liked to make a good impression on his business associates and hangers on.
The first time he’d allowed us to attend one of these parties, Saoirse, Aoife, and I were too young to drink. Not that it stopped us. Aoife had stolen a bottle of whiskey from the bar and the three of us got wasted in the library.
Declan lost his shit that night and banned us from all future parties. At least until we were of legal drinking age.
With glasses in hand, Saoirse and I wandered around, her plucking small nibbles from passing trays and me taking in the sights. Every room hummed with people, even the rarely used ballroom.
Catering staff passed among the guests, serving a selection of snacks and offering glasses of Krug and single-malt whiskey. I noted the Rothmore label on the whiskey bottles stacked up on a sideboard. Landon had probably given Declan a good deal.
Declan was already doing the rounds with Bridget draped over him in a slinky silver dress, but I hadn't spotted the twins yet. No doubt they would make an appearance soon. And the minute they did, I would retire to my room and read.
An hour later, we stood in a corner while Saoirse scanned the guests and offered snarky comments about their outfits. I'd largely tuned out her chatter until she squeezed my arm and gasped. When I looked up, I saw James McGregor.
The not-so-lovely James with his limp blond hair did nothing whatsoever for me, but she liked him. We’d last crossed paths at a party in London. I disliked him then and my opinion had not changed in the months since.
As soon as he entered the ballroom, she dragged me over and fluttered her eyelashes at the weasel.
The slimy bastard stood like he had a stick up his ass, with his much-shorter, uglier friend hovering next to him. The friend looked me up and down, lingering way too long on my boobs.
"I'm Grant." His upper-class English accent grated on me. "My father owns a publishing company, Stafford Press."
I forced a polite smile. "How lovely. What sort of books do you publish? I like to read."
"Works of great literary merit." From his haughty expression, he clearly assumed I lacked the intelligence to appreciate whatever turgid tomes his father's company churned out.
"Not dark stalker romances, then," I replied with a straight face. Saoirse coughed and turned away, knowing exactly where my reading tastes lay. The more fucked up, the better. I treated trigger warnings as a shopping list.
Grant shuddered. "God, no. We don't accept low-brow submissions like that."
"Then I won't bother reading any of your books." Judging by his sneer, he didn't appreciate my comment. "Be right back," I whispered to Saoirse. She nodded, distracted by James' talk of summer vacations in the Bahamas, and I walked away.
It was time to call it a night now that she had someone to entertain her. Swipe a bottle of wine and some snacks. Have a picnic for one in my room. Binge a Netflix drama on Saoirse's laptop. Read a smutty book.
But first, I needed some fresh air. The stench of expensive perfume and Cuban cigars had given me a headache.
Nobody paid me any attention as I slipped out of the room and headed toward the kitchen, intending to grab a drink and then take it outside.
When I opened the door, Conal stood leaning against the counter, talking to a petite blonde. He seemed tense as the blonde pouted up at him. Was this Maeve? Saoirse had mentioned her, mostly in a disparaging way. I got the impression from Saoirse’s comments that Maeve was a raging cunt.
The minute Conal saw me, he edged away from the blonde. She spun around to check who'd caught his attention. Apparently, I didn't pass muster because she instantly dismissed me.
Not wanting to interrupt their discussion, I edged back out of the kitchen, but Conal stopped me.
"Everything OK, sweetheart?"
"Yeah. I was thinking of heading upstairs," I said, focusing on his chest rather than his face. He wore a pale lilac shirt and charcoal pants, with the shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Just enough skin showing to tempt me.
"But it's still early."
"Ugh, let her go." The blonde waved her hand dismissively. "She's clearly unimportant."
"She's family," Conal growled. "Treat her with some fucking respect!"
My jaw dropped. Conal rarely raised his voice. Unlike his twin, he typically engaged his brain before opening his mouth. If this woman was his girlfriend, it seemed odd that he'd defend me to her.
"It's fine." I didn't care what the stupid woman thought. She meant nothing to me, and besides, I'd be gone soon.
"No, it's not fine!" Conal took a step toward me, but I grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine from the counter and dashed away. I didn't need any drama this evening.
The Kelly estate stretched out over several lush acres.
Immediately behind the house lay a wide terrace and outdoor pool, which saw very little use thanks to the shit Irish weather.
The small rose garden lay beyond a crumbling stone wall to the left, planted by Seamus' late wife.
Next to that, the kitchen garden, and then a vast lawn bordered by yew hedges and trees.
Wild woodland around the estate hid the house and garden from prying eyes.
The granite facade stood majestic against the lush green backdrop of trees and lawn. This stretch of coastline was wildly beautiful, especially in winter, when Atlantic storms lashed the cliffs with ever-increasing ferocity.
I genuinely loved it here; always had. It reminded me of the cliff-top house we stayed in when I first came to Ireland.
A tall eight-foot wall topped with razor wire marked the accessible parts of the property’s perimeter, with guards patrolling the gardens night and day. Although I was safe here, my lack of freedom niggled.
At least my father wouldn't have a clue where to find me, and even if he did somehow track me down, he'd never make it onto the estate.
Dad had always seemed larger than life. A frightening giant of a man. The ogre who haunted my nightmares. But he was old now. Or so I tried to tell myself.
I picked my way along the stone path toward the rose garden.
Declan had ordered the guards to stay out of sight while he entertained guests, but I spotted two lurking under the trees, and a third hovering near the pool house.
The rest stayed well back, guarding the perimeter, while the guests partied indoors.
Although it was a mild evening, the forecast had promised heavy showers, and nobody else had ventured outdoors.
Declan had ensured his guests had access to a ton of top-shelf booze and delicious food if they stayed inside.
He'd also hired a classical music quartet and a DJ for later.
This meant I had the garden to myself for now.