Chapter 19
Aoife
Blackstone hums with a surface noise that hides what’s happening underneath. To everyone else, it’s just another school day. To us, it’s a countdown.
Conor can’t stand silence. He twitches through meals when no one talks. Forty-eight hours of it will break him.
Matteo? He’s harder to read. The Messinas raise their sons like weapons, polished for war. Men you don’t touch unless you want to bleed.
My muscles burn from drills, palms still raw and red from gripping steel too long. The trainer’s been pushing harder since I changed my knife. Punishment disguised as discipline.
I should go back to the dorm, but I can’t face Nora’s questions about Conor.
The lighthouse blinks across the sea, its beam cutting through wind that whips my hair across my face, tangling with the unease clawing at my ribs.
I step onto the edge. Balance. Breathe. Not to jump, just to feel something that isn’t hallow.
Smoke. Heat. His voice in the dark. The ghost of it curls around me even now.
Without him, I feel unlit. Empty of the fire that burned through every rule I was raised to follow.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me away from thinking of the man I shouldn’t be.
Unknown number.
At first, I ignore it. But something prickles beneath my skin and I look.
You’re not just a pawn, Aoife. You’re the move they’re betting everything on.
My chest tightens. What does that mean?
Another vibration.
Ask why the date’s being moved. Ask who benefits when the heir is born.
The air thickens. My throat locks. Whoever this is, they know too much.
The messages keep coming.
Why was your fiancé really chosen?
Why now?
Power doesn’t marry power unless one is desperate.
I swallow hard, glancing over my shoulder.
My thumbs hover over the screen.
Aoife
Who are you?
Typing bubble appears. Then disappears, then appears.
A mirror in a hall of masks. Trust no one. Not even your own blood.
The message glows for a second before the screen goes black. The number vanishes. No trace. No history.
Someone out there knows I’m trapped and they want me awake for the kill.
But who? And why?
Morning breaks bright, but the calm feels false.
My head still rings from the night’s messages.
Who sent them? Why me?
The ring on my finger bites into my skin. Rory Brennan. Even his name feels wrong.
The more I think about him, the less sense the alliance makes.
Who gains from this marriage? I’ll find one answer today.
Nora sits on the bed, pulling her hair into a tight braid.
She wasn’t born into power, yet she hears every word whispered by those who were.
“Do you know anything about Rory Brennan’s family?”
She pauses and regards me in the mirror. “Not much,” she says, voice careful. “Old Irish money. Not O’Brien high, but old enough to matter.”
“And?” I press.
She hesitates. “Rory’s father was a smuggler turned politician. The kind who buries bodies with paperwork. His sons aren’t much different.”
“Sons?” I’ve never seen anyone else with him. He always arrives alone.
“Four,” she says. “Now one.”
The room seems to shrink. “What happened to the others?”
“Two dead in accidents. One disappeared. Rory’s the last man standing.”
A slow twist pulls at my gut. “So, he's the heir by default.”
“Not default.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Design.”
The word hangs between us, heavier than truth. in case someone is in the room with us and they don’t want anyone to hear. “By design?”
“Word is, Rory made sure he’s the last one standing.”
The blood drains from my face.
“He wouldn’t—”
“He would,” Nora says. “He’s the kind who smiles at funerals. The kind who poisons the tea and never sips it himself.”
Of course, Liam would like him, he likes anything that keeps him on top. Asshole. And this is the man they chose for me.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Why did his brothers die? Why this marriage?
And how much of my blood will it cost?.
I wait until Nora leaves for some student meeting, before slipping down into the archives.
The room smells of dust and ink. Shelves rise like tombstones filled with the sins of every family that’s ever walked these halls.
Somewhere in here is the truth.
I walk until I get to the letter B. I know there won’t be everything in here, but maybe there is something about him, and not the family.
And there it is. The Brennan family.
Old newspaper articles.
Two dead brothers. Car crash. No suspects. No survivors.
The words are cold, clinical. But I can feel the blood beneath them.
I sink to the floor, paper trembling in my hands.
I wasn’t promised to a husband. I was traded to a murderer.
But maybe the real war is outside the trials.
And it started with my last name.
My phone vibrates in my hand, which makes me jump as the room is so silent and fucking creepy.
Unknown
Look into your future husband, 20th July, ten years ago…
I look around to see if someone is down here with me, seeing what I’m doing, but there is no one here, and I made sure no one was following me.
Ten years ago? Why is that date so important?
If I search under my name, the system will flag it. My father will know.
Whoever’s texting me knows that too. They want me to dig—but not get caught.
So how do I do both?
Aoife
If I look into this online, my family will know what I’m doing. I have a feeling you don’t want that either.
I don’t know who this is, but one thing I do know, they want to help me find out the truth, maybe they can help me get what I want. Quickly putting everything away, I grab my bag off the floor and exit the archives room. I look down at my phone but find no reply from my unknown person.
No one can know what I’m chasing. Not Matteo. Not Conor.
If I fall, it’ll be in the dark and alone.