Chapter 24
Aoife
Dinner is all raised glasses and fake smiles. Mine most of all.
Father toasts our engagement like prophecy. Uncle Liam’s laughter rattles the crystal. Mother says nothing.
The usual performance.
I smile. Pretend.
Liam launches into another story about the early days of the business, all grit and glory. Father humors him, nodding like it’s scripture.
Mother cuts her steak in perfect, silent motions. The knife never slips.
Rory sits beside me, playing the role of the devoted fiancé. His hand brushes mine under the table—calculated, for the audience.
I pull away before anyone notices.
Liam claps Father on the shoulder. “We should talk before the numbers call in from Dublin.”
Father rises, smile tight. “We’ll take it outside.”
Their chairs scrape against the marble.
Rory follows them, phone already in hand, all business now that the show’s over.
Mother reaches for her wine. “Don’t stay up late,” she says, eyes fixed on the glass, not on me.
I nod. Smile. Wait until they’re gone.
Then I slip away.
Father’s office smells like dust and old sins. The oak desk sits heavy, the walls swallowing light. It feels more like a tomb than a room.
I move quietly, checking drawers, bookshelves, tapping for hollow panels.
I know there is something here, my gut is telling me.
I start looking, for what I don’t know, sliding my hand over the wall as I look around, then stop.
I move my hand over the area a few more times; this feels weird.
My lips curl slightly into a smile, a false panel.
Hidden like shame. Quickly opening it, I smile.
Finally, something, I pull the files out.
Thick. Marked with names, dates, agreements.
Rory’s family.
My breath stops cold.
They’ve worked with us for years: fronts, forged accounts, smuggling routes, all targeting Messina shipments.
The pieces click together.
The Cavalli family stands with the Messinas, Camilla, Matteo’s aunt, tied to them by marriage.
The shooting happened on their turf in Blackstone Hollow. Rory’s wife died there.
And now they’re blaming the Messinas.
This engagement isn’t a merger. It’s a setup. A way to take the Italians down.
My hands shake as I flip through the files.
A fresh sheet catches the light—bold black ink across the top:
AOIFE – MARRIAGE CONTRACT.
The wedding’s set for the end of term.
Not after graduation. Not next year.
Two months. No one told me. No one asked.
I scan the signatures, Father, Uncle Liam, Rory.
My name sits beneath theirs like property.
Another sheet is clipped behind it.
PREGNANCY INITIATIVE.
Get her pregnant fast. Lock the bloodline. Secure power. Preserve legacy.
My stomach twists.
At the bottom of the stack, a sealed manila envelope. I tear it open.
The words hit like a bullet to the heart.
TERMINATION PLAN.
Target: Aoife O’Brien.
Post-birth: accidental death.
Cover: inter-family conflict.
Blame: Messina retaliation.
The room spins. Bile burns my throat.
I’m not a bride. Not a daughter. Not even a person.
I’m a plan.
A tool.
And once they’re done, I’m disposable.
My family. My own blood, has planned my death like a business deal.
I stumble back, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Then everything turns red.
Not the kind of rage that screams, the kind that kills quietly.
“Monsters,” I whisper.
I want to scream. Tear the office apart. Shake my mother awake and make her admit she never loved me.
But I stay silent.
I gather the pages, photograph every sheet with shaking hands, and slide them back into place.
They’re going to kill me and make it look like the Messinas did it.
A war will follow, and I’ll be nothing but a footnote.
But I swear on every breath I have left they will not use me.
They won’t use me to marry, to birth, or to bury.
If they want blood, they’ll bleed for it first.
For the first time in years, I break.
Not out loud. Not in sobs.
Inside, where no one looks.
Not my mother, who called obedience love.
Not my father, who sees my body as leverage.
Not Uncle Liam, who crushes my fate between his fingers.
And not Matteo—
Because even if he keeps me breathing, he’ll lose everything.
So, who the fuck am I doing this for?
Not them.
I won’t die on their timeline.
If I fall, it’ll be because I jumped.
Not because they pushed.
The drive back to Blackstone is silent. Conor doesn’t speak, and I’m grateful. I don’t trust my tongue not to spit venom.
My fists stay locked in my lap, nails cutting into skin. Rain streaks the windows, fogging the glass with breath I didn’t know I was holding.
As soon as we pass the gates, I shove the door open before the car stops.
I need air. Distance.
The courtyard blurs as I walk fast, holding myself together with every step.
Conor catches up.
His fingers clamp around my arm, yanking me back.
“Stop being a fucking bitch,” he hisses.
I laugh, a sharp, bitter sound.
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, voice low and lethal. “You give orders. You say sit, I sit. You say bark, I bark. And the whole time, you knew. You knew what they planned for me and said nothing. So, when this explodes, remember, you could’ve stopped it.”
His grip tightens, bruising. I don’t know how much he knows, maybe not everything, but he knows enough to have warned me.
“Don’t screw up what the family built,” he says. “You’ll regret it.”
His eyes don’t just glare, they burn. Cruel. A crack in his mask that makes my stomach twist.
“Conor,” I whisper, pushing at his chest. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t.
He shoves me, hard.
My back hits the stone wall with a crack. Pain shoots up my spine, knocking the breath from my lungs.
He leans close, voice low. “One more warning. Don’t fuck this up.”
Then he walks away.
The sky cracks open. Thunder rolls. Rain hits like a slap, soaking through my clothes, plastering them to my skin.
I don’t move. Finally, something’s louder than the voice in my head.
I tilt my face to the sky and let the rain drown me, hide the tears I can’t stop.
Then I feel him, his stare cutting through the rain.
I blink through the storm.
He stands across the courtyard, fists trembling at his sides, jaw locked, eyes dark as storm.
He looks ready to kill. Maybe Conor. Maybe everyone.
We stare through the downpour, silence heavier than anything Conor said.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.
His anger hangs in the air, thick as the storm itself and somehow, it feels meant for me.
My throat tightens. I can’t breathe. I turn and walk away, heart dragging behind me like dead weight.
Back in my room, I touch the spot on my spine. It’s swollen.
I strip and step into the shower. The water burns through the dirt, the ache, the storm.
They’ve taken everything, my choices, my body, my voice. Now they want my death too?
To be framed, strategic, useful even in dying?
No. Not like that. Not on their terms.
One night, I will jump.
Not because I want to die, but because I want at least one choice that is mine.
That’s the only power I have left.
I won’t be buried under a lie signed in Uncle Liam’s blood.
I’ll jump before the end of term before they crown my coffin.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the storm already came.
Tonight, I rest before I burn their house of lies to the ground.
I close my eyes. My breath stays shallow.
In the dark behind my lids, I see Matteo.
Not saving me. Not reaching.
Just seeing me.
Maybe that’s enough to survive tonight.
When I step out of the bathroom, Nora’s cross-legged on her bed, scrolling her phone. My hair drips down a hoodie too big for me.
She looks up and grins. “You look like you fought the sea.”
I manage a smile. “Pretty sure the sea won.”
Her laugh doesn’t pry. Doesn’t ask. It just exists, light and human.
I crawl into bed, blanket over my knees.
Nora breaks it first. “You hear about that Rothschild girl? Tried sneaking out to meet some royal heir at the cliffs.”
I lift a brow. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. He brought flowers and a fake invitation to the masquerade. Full Blackstone drama.”
I shake my head, a small laugh breaking through. “These rich kids live on another planet.”
Nora rolls her eyes. “You think that’s wild? The Cartel boys tried to buy out a food truck. Bribed the staff for imported coffee.”
I snort. “Only at Blackstone.”
We laugh. It’s small, but real. The kind of sound that keeps you human, the kids I wish I had more off.
“What about you?” she asks softly. “You’ve been quiet.”
I hesitate. “Just tired.”
She nods, no questions. “If you ever want to rant about family politics, I’ve got popcorn and darts.”
I smile. “Perfect.”
She tosses a pillow at me. “Trivia night’s coming. You’re our Irish rep, and you’re smarter than the rest of us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“And don’t forget the Heir’s Ball,” she adds.
“How could I?” I murmur. The words taste like dread.
We stay like that, talking nonsense, school, gossip, the way Blackstone kids act like they already rule the world.
It’s nothing, but it’s something.
A breath of quiet in a storm that won’t stop turning.
For a moment, I let myself pretend I’m just a girl in school, laughing with her roommate.
Even if I know the war is only just beginning.