Chapter 20
Keefe stood in the pub kitchen, the silence pressing in like a vice. Every breath felt too loud, like it didn’t belong in the room. The overhead light buzzed faintly—just enough to grate on his nerves.
His knuckles were raw, scraped and swelling, the skin split open where he’d punched the wall outside—after the fight with Sophie. Or maybe it was the back door. He couldn’t remember. Everything after her final words had blurred into white-hot rage and disbelief.
As much as he wanted to, he hadn’t walked out of the pub.
He wouldn’t. They hadn’t even opened yet.
Customers would be in soon, and the staff depended on him to show up, so he had.
Still, every smile he gave was tight. Every word he said felt forced, automatic.
The only thing holding him together was the clock ticking down until he could leave.
At least Sophie had left him the hell alone.
That is, once Her Majesty decided to come back and do her fucking job.
Gwen picked him up that night. She was waiting out back in her car, eyes scanning the doorway until she saw him. When he stepped outside, she got out, grinning, and met him halfway with a kiss—quick at first, then slower, deeper.
She pulled back, still smiling. “Hey, stranger.” Then she looked into his eyes. He was angry, more than angry. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed inside the car. Only, I saw Sophie leave before I pulled in so she won’t see us.”
Then her gaze dropped to his hand.
Her smile fell. “Keefe, what happened?”
He exhaled sharply and looked down at the angry red skin across his knuckles. He hadn’t even bandaged it. Didn’t bother.
“We’ll talk once we’re home,” he said, voice rough.
Her expression shifted instantly—no longer playful, just worried. But she didn’t push. She just gave a small nod and got into the car.
Now, back in the stillness of home, Gwen sat on the edge of the couch, watching him. Waiting for him to be ready to speak.
Finally, he did.
She didn’t say much. Just listened as he told her what happened while pacing the kitchen floor.
“I told her I love you,” he said now, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “That she doesn’t get a say. That she’s wrong about you.”
Keefe turned toward her. Gwen was now standing barefoot at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes glassy but dry.
“She said things I can’t even repeat. And I lost it. I said things I can’t take back.”
Gwen nodded faintly, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t regret defending you. I never will.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” she whispered.
He stepped toward her. “She’s wrong, Gwen. She’ll see it eventually.”
“She’s your sister.”
“And you’re the woman I love.”
That cracked her. She looked up, eyes wet now, shimmering.
“Having a sibling by your side…” His voice shook. “It’s not always a good thing. Not when it pulls you apart from someone else you love.”
“How can you say that?” she asked, trying not to break. “You and Sophie have always been closer than I don’t know what.”
He closed the distance and gently caught her hands.
“Gwen, it’s done. Sophie will come around eventually.
We can still be together. She doesn’t own me.
” Her hands trembled in his, her body so close he could feel the weight of everything she wasn’t saying.
He could feel her slipping away. “Gwen…” His voice turned to pleading.
“We’re not what we’ve lost. We’re not what’s been taken from us. ”
She finally looked up, heartbreak in every line of her face. “Then what are we?”
He cupped her cheek like it might shatter if he wasn’t careful. “We’re new. We’re what’s next. Don’t surrender to your grief.”
She swallowed hard. “What should I surrender to?”
He kissed her forehead, breathing her in like it might be the last time. “Surrender to me. To this new start.”
She closed her eyes for one suspended beat of silence… and then pulled back.
“Keefe, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.” Her voice broke. “We have to break up.”
His world tilted. This couldn’t possibly be happening.
“I won’t be the thing that rips you and your sister apart.”
“She’ll come around. She will?—”
“And if she doesn’t?” Gwen asked softly. “Could you live with that? Because I couldn’t.”
He didn’t have an answer. The silence spoke for him.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had lied to him once before. She wouldn’t do it again. “I love you,” she said quietly. “That’s why I have to go.”
“No. Gwen, please don’t.”
But she had already turned.
She padded down the hallway toward the bedroom, the soft creak of the floorboards echoing louder than a shout. He followed, heart thundering in his chest, but when he reached the room… it was empty.
Her bag was gone. Her sweater was missing from the back of the chair. The little mug she used every morning still on the bedside table.
He ran to the front door and threw it open.
The porch was still. The gravel driveway silent. No car engine. No sound at all. Just the wind shifting through the trees—and the ghost of what they could’ve had.
She hadn’t slammed the door.
Hadn’t made a scene.
She’d just left.
And Keefe O’Brian, the man who had fought everyone to protect what they had, was helpless to stop her.
He stood on the porch long after she was gone, barefoot on the cold stone, staring at the empty drive like if he waited long enough, she’d come back.
She didn’t.
Rain started to fall—soft at first, then steady. He didn’t move.
His shirt clung to his back. His arms hung limp at his sides.
Inside, the house still smelled like her cherry blossom shampoo and the cinnamon candles she always forgot to blow out.
It felt like she’d just gone to the store. Like she might walk back through the door any second.
But she wouldn’t.
Because she was gone—and this time, she’d walked away with nothing but the truth.
He pressed a hand to his chest. It didn’t help.
This wasn’t like the other times. This wasn’t rage or heartbreak or betrayal.
This was loss.
And there was no one to blame but himself.
He should’ve gone after her. Hell, she couldn’t have gotten that far. But he hadn’t. He’d just stood there on the porch like a goddamn coward, rooted to the spot while everything he wanted disappeared into the rain.
He should’ve chased her. Down the drive and all the way to Dublin if he had to. Should’ve made her see the truth—that she wasn’t breaking his family, she was his family.
But he hadn’t.
He’d let her go. Not because he didn’t love her—God, he did—but because he hadn’t known how to make her believe it was enough.
And now, it was too late.
She’d walked away thinking it was the right thing. That she was sparing him. Sparing them all.
No slammed doors. No screaming.
Just love. And silence.
And the ache of everything he hadn’t managed to say.