CHAPTER FOUR
Aoife
THE MURPHY HOUSE is colder than I expected.
Not temperature, though the drawing room we've been shown into isn't exactly warm, but atmosphere.
There's something hollow about this place, like the walls themselves are mourning.
Dark wood paneling absorbs what little light filters through the heavy curtains.
Persian rugs muffle our footsteps. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watch from gilt frames, their eyes following me as I cross to the window.
I've been here twenty minutes. Or maybe it's been longer. Time moves strangely when you're waiting to meet the man you've been sold to.
Father sits on one of the leather sofas, perfectly composed in his charcoal suit, discussing weather and whiskey with Aidan Murphy like we're here for afternoon tea instead of a business transaction disguised as courtship.
His voice carries that easy confidence that comes from decades of negotiations.
He's good at this. Pretending everything is normal when we're all drowning.
Aidan Murphy is polished, while his brother is reportedly wild.
Tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks that catch the light when he gestures.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his brown eyes are sharp and assessing.
He keeps glancing toward the door, then back to Father with an apologetic smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"William should be here any moment," he says for the third time. "He had an unexpected meeting run late."
Father doesn't call him on what sounds like a lie. He simply nods and accepts another finger of whiskey from the crystal decanter Aidan keeps refilling. They're going through the motions, these men. Pretending this is all civilized when we both know William Murphy isn't late because of a meeting.
He's late because he doesn't want to be here.
I can't blame him for that. Neither do I.
I turn back to the window, letting their voices fade into background noise.
The garden beyond the glass is immaculate.
Perfectly trimmed hedges, rose bushes that will bloom in a few months, a stone fountain in the center.
It's beautiful in that controlled, intentional way that requires an army of gardeners and ridiculous amounts of money.
It's also a cage.
My reflection stares back at me from the window pane.
Navy dress that's expensive enough to feed a family for weeks.
Hair styled in soft waves that took an hour to perfect.
Makeup applied with meticulous care to make me look naturally beautiful.
I look exactly what I am. A prize being offered up for inspection.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
A bird lands on the fountain's edge. Small, brown, unremarkable. It dips its head to drink, then launches itself skyward in a flutter of wings. I watch it disappear over the garden wall, and something sharp twists in my chest.
That bird has more freedom than I do.
It can fly away. Can choose where it goes. Can make its own decisions about its future.
I press my palm against the cold glass and imagine what that would feel like.
To just walk out of this room, out of this house, out of this life.
To get in my car and drive until the roads run out.
To book a flight to somewhere no one knows my name or my family or what I'm worth as a strategic asset.
But that's a fantasy. The kind of thing girls dream about before they understand how the world really works.
I know better.
I've known better since I was fifteen years old and watched my mother waste away in a bedroom that rivaled luxury hotel suites. She had everything money could buy. The best doctors, the softest sheets, flowers delivered daily. And none of it mattered because what was killing her wasn't cancer.
It was this life.
The fear. The violence. The knowledge that every day could be the last. That the man she loved might not come home. That her children were being groomed to step into the same darkness she'd been swallowed by.
She didn't die from cancer. She died from being an O'Rourke.
And now I'm about to become a Murphy.
"Aoife."
Father's voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn from the window to find both men looking at me.
"Perhaps you'd like to sit?" Aidan suggests, gesturing to the empty chair across from them. His tone is kind, but I catch the calculation in his eyes. He's evaluating me, measuring me against whatever standard his family has for acceptable wives.
I wonder if I'm passing.
"I'm fine here, thank you." My voice comes out colder than I intended, but I don't soften it. If they expect me to show gratitude for this situation, they'll be disappointed.
Aidan's eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn't push. He returns his attention to Father, and they resume their pointless small talk about territory disputes I already know about and shipments I've analyzed the numbers on.
They're stalling. We all know it.
I look at the door for probably the hundredth time. Still closed. Still no sign of the man who's supposed to be here, performing this charade with me.
Twenty-five minutes now. Or maybe thirty.
My heel taps against the hardwood floor in an anxious rhythm I can't quite control. I force myself to stop, pressing my foot flat, but the energy has to go somewhere. It coils in my chest, tightening with each passing minute.
I want to run.
The urge is so strong it takes my breath away. Just turn and walk out. Let Father deal with the embarrassment. Let Aidan explain to his family why the O'Rourke daughter couldn't even sit through one meeting.
Let William Murphy find someone else to save his crumbling empire.
But I don't move.
Because I'm my father's daughter. Because duty was drilled into me before I could spell my own name. Because underneath the fear and the anger, there's something else. Something I don't want to name but can't ignore.
Curiosity.
I want to see him. Want to know if the rumors are true. Want to measure the man I'm supposed to marry against the reputation that precedes him.
William Murphy. The wild one. The reckless one. The one who nearly died and came back wrong. The one everyone whispers about in tones that mix uncertainty and fear.
What kind of man earns that reputation?What kind of man am I about to tie my life to?
Behind me, Father laughs at something Aidan said. The sound is practiced, perfect. He's so good at this. At pretending everything is normal when it's not. At smiling when he's probably furious that we're being kept waiting like this.
I'm not as good at pretending.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The navy fabric of my dress is soft against my palms, expensive silk that whispers with every movement.
I chose this dress carefully this morning, standing in front of my closet for twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear to meet your future husband when you don't want a future husband.
I settled on navy because it makes me look serious. Professional. Like someone who should be taken seriously in business negotiations, not bedroom transactions.
Though I suppose in our world, those are often the same thing.
The clock on the mantel ticks steadily, each second a small eternity. Thirty-two minutes now. I know because I've been counting.
Aidan shifts on the sofa. He's getting uncomfortable with the wait, I can tell. His polished composure is starting to crack around the edges. He keeps checking his phone, subtle glances he probably thinks no one notices.
Father notices. I see it in the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw sets just a fraction harder. But he says nothing, just takes another sip of whiskey and comments on the weather like we have all the time in the world.
We don't, though. We have enemies circling. Russians moving against us. Alliances fracturing. Time is the one luxury none of us can afford.
And William Murphy is thirty-three minutes late.
I wonder what that says about him. What message he's sending by making us wait? Is it intentional? Some kind of power play to establish dominance? Or is he simply that much of a disaster that he can't even show up on time to meet his own fiancée?
Both options are equally depressing.
The bird returns to the fountain. Same bird, or a different one? I can't tell. It drinks, preens its feathers, then launches itself into the air again. Freedom in every beat of its wings.
I wonder what it would take to feel that free. If I ever have.
Probably not. Freedom isn't something people like us get. We get duty. Obligation. Strategy. We get to pretend we have choices while being funneled down paths carved out before we were born.
We get cages with nice furniture and gardens we can't actually leave.
"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Aidan says again, and there's a note of desperation in his voice now. He's worried. Not about us being inconvenienced, but about what William's absence says. About what kind of impression this is making.
"When?" The word comes out sharper than I intended.
Before he can answer, the door opens.
The change in the room is immediate. Aidan stands, relief flooding his features. Father sets down his glass and rises with practiced grace. And I...
I turn to face the man I'm supposed to marry.
He's larger than the pictures gave him credit for. The photographs I studied last night, professional shots from charity events and family gatherings, showed a handsome man with dark hair and sharp features. They didn't capture the sheer presence of him.
William Murphy fills the doorway like a storm barely contained.
He's tall, well over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the hallway.
His frame is wide, powerful, the kind of build that comes from genetics and violence in equal measure.
Dark hair is pushed back from his face, but it looks like he's run his hands through it recently. Or someone else has.
His jaw is strong, angular, covered in stubble.
But it's his eyes that stop me. Dark, almost black, and utterly empty. Like someone has scooped out everything that makes a person human,leaving just the shell.
He looks at Father first, extending his hand. "Dillon. Sorry to keep you waiting."
His voice is rough, gravelly. Like he's been screaming. Or drinking. Or both.
Father shakes his hand, and I watch the way William's fingers dwarf my father's. Those hands are massive, scarred across the knuckles. Violent hands.
Hands that will touch me. Hold me. Own me.
My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a small explosion. I force myself to breathe normally, to maintain the calm exterior I've perfected over years of practice.
But inside, I'm terrified.
Not of him, exactly. Or maybe that's a lie. Maybe I am afraid of him. Of what he represents, of what marrying him will mean. Of the life those empty eyes promise.
He turns to Aidan, clasps his shoulder briefly. There's something in the gesture. Familiarity, maybe, or obligation. Then those dark eyes sweep the room and land on me.
The breath catches in my throat.
Up close, he's devastating. Not handsome in any conventional sense. His features are too harsh, his jaw too brutal. But there's something magnetic about him, something dangerous that makes every nerve ending I have stand at attention.
He didn't come from a meeting. That much is obvious. His white shirt is wrinkled, only half-tucked into dark slacks that look hastily pulled on. He smells like expensive cologne layered over something else. Something I recognize from clubbing with friends in college.
Booze. He smells of drink.
So,this is what he was doing while we waited. This is why he's late. While Father and I sat in this cold drawing room preparing to sign away my future, William Murphy was off clubbing.
The anger that surges through me is bright and clean and welcome. It burns away the fear, leaving only rage.
"You're late," I say, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds.
His eyes narrow slightly. Father stiffens beside me. I can feel his disapproval without looking at him. But I don't care. I hold William's gaze and wait.
For a moment, I think he might ignore me. Might dismiss me the way men like him dismiss women who don't matter. Turn back to Father and Aidan, who conduct business while I stand here decoratively.
But then something shifts in his expression. The emptiness cracks, just slightly, and I see something underneath it. Amusement? Interest? I can't quite name it.
"I hope it wasn't too distressful," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that makes it clear he hopes the exact opposite. "Sitting here for..." He glances at the expensive watch on his wrist. "Twenty minutes, in a warm, comfortable room, with two men keeping you company."
Twenty minutes. He's knocked off at least ten, maybe fifteen. The lie is so blatant it's almost insulting.
The words are hostile. Deliberately so. He's testing me, I realize. Pushing to see how I'll react. To see if I'll back down, apologize, play the good daughter who knows her place.
Father moves beside me. "Mr. Murphy, my daughter didn't mean to..."
"I meant exactly what I said," I cut him off, keeping my eyes locked on William.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Father has gone completely still beside me. The kind of stillness that comes before explosions.
But William? William smiles.
It's not a pleasant smile. It's sharp, dangerous, the kind of expression predators wear right before they strike. But it's real, at least.
He walks toward me, and every instinct I have screams to step back. To put distance between us. But I don't move. Won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell the cologne and drink clinging to him. Close enough that I can see the shadows under his eyes, the dilated pupils that suggest he's riding something chemical.
Close enough to be a threat.
"It doesn't matter anyway," he says, and his voice is low. Dangerous. "I'm here now."
The words sound like he's saying: I'm here, and you're mine, and nothing else matters.
My pulse thunders in my ears. Every cell in my body is screaming danger. But I lift my chin and meet his eyes with all the defiance I can muster.
"Lucky me," I say, and let the sarcasm drip from every syllable.
His smile widens, just slightly. And for the first time since he walked through that door, something real flickers in those dead eyes.
Interest.
God help me, I've gotten his attention.
I'm not sure if that's a victory or the worst mistake I've ever made.