CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
"I expect you to show strength." I move back to the heavy bag, needing something to do with my hands before I punch something that isn't leather.
"The Russians just proved they can hit us.
Your father's in the hospital. We look weak.
Vulnerable. The engagement party shows everyone that we're not backing down.
That we're united. That hitting us only made us stronger. "
"That's…" She stops and swallows whatever she was going to say. "That's cruel."
"It's strategic." I hit the bag once, twice, letting the impact ground me. "It's what your father would do if he could."
"Don't." Her voice is sharp now, angry. "Don't tell me what my father would do. You don't know him."
"I know men like him." I hit the bag again and again. "I know what it takes to survive in this world. And right now, we need to show strength, not weakness."
"So I'm supposed to smile and shake hands and pretend everything's fine while my father fights for his life?"
"Yes." I turn to face her. "That's exactly what you're supposed to do."
Her eyes are shining now with rage or tears. I can't tell. Maybe both.
"No." The word is quiet and final.
I laugh, not because it's funny but because it's absurd. Because she actually thinks she has a choice.
"Yes."
I turn back to the bag as sweat drips and muscles scream. I hit it harder, trying to beat out the image of her face, the hurt there, the betrayal.
"You need to be strong." The words come out between punches, rough and almost gentle despite the violence of my movements.
Behind me, I hear her breath catch. I hear the sound of her trying not to cry.
Fuck. I hate this. I hate being the one to hurt her.
I hate that she's looking at me like I'm the enemy when all I'm trying to do is keep us both alive.
But this is the world we live in. This is what being a Murphy means. Hard choices. Cruel choices.
"That's easy for you to say, William." Her voice breaks on my name. "When you're high, and the rest of us mortals have to do this fucking sober."
The words slice through me.
I stop mid-punch. The bag swings forward and hits me in the chest. I barely feel it. She used profanity.
She's crying now, not sobbing, just tears streaming down her face while she stares at me with an expression that's part rage, part devastation, part something I can't name.
"Aoife…"
"Don't." She backs toward the stairs. "Don't say anything. Don't apologize. Don't tell me again what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to feel or that this is all strategy."
"It is strategy…"
"I know!" The words explode out of her. "I know it's strategy.
I know it's smart. I know my father would tell me the same thing if he were awake.
But he's not awake, William. He's in a hospital bed with a tube breathing for him because someone put a bullet through his throat.
And you're standing here telling me to smile about it. "
"I'm telling you to survive it."
"By pretending it doesn't hurt?" She swipes at her tears, angry at them, at me, at everything. "By shutting off the parts of me that feel things? By becoming like you?"
The words hit like a knife between the ribs.
"You don't want to be like me," I say quietly.
"No." She meets my eyes. "I really don't."
She turns and climbs the stairs. Her footsteps echo through the basement and grow fainter, then disappear entirely as the door closes behind her.
I'm alone again with the heavy bag and the cocaine still racing through my system, making everything sharp and terrible and crystal clear.
I should feel victorious. I laid down the law.
Made her understand that this engagement party is happening whether she likes it or not.
Asserted dominance. Showed strength. But all I feel is hollow.
I face the bag again and tear into it with everything I have.
Every punch is harder than the last, more violent, more desperate.
The chain groans under the assault. The leather splits in places and shows the sand-filled canvas underneath.
I punch until my wrapped hands are soaked with blood.
Until my shoulders scream. Until my lungs burn and my vision blurs and I can't tell if the wetness on my face is sweat or tears. I punch until I can't punch anymore.
Then I collapse against the bag and hold onto the leather like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, maybe, it is.
Aoife's words echo in my head. That's easy for you to say when you're high, and the rest of us mortals have to do this fucking sober.
She's right. It is easier while being high.
Everything's easier high. The guilt. The fear.
The crushing weight of responsibility that I never asked for and don't know how to carry.
But she's wrong about one thing. I'm not strong.
I'm not the leader everyone needs me to be.
I'm just good at pretending. Good at hiding behind cocaine and violence and the Murphy name.
Good at destroying the people who try to get close.
Like Aoife, who looked at me with fear and respect and something that might have been the beginning of trust. Who came down here to warn me.
Who's trying to save both our families, even though I've given her every reason to let us burn.
And I just broke her. Made her cry. Made her curse.
Made her see exactly what kind of monster she's being forced to marry.
I should feel relieved. Should be glad she knows the truth now, that she'll stop looking at me like I might be worth saving. But all I feel is the loss of something I never had to begin with.
I push off the bag and head toward the stairs. My legs are unsteady, whether from the workout or the drugs or the crash that's coming, I don't know. Don't care.
The engagement party is tomorrow night. Aoife will be there, dressed beautifully, smiling perfectly, playing the role of happy bride. Because that's what survival looks like in our world. That's what strength means, even when it kills you from the inside out.
I climb the stairs slowly. Each step is an effort. By the time I reach the top, I'm dizzy and nauseous. The cocaine high is fading and leaving behind the familiar emptiness. I need another line or a drink or both. I need to not care.
But I do care.
And that's the worst part of all.