Chapter 3
Ciara
“You have got to be fucking kidding me?” I stare at my father like he has grown a second head.
“Not a joke, Ciara, and you will remember who you are.”
My spine straightens, a rod of cold steel against the plush leather of the chair. My hands, resting in the lap of my Chanel dress, remain perfectly still. I am an O’Byrne. I know what that means. It means duty. It means sacrifice. But this… this is a fucking joke.
“Sean O’Neill,” I say, the name tasting like filth on my tongue. “You want to marry me to Sean O’Neill.”
My father, Donal O’Byrne, stubs out his cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray. The smoke curls around his head like a malevolent halo. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to.
“It solidifies our alliance with Connor. It ends the bloodshed over the port territories.”
“It ties our family to a drunken degenerate who can’t hold his cards or his liquor,” I counter, my voice as level as his. Everyone knows who he is. He doesn’t need a fucking introduction. He needs a restraining order or rehab. Both, probably.
He finally lifts his gaze from the smoldering cigar, and his eyes, the same shade of green as my own, are chips of ice.
“Connor O’Neill and I agreed that you, above anyone else, can do what Connor needs you to do.
The matter is closed. You will take his name and bring that boy into line, or you will bury him as his dutiful wife.
I don’t particularly care which, although Connor has his preference. ”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand, turning back to the papers on his mahogany desk.
The matter is closed.
I always knew it would come to this. I’m a daughter, not a son, and that is how the old world works. I can scream, I can cry, but I can’t fight it.
I won’t.
“How much?”
He raises an eyebrow, not expecting that question. “One hundred thousand euros.”
That is all my life is worth. One hundred grand.
“Who gets it?”
He gives me that chilling half-smile. “Connor. Sean is… on a leash.”
“You mean he has been cut off.”
“Same thing.”
I rise and take the two steps to the edge of the desk. “You will protect my money,” I state. “I will not have that drunken fuck bleeding me dry.”
My father’s lips twitch, a flicker of something that might be respect, or maybe just amusement at my gall.
“Your personal fortune is protected. He can’t get a single cent without your signature, fingerprint and a live selfie on the app, your actual face in real life.
” He slides a piece of paper across the desk.
“Consider it a wedding gift. Sign this.”
A gift. A cage gilded with my own gold. I stare at the marriage license and mourn for just one second before giving him a short, sharp nod as I sign with a flourish.
There’s nothing more to say. The deal is done.
I am currency, a commodity traded to keep the peace.
I have always known this would be my fate.
I’ve reached twenty-eight without this burden, but now it is here, and the reality of being shackled to the O’Neill family’s biggest liability is a bitter pill to swallow.
I turn on my five-inch Louboutin heel and walk toward the door, my posture perfect, my stride measured.
I don’t look back. I have packing to do.
This will move quickly now, and I have to keep up, better, be one step ahead.
The heavy oak door clicks shut behind me, the sound a final, definitive period on the sentence of my life.
I walk the length of the gallery, my heels echoing on the polished marble.
I’m a jailer in red-soled shoes and a perfectly tailored dress.
You, above anyone else, can do what Connor needs you to do.
My suite is my sanctuary, a space of quiet luxury and meticulous order. It is the one place in this house where I am not Donal O’Byrne’s daughter, but simply Ciara. Or I was. Now I am going to be Sean O’Neill’s wife. The thought doesn’t make me want to scream. It makes me want to strategize.
I slide open the doors to my walk-in wardrobe.
Racks of designer clothes hang in color-coordinated perfection.
I don’t reach for the gowns or the silk blouses.
I pull out my duffel bag first. My running shoes, my workout gear, the tools of my discipline.
If I am to be caged with an animal, I will maintain my routines, my rituals.
My life is a series of compartments, and I pack accordingly.
Workout gear in one section, business attire in another.
Casual wear is a weapon of its own; the right pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater can disarm a man faster than a bullet.
I fold each item with practiced precision, a quiet rebellion against the chaos I am about to be thrown into. My discipline is my armor.
I pause, my hand hovering over my lingerie, bought for my pleasure, and the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
As if I will be seducing Sean O’Neill. As if he is a man worthy of seduction rather than a problem to be solved.
Sean O’Neill is a man bred for weakness and self-pity.
I have seen him at events, the last one being Michael Kelly’s funeral, where he attended in his father’s place.
I saw him watching me, and ignored him. He isn’t worthy of my time.
Except now I will be his devoted wife.
I move to my vanity, bypassing the perfumes and jewelry.
From a hidden compartment beneath a false bottom, I retrieve a small, flat case.
Inside, nestled in velvet, is a SIG Sauer P365.
It’s small, easily concealed, and fits my hand perfectly.
I check the magazine, the action is smooth and familiar under my touch.
Then I retrieve the custom-molded leather holster that straps to my thigh, invisible under a dress.
Connor O’Neill wants me to fix his broken son.
My father wants an alliance. What I want is to survive.
This isn’t a marriage. Not the kind that counts.
I’m a glorified babysitter. But I won’t fix him.
He can fix himself or die at the bottom of the bottle, or with a bullet in his head.
I snap the case shut and place it carefully at the bottom of my largest suitcase, between the layers of silk and cashmere.
I’m ready and waiting for when the call comes. I won’t scramble. I won’t panic. I won’t falter.
For now, I will change into my riding clothes and take Fiachra for a gallop.
I strip off the Chanel and pull on the worn, supple leather of my breeches. The boots are custom-made and fit perfectly. There is no pretense, only function. Power.
The walk to the stables is short, across manicured lawns that feel like a prison yard. The air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and horses. Inside, the stable is warm and quiet, the only sounds are the soft snuffling of the animals in their stalls and the rustle of hay.
Fiachra, my black stallion, nickers when he sees me, his dark eyes intelligent and knowing. He is all coiled muscle and barely contained energy, a creature of magnificent, wild power, and he is mine to command.
I saddle him myself, the familiar movements of cinching the girth and adjusting the stirrups a meditation.
Out in the open fields of the estate, I give him his head.
He leaps forward, a bolt of black lightning against the green Irish countryside.
The wind whips my dark hair from its tight chignon, tearing at my cheeks, but I urge him faster.
This is freedom. This is control. A partnership built on respect and strength.
It’s a world away from the man I’m being sold to.
A man who respects nothing, least of all himself.
But as Fiachra’s powerful muscles work beneath me, I make a vow.
I will handle Sean O'Neill the same way I handle this magnificent beast. With a firm hand, an iron will, and the cold, hard knowledge that I will never, ever let him throw me.
But as Fiachra slows to a walk, his sides heaving beneath me, something fractures.
Just for a moment. I press my face into his mane and let out one shaking breath.
Then another. My mother left without looking back.
My father sees me as currency. I'm being sold to a man who'd rather drown in a bottle than look at me.
"I'm so tired, Fiachra," I whisper into his neck, my voice cracking on the words I'd never say to another living soul. "I'm so fucking tired of being strong."
He nickers softly, and I allow myself ten more seconds. Ten seconds to be the girl who wanted to be chosen, not bartered.
Then I straighten my spine, wipe my eyes, and ride back to the stables with my mask firmly in place.