Chapter 5
Ciara
When Dad is waiting for me at the stables, I instantly know something has gone sideways.
“What is it?” I ask without pleasantries.
“O’Neill has signed the license. The wedding is set for Monday.”
My heart thumps once before it settles. “Monday, it is.”
“Judge Brennan owed Connor a favor.”
“Hmm.” I dismount and leave Fiachra to the groom hovering in my periphery.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say? Oh, yippee?” I clap my hands and give him a withering stare.
He snorts. “There’s the fire that will tame him.”
Or he will douse them in booze, and then we will have a fucking bonfire on our hands.
“You move in today.”
That stops me cold, and the realization that he led with the soft part slams into me. “Move in? To his place?”
“Yes. Problem?”
“We aren’t married yet.”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” He sighs. “I wish your mother were here,” he adds under his breath.
“Well, she isn’t, so it’s on you to explain.”
“You cannot come together at the church looking like strangers,” he says.
“Looking like an arranged marriage, you mean?”
“Precisely,” he clips out. “Some familiarity is required for appearances.”
Appearances. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
“You have two hours. The car will leave at three with you in it, bags or not.”
“I’m already packed.”
His surprise is a victory for me. A hollow one, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I don’t wait for his dismissal. I turn on my heel and stride back toward the house, my boots crunching on the gravel drive. Two hours. I have two hours before I walk into Sean O’Neill’s world and become whatever it is Connor needs me to be. A jailer. A savior. A broodmare. A wife.
The word sits wrong in my mouth, bitter and foreign.
Inside, I head straight to my suite. My bags are already lined up by the door, a neat row of expensive luggage that represents the sum total of my carefully curated life.
I add the duffel with my workout gear, the smaller case with my toiletries.
Everything has its place. Everything is under control.
Except it isn’t. Not really.
I move to the window, looking out over the grounds.
Somewhere out there is Sean O’Neill. A man that I will be shackled to until one of us dies.
The man is a walking disaster, a cautionary tale wrapped in expensive suits and bad decisions.
And in less than a week, I will stand beside him in front of a priest and promise to honor him.
Turning away, I strip off my riding clothes and head for the shower.
The water scalds, but I don’t flinch. I let it burn away the sweat and the smell of the stables, let it steam against the cold knot of anger sitting in my chest. I am methodical in my routine.
Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Each step is deliberate, controlled.
When I step out, I wrap myself in a towel and stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
Dark hair plastered to my head. Green eyes staring back at me with a hardness I’ve cultivated over twenty-eight years. I am an O’Byrne. I don’t break. I don’t bend.
I blow-dry my hair until it falls in a sleek curtain past my shoulders.
Makeup is minimal. I dress in black jeans, a cream cashmere sweater, and ankle boots.
My hair goes up in a sleek ponytail. My phone goes into my Hermès bag, along with my wallet, and a slim leather journal.
I take one last look around my suite. I have everything I’ll need for the foreseeable future.
It’s not like I can’t come back, after all.
My father’s driver comes to collect my bags to take them down to the car. I wait patiently until all my bags have been removed from my room, and then I take a deep breath and move out. I lock my room behind me and keep going, not looking back.
Dad is waiting for me in the entrance hall, and I smile, showing him the dutiful daughter doing her part to keep the family going, and out of a war with the O’Neills.
He offers his arm. I take it because we’re being watched by portraits and staff and ghosts. His mouth is a line, his eyes unreadable.
“You look the part,” he says.
“I always do.”
“Ciara.” He lowers his voice. “If he puts his hands on you in anger, I will put him in the ground.”
“If he puts his hands on me at all,” I answer, “it will be because I allow it.”
A flicker of pride or fear crosses his face. I’m not sure which. He kisses my forehead like I’m still small enough to fit under his shadow, then nods. It’s as close to tenderness as he gets.
The Bentley waits. I slide in, set my bag on my lap, and turn my head away from my family home, feeling everything and nothing.
Duty before everything.
It has been drummed into me since I could talk.
By my mother, who left before I could remember her, leaving me at the hands of my father to become…
this. I wonder if she knew it was inevitable and didn’t want to stick around to see it.
Or if she just didn’t give a shit about me.
Either way, she is a non-entity. She won’t see me walk down the aisle to tether myself to a man who prefers booze and gambling.
The city rolls by in wet slate and glass.
Dublin is a living thing with a knife tucked under its tongue, and today it’s smiling.
I watch the streets till the buildings sharpen into money.
I count my breaths. I recite a list in my head: locks, cameras, power dynamics, exits. Routine steadies me better than prayer.
We pull up to his building. It’s the kind that uses marble to say fuck you without words.
I get out without waiting for the driver to open the door for me, and move towards the front doors of the building. It’s nice enough, but already I long for the stables at home. I couldn’t say goodbye to Fiachra. It would have broken me. I’ll see him again soon. It’s not a goodbye for him. Never.
“Ms. O’Byrne?” the doorman asks, a young man, whose name tag says Finn.
“Yes. You know me?”
“Mr. O’Neill left a key for you.”
I raise an eyebrow at the keycard he slides across the front desk. With a steady hand, I pick it up. This will make it easier. Especially if he isn’t home. “Thank you, Finn.”
Dad’s driver follows me with some of my bags as I walk to the elevator, but then I pause and pin Finn with a hard stare. “Which Mr. O’Neill?”
He gulps, clearly hoping I wouldn’t ask that question. He has been briefed, and he knows the score. “Connor, Ms. O’Byrne.”
I push down the shot of anger. This has complicated matters. Does Sean even know I’m coming?
Of course he doesn’t.
Connor’s move.
He wants his son ambushed, caught off guard. He wants me to walk in and see the full, unvarnished truth of the man I’m about to marry. It’s a test. For both of us.
“Thank you,” I say to the driver once my bags are piled in the elevator. “I can manage from here.”
He nods, relieved to be dismissed, and retreats back to the safety of the lobby. I step inside with the bags, and the doors slide shut. For a moment, it’s just me and my reflection. A woman in cashmere and denim, armed with a Hermès bag, ascending to her own private hell.
The elevator dings softly, opening directly into a small private foyer. I place a bag in front of one of the doors to stop it from closing, then I unload the rest, piling them up at the front door to the only apartment here.
Grabbing the last bag, the doors slide shut, and I turn to face the door.
I slide the keycard into the lock, and it clicks open.
The first thing that hits me is the smell.
Stale, cloying whisky. The air is thick with it.
My eyes follow the scent to its source. A shattered bottle lies in a puddle on the floor, its expensive contents staining the white wall behind it.
The room is a study in masculine sterility ruined by a tantrum. It’s beautiful and broken.
My gaze sweeps through the open-plan penthouse and lands on the sofa. Sprawled like a fallen king is Sean O’Neill. He’s passed out, one arm dangling toward the floor, a nearly empty bottle at his feet. His face is a mess of bruises and a split lip.
I set my bag down. So, this is the spare. The problem. My husband-to-be. I don’t feel pity. I don’t feel disgust. I feel… challenged.