Chapter 13
Ciara
Sunday night rolls into dawn on Monday, and my heart kicks up a notch. I breathe in. I’ve been doing yoga in the living room, waiting for dawn to break, and it’s here. For a moment, one single moment in time, I have no idea what to do.
So, I exhale and bend into downward dog.
The front door opening makes me shoot upright, eyes on the short hallway.
Millie bustles into view with a basket of fresh pastries. She smiles when she sees me. “Morning.”
“Hi,” I say awkwardly. This woman has no idea what to do with me. I, in turn, have no idea how to act around her. “You’re early.”
“I always am on a Monday,” she says, setting the basket on the island. “And today’s not any old Monday, is it?”
“It isn’t,” I admit, reaching for the kettle. “Tea?”
“I’ll not say no.” She eyes my yoga mat, then my bare feet. “You sleep at all?”
“Enough.” Lie. My dreams taste like iron and smoke, and I wake with my jaw locked from clenching it. I move through the ritual anyway—boil, steep, pour—because ritual is religion and I worship at the altar of control.
Millie produces butter and jam from her basket like a magician revealing doves. “Eat, girl. You’ll faint in that dress if you don’t.”
“I don’t faint.” My stomach, traitor that it is, growls at the smell of sugar and yeast. I tear a croissant in half.
She eyes up the empty bar with a raised eyebrow. “Bold.”
“Had to be done.”
“Brave.”
“You mean stupid.”
Her gaze lands back on me, assessing me. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“A lot of people make the mistake of thinking me weak. I grew up with Donal O’Byrne and my eyes wide open.”
She nods slowly. “Your mama?”
I clench my jaw. “She left when I was still young.”
Millie’s eyebrow goes up, but before she can say anything, I smile and turn my back on her. “I’m going to shower.”
“Sure,” she murmurs to my retreating back.
But I’m not doing this with her. I’m not looking for pity or judgment.
In the shower, I crank the heat until the room fogs and my skin pinks.
I scrub with the efficiency of a surgeon.
Steam scalds my shoulders and fogs the glass, but I stand under it until my head is clear.
Control. Routine. I step out, towel off, sit at the vanity in the guest room and blow out my hair.
Then I take my time with my face. Moisturizer.
Primer. A whisper of foundation. Liner so sharp I could gut a man with it, and a neutral lip that says I woke like this.
My hair goes into a sleek, low twist at the nape of my neck.
I don’t wear perfume. The scent might make him nauseous.
The dress hangs on the back of the door like a corpse waiting for a wake. I turn to it, lift it down, and lay it on the bed. I step into silk and tulle and indifference. The bodice fits like it was made for me.
“Need a hand?” Millie’s voice is soft in the doorway. She doesn’t come in until I nod.
She moves deftly, fingers quick with the zipper, the hooks, the tiny row of covered buttons at my spine. She’s mother, maid, and co-conspirator in one efficient package. She steps back, eyes scanning me like a tailor. A small smile curves her mouth. “You’re a picture.”
“Thanks.”
“The car will be here soon.”
I nod and turn away from her to put on a pair of diamond studs.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at nothing as the clock ticks away my final moments before I become Sean O’Neill’s wife.