Chapter 40
Ciara
The intercom buzzes, sharp and unexpected in the quiet of the penthouse the next morning. I’m curled on the sofa with a book I’m not really reading when Sean’s head snaps up from his laptop at the kitchen island. His entire body goes rigid.
“Stay there,” he says, his voice flat and controlled in a way that makes my pulse spike.
He crosses to the console table near the entrance, pulls open the drawer, and retrieves his gun.
He checks the clip before moving to the door.
I watch his jaw tighten as he peers through the peephole, while trying not to stand in the center of the doorway.
“Sean?” I set the book aside, my heart hammering. “Who is it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, just looks through the peephole, gun held low but ready. Then he exhales, a sound somewhere between annoyance and resignation.
“Your father.”
I roll my eyes and rise, moving closer. “What is he doing here?”
“Let’s find out.” Sean unlocks the door but doesn’t lower the gun. He opens the door and stands to the side, gun not going anywhere.
Donal stands in the hallway with a glossy gift bag, dark green with gold ribbon handles.
“Sean,” Donal says pleasantly, as if armed receptions are perfectly normal. “May I come in?”
Sean doesn’t move. “Depends. What do you want?”
“To see my daughter. Is that okay with you?”
There’s a long, tense moment where neither man moves. Then Sean steps back, still wary, still holding the gun.
Donal enters. He spots me, and something flickers in his gaze. Assessment, maybe approval.
“Ciara. You look well.”
“I am.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “This is unexpected.”
“I should have called ahead,” he concedes, though we both know he did this deliberately. Donal O’Byrne doesn’t do anything without calculation.
He pulls a bottle out of the bag and holds it out to Sean.
Sean glares at it, and the muscles in his jaw flex.
My heart stops.
Scotch.
The air in the penthouse turns to ice.
Sean stares at the bottle for what feels like an eternity.
My fingernails dig into my palms, my breath locked in my chest. This is a test. It has to be.
Donal knows about Sean’s struggles. This is him testing the foundation of this marriage, this alliance, seeing if Sean is truly steady or just performing stability.
I want to intervene, to throw the bottle out the window, to scream at my father for this calculated cruelty. But I don’t move. I can’t. Because Sean needs to handle this himself, and if I step in, it undermines everything he’s fought for.
Sean reaches out and takes the bottle, and my heart sinks at my dad’s triumphant look.
But then Sean moves to the door and sets it outside with careful deliberation, meeting Donal’s eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice even and controlled. “I don’t drink anymore.”
No excuses. No explanations. No apology for disappointing the gift-giver. Just simple, factual truth.
Donal’s expression doesn’t change from triumph, but this time it’s because Sean passed the test. He gives a slight nod. Approval.
“I see,” Donal says mildly. “Good for you.”
Sean finally lowers the gun, tucking it into the back of his waistband. “You came all this way to bring me Scotch I won’t drink?”
“I came to speak with Ciara. The Scotch was... a courtesy.” Donal’s gaze shifts to me. “May I have a moment with my daughter?”
Sean’s eyes find mine across the room, a silent question. I nod slightly, and he exhales.
“I’ll be in the bedroom,” he says. It’s not far, and we both know he’ll be listening. But it’s a concession, a show of respect for the conversation Donal wants to have.
He brushes past me as he goes, his hand briefly touching the small of my back. A reassurance. Then he’s gone, though I can feel his presence hovering just out of sight.
Donal settles onto the sofa. I remain standing, arms crossed, waiting.
“You’re angry,” he observes.
“You brought my husband a bottle of whisky as a fucking test.”
“It was.” He doesn’t deny it. “And he passed. Sit down, Ciara. I’m not here to fight.”
I don’t sit immediately, holding my ground for another beat before lowering myself into the armchair to the side of him. “Then why are you here?”
“To tell you I’m proud of you.”
The words are so unexpected, so foreign coming from his mouth, that I almost don’t process them. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, the manipulation.
“You’re... what?”
“Proud.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me with those sharp, calculating eyes that have always seen too much.
“When I arranged your marriage to Sean O’Neill, I expected you to fulfill your duty.
To hold the alliance together through charm, compliance, or sheer survival.
What I didn’t expect was for you to become. .. this.”
“This?”
“A woman of substance. A partner, not just a pawn.” He gestures vaguely toward where Sean disappeared. “You’ve steadied him. Not by coddling or controlling, but by standing beside him as an equal. That takes strength I wasn’t sure you possessed.”
I should feel validated. Triumphant. I’ve spent my entire life craving even a scrap of approval from this man, and here he is, offering it freely.
Instead, I feel oddly detached, like I’m watching this conversation happen to someone else.
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say quietly.
“I know.” There’s something almost like respect in his tone. “That’s why it matters. You did it for yourself. For him. That makes it real.”
“You sold me to secure an alliance. You told me my feelings didn’t matter, that my only value was in what I could provide to the family. And now you’re proud because I... what? Made the best of it?”
“I’m proud because you made it more than I intended. You were supposed to be a bride, Ciara. A symbol of unity between our families. But you became a partner. A force. You didn’t just survive your circumstances—you shaped them.”
I think about the woman I was a few days ago. Obedient, willing to endure anything to fulfill her duty.
But I’m not her anymore.
“You’re right,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I did become more than you intended. But not because of your planning or your expectations. Despite them.”
He smiles, thin and sharp. “Even better.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of years of unspoken resentment and need settling between us.
“The alliance is solid,” Donal continues, shifting to business because that’s the only language he truly speaks. “The O’Neills respect you. Connor respects you. That’s no small feat.”
“Connor respects results.”
“And you’ve delivered them. You’ve kept Sean functional through a crisis that would have destroyed a lesser man. You’ve positioned yourself as an asset, not a liability. As an O’Byrne.”
There it is. The only thing that matters. The name.
I could reject it. Throw it back in his face. Remind him of every cold dismissal, every moment he made me feel worthless.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t need his approval anymore. Surprisingly, I’ve built something real with Sean, something that has nothing to do with duty, alliances, or family politics. Whether Donal blesses it or not doesn’t change that.
“Thank you,” I say, but I mean it. Not because his praise fills some void, but because I can accept it without needing it. “I appreciate you saying that.”
He nods, reading the shift in me with the same exactness he reads a business negotiation. “You’re a strong woman, Ciara.”
“I know.”
He nods and stands. “I won’t take up any more of your time. But I wanted you to know that you’ve exceeded every expectation. The O’Byrne family is stronger for your marriage, and so, I suspect, are you.”
I walk him to the door, hyper-aware of Sean somewhere in the bedroom, listening to every word.
Making sure Donal picks up the Scotch and takes it with him, I close the door after my father and lean against it, exhaling slowly. My hands are shaking, though I’m not sure if it’s adrenaline or emotion or relief.
Sean emerges from the bedroom, his expression guarded. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I push off the door, crossing to him. “I am.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I let myself sink into the solid warmth of him.
“You handled that well,” I murmur against his chest.
“So did you.”
“He gave us his blessing.”
“I heard.” Sean’s hand strokes down my spine. “Does it matter?”
I think about that. About the girl who would have done anything for her father’s approval. About the woman I’ve become, who built something real in the wreckage of an arranged marriage.
“No,” I say honestly. “But it’s nice to have anyway.”
Sean huffs a quiet laugh against my hair. “Your father is a manipulative bastard.”
“Yes. But he’s not wrong about everything.”
We stand there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the morning light slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
My throat tightens with emotion I don’t have words for. So instead, I kiss him, pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against his.
When we break apart, Sean rests his forehead against mine. “Ryan’s days are numbered.”
“I know.”
“And when this is over, we can figure out what comes next.”
“What do you want to come next?”
He considers that, his thumb brushing along my jaw. “More of this. You, me, figuring out how to be normal.”
“We’re not normal, Sean.”
“No. But we’re us. That’s better.”
I smile against his mouth. “Yeah. It is.”