5. Cora
Cora
As soon as the first dance is over, I escape to the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall.
What the hell is wrong with me?
This is a man so possessive he won’t even let a waiter pour my drink. I should not be quivering at his touch. Standing alone in the upscale cubicle, I press my forehead to the cool marble and take deep breaths through my nose.
When I’ve recovered enough to be presentable, I return to the ballroom. My eyes automatically scan the crowd, searching for Connor’s bruised face. It’s just the two of us against this sea of O’Sullivans.
But the first person I register is Brady. Even from all the way across the room, my eyes are drawn to him. Stupid eyes.
He’s standing in a loose circle with his brothers and some of their friends. They’re all good-looking young men, most of them with muscular frames straining against their tuxes. Liam’s the tallest, and Finn’s the broadest, but Brady shines with something else, something more.
And he knows it.
For a moment, I see a different life. I imagine that this is my dream wedding.
I’m never going to have another one, so why not?
I’m in my dream gown, which I really do like, and I can tell that Brady likes too.
I’m at my dream venue, which honestly is stunning with all the decor that Orla’s coordinated.
And just for right now, I pretend that I’m marrying my dream husband.
He truly is sexy.
Devastatingly, dangerously so.
The sharp angles of his face look ready to slice me open, and his neatly trimmed beard gives the impression he’s skilled with a blade.
The auburn in his hair is so vibrant in this soft lighting it reminds me of blood.
Though I can’t see his gray-green eyes from here, I know they’re piercing.
I know the thrill I feel when he pins them on me.
My husband’s gorgeous eyes and all the intensity behind them.
My dream husband.
For half a heartbeat, I want this dream to be real.
Then Brady catches me unintentionally gawking at him, and my entire body flushes with heat.
He starts to excuse himself from the group, but Liam says something in his ear.
Brady nods and stays where he is, while Liam walks away.
As Brady continues to stare at me across the dinner tables and dance floor, I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze, so I watch Liam instead.
The eldest O’Sullivan son strides to the far corner, where a haze of cigar smoke hovers over clustered armchairs.
Declan O’Sullivan sits holding court, surrounded by other men in their sixties.
They all clearly defer to him as the patriarch of this mafia family.
To his right, Orla is the only woman in the group.
She sits relaxed in her own leather armchair, and, to my surprise, is puffing away on her own cigar.
Somehow she manages to make it look both feminine and deadly.
Liam bends down to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. He looks out of place among the older men, but not ill at ease. He gestures vaguely back toward Brady in his circle of younger men. It’s as if only Liam has the ability to move between the two groups, distinct as they are.
His mother nods, and they both turn to look at me. Under their scrutiny, I stiffen. I know I look good, no smeared makeup or flyaway hair as of two minutes ago.
But I’m not being judged on my looks.
Orla gives me a faint frown of disapproval, while Liam openly sneers.
I fucked up. Walking down the aisle by myself, insisting that I and I alone be the person to give myself away into my unwanted future. By doing this on my own terms, I’ve shot myself in the foot with the O’Sullivan family. Orla and Liam turn back to each other, dismissing me.
I’m an outsider at my own wedding.
No, this is not my dream.