Chapter 1
Maeve
Eleutheromania (n) a strong desire for freedom
I can hear the world beginning to stir outside, the sounds of cars humming in the distance, punctuated by the far-off rumblings of thunder.
Good old Worcester, Massachusetts. It’s home, but only in the sense that I live here.
I haven’t felt at home here in quite a while.
Not since my mom died. Callum had been my shoulder to lean on during those terrible years, and somehow, he made the days almost bearable.
But of course, all of that is long gone, right down the shitter.
A knock at the door pulls me from my self-pity.
“Miss Maeve, it’s 6:50. Your father will want you at the breakfast table at seven sharp,” the motherly voice of Biddy, our housekeeper, chimes out.
I roll my eyes and groan, making sure it is loud enough for her to hear.
She clicks her tongue, like always when I show any inkling of thorny behavior, and says, “You’re the one who will have to deal with him if you’re late, not me.”
I smile, knowing she is right, and I roll myself off the bed with an exaggerated smack on the mahogany hardwood floors with my feet.
I turn on my LED lights to brighten my, as my friends call it, “depressingly dark” room.
But I love the darkness. The walls are a rich forest green, and there’s a mix of antique and modern furniture with gold hardware.
Sheer black curtains flow over the floor-to-ceiling windows from gold curtain rods.
There was a time, years ago, when my vibe was more light and feminine.
My room looked completely different years ago.
Pink walls, pink and white accents everywhere, lace, frills, and ribbons.
But after… that night… I never wanted to see those colors again.
I’d busied myself with redoing my room and my wardrobe, hoping that this new, darker palette would help me forget everything.
It hadn’t, but it definitely felt more fitting. I’m not the same girl anymore.
I pad over to my bathroom, thinking wistfully about my library just down the hallway, wishing I could disappear inside it and not face the day.
I sigh and set about getting ready. I hurriedly brush my teeth, wash my face, and fashion a quick updo with my long mop of strawberry blonde hair, completely disheveled from the night before, and my tossing and turning.
Whoever invented dry shampoo is a saint in my book.
I pull on a pair of black skinny jeans with distressing on the knees, a pair of busted-up burgundy combat boots, and a black tank top with a sleeveless cardigan that covers what I need it to.
The less my father knows about my scars and tattoos, the better.
I check the time and notice I have sixty seconds or less to reach the dining table on time.
Shit. Cormac Collins does not appreciate tardiness, not from his employees, not from me.
It’s one of the quirks of his personality that has contributed to his success in the business.
He’s militant. Dependable. Steady. And ever since my mother had died, utterly emotionless.
I hurry out of my door and rush down the stairs, but slow right before the doorway to our dining room.
My father is sitting at the head of the table, his readers on the tip of his nose as he scans the morning paper.
He peeks over the top of his glasses at me, then tilts his head to look at the gold watch on his left wrist. He looks back up at me, then back down, letting out a deep, rumbling, “humph” as he returns to whatever he had been reading on the third page. Point. Made.
“Good morning, Dad,” I chirp in a falsely positive voice as I make my way to the table.
It’s loaded with dishes of eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, muffins, biscuits, and fruits.
Our head chef, Rory, is always overcooking for every meal.
I’d told him a hundred times that this amount of food is unnecessary for just my father and me.
He always responded with a polite “Of course, Miss Maeve, of course,” but still hadn’t changed the banquet layout.
I set about filling my plate with lightly buttered toast, vanilla Greek yogurt, and a few berries.
My father’s plate, untouched before him, is full of bacon, eggs, oats, and a mixture of vibrant fruit.
“Orin tells me you’ve upped your training to five days a week,” my father says in his faint Irish brogue, looking over his readers at me as I sit down.
“I had too much free time, so we upped training days to help fill the gaps in my schedule,” I answer, moving the fruit around on my plate aimlessly.
Of course, I couldn’t tell him the actual reason for the increase in my training.
Finding anything interesting enough to fill my time outside of my small interior design business, reading, and playing the piano, usually left too much time for my thoughts to wander.
The less time my mind was idle, the less time I had to fall into a downward spiral.
Returning his gaze to the paper once again, he says, “Lorcan sent a new dietary plan to the chef, and I recall seeing some protein on that list.” He looks over to my plate and then at me.
I don’t even try to argue. I just grab some turkey sausage and eggs from the spread on the table.
The remainder of breakfast is spent in silence, the soft rustle of the newspaper the only sound.
As I toy with my unwanted breakfast, I find myself looking at my father, truly looking at him, for the first time in quite a while.
His once dark brown hair is now more gray than brown, and the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead are much more prominent these days.
But his posture is straight, and his body is toned.
He’s still in great shape, physically, for being in his early fifties.
I watch him as he squints at the paper, apparently disapproving of whatever he’s reading.
I wonder when I last saw him smile, but I can’t remember.
As much as my mother’s death had been a blow to me, he had also suffered so much.
But we’d both suffered in silence, never leaning on each other for support.
The only things he seems to be able to talk to me about these days are my training and not mingling with the opposite sex.
I understood it. He didn’t want to lose me, too, especially after what happened to me six years ago—six years and eleven months ago, to be exact.
But that didn’t make it any easier. I used to try to make small talk with him, but over time, I just stopped talking and accepted that the father I once had—the man who smiled, laughed, and called me mo ghrian—was gone.
He clears his throat, interrupting my reverie.
I can see his Adam’s Apple bob, and his brows are furrowed, one slightly arched.
He folds his paper, places it on the table, and then adjusts his chair to sit at the table as if he is about to eat the untouched food on his plate.
His face grows worrisome, and I instinctively straighten my posture.
He sighs and places his elbows on the arms of the chair, clasping his hands together.
“Maeve, we have things to discuss,” he says, and my stomach turns with anticipation. We hadn’t discussed anything in years.
“The Egans will be joining us for dinner tonight, and you will be expected to attend.”
My heart drops instantly. I feel my mouth go dry as panic creeps over me.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I ask, my voice unnaturally high.
“Maeve,” he says, his voice gentle, “I know it has been some time since you and Callum have… been around one another, but things between our families are shifting. You are my successor, like it or not, and you will need someone on your side if and when things go sideways.”
I feel my mouth drop open. This has to be a joke.
It makes no sense. Our families, once business partners and the closest of allies, had been at odds for many years.
I never really understood the reasons for the rift, but I knew it was serious.
It was why I’d had to sneak around to see Callum all those years ago.
What a waste of time that turned out to be.
He clears his throat again and goes on. “The Egans have been our allies for decades, and even during the… separation… they were there for us.”
Since when? What the fuck have I missed here?
“Dad,” I start, trying to reason with him, “we haven’t spoken to the Egans in years. Or at least, that’s been my understanding. When did you and Niall even start speaking again? Why am I just now being made aware of this?"
He holds his hand up to cut me off.
“One question at a time, Maeve,” he says, removing his readers and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Things were going on at the time of the separation that you were not old enough to comprehend. We were forced to… to make the falling out appear real, and we couldn’t have you or Callum aware of the situation at hand. Lives were at stake.”
“What are you saying? That the feud wasn’t… that it wasn’t real?”
He doesn’t answer me. He just stands up and walks to the window facing my mother's garden, a spot we'd both visited often after she passed. But we never walked through it together. He did make sure all of the rose bushes—her favorite—were kept pruned and pristine. I’d seen him walking the garden in the evening, pausing to inspect the roses, but never plucking one.
I'd wanted so badly to join him, but for some reason, I never did.
He clasps his hands behind his back, and I briefly wonder if he’s thinking about her now, wondering what she would think of this mearadh.
After a few heartbeats, he continues. “Callum has been aware of the situation for a while. I wanted to hold off on telling you until you two mended whatever issues you had. Unfortunately,” he says, turning to stare at me, “that hasn’t happened. We can wait no longer.”
All this circular talk. I feel anger taking hold. “What kind of ‘things’ have been going on that you weren’t able to tell me?”
He sighs heavily. “We will have plenty of time to discuss the details, but I need you to prepare yourself before they arrive. You will be expected to be on your best behavior as my daughter and successor.”
I lean back in my chair. I feel dizzy, like the room is spinning wildly. I place a hand on my chest, trying to calm myself.
”Maeve,” he says, his gentle tone making me look back up at him.
His eyes soften. “You and Callum have so much history. You two grew up together. You were there for each other through so much. Now, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I’m sure you’ll work through it.
I’m not asking you to marry him, Maeve. I’m just asking you to be civil.
It’s for the good of the families. The good of the business. ”
I just stare back at him, lost for words. I can’t believe he’s placing this burden on my shoulders. I want to shake him, to tell him what Callum had done to me, to scream at him that I can’t do this. But instead, I sit there, still and silent as a statue.
“Just remember, Maeve,” he says, looking at me intently, “not everything is black and white. Sometimes, things are not what they seem.”
Well, that’s cryptic.
Suddenly, his phone starts ringing, and he pulls it from his pocket to look at the screen briefly, then glances back at me.
“Just so you’re aware, Niall and I both knew you two were still seeing each other after the separation. Just like I know how often you sneak out to see Nessa."
I try not to react to that little tidbit.
Here I was, thinking I was successful in my sneaking around.
Looks like I’m the one who doesn’t know shit about shit.
I feel my face go hot, and a wave of embarrassment washes over me.
I feel so stupid, so blind. A fake rift between the families?
How long did Callum know about this? My father knows about my nighttime escapades with Nessa?
“One moment, Cian,” he says as he answers. Ahh, Cian. His trusted enforcer. Probably calling to talk about even more shit that I don’t know shit about. Why am I always the last to know?
On his way out the door, he places the phone against his chest to cover the speaker and says, “I must take this, but please dress appropriately for dinner and be downstairs when they arrive at five this evening.”
And with that, he strolls casually out of the room, speaking into the phone in a low tone.
I sit there, stunned. I have half the mind to race after him and tell him to fuck off, that I’m not going to be at the stupid fucking dinner, that if he genuinely thinks of me as his successor, he’d actually tell me what the fuck is going on.
But I don’t. I sit there with my hands on the edge of the table, trying to will my heart to stop pounding.
Suddenly, Callum’s face flashes in my mind, but it isn’t the sweet face of the boy I had loved so many years ago.
The face I see is the same one he made when he got caught with Nessa.
That slow, empty gaze. Expressionless. Not caring.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and eventually, I make my way back up to my room, wondering what the hell I’m going to do now.