Chapter 13 Sorcha
Sorcha
The walk to the boardroom is a fucking funeral march. My funeral. I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I always knew, from the moment he told me, that I was Oisin’s daughter. There was never any doubt in my mind… until I took this test.
Then, I hoped.
I hoped and prayed with every fibre of my being that it came back negative and I could walk away from this nightmare. Never my guys, though. But would they still want me if I were Sorcha Mullen? Sorcha Unknown Name.
Axl’s hand is a firm, warm pressure on my back, a silent promise that he’s with me, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that I’m walking the plank.
We enter the main building, and Axl speaks with the receptionist about where the boardroom is.
She directs us, but I don’t take any of it in.
I’m too busy panicking inside. What if this is a coup?
What if this is a bloody, horrible coup that ends with mine and Axl’s heads on platters?
But then I wonder why it would be. They don’t know jack about the legacy or my claim to St. Bart’s.
This has all been a well-kept secret for over two hundred years.
So what? What do they want with me?
The anticipation is driving me mad.
The corridors are long and lined with portraits of dead men in robes, their painted eyes following our progress. Each footstep echoes on the polished marble floor, a countdown to something I can’t name.
When we reach a set of heavy oak doors, Axl pauses. “Ready to face the lions, my lady?”
I snort, a pathetic, humourless sound. “Since we’re here.”
He pushes the door open.
A long, polished table dominates the space, surrounded by a dozen men and women in expensive suits.
Their faces are hard, their expressions ranging from curious to hostile.
At the head of the table, Bishop Brady sits like a king on his throne, his fingers steepled in front of him.
Every single one of them turns to stare as we enter. The silence is absolute.
“Lady Rhodes,” Brady says, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “I should have mentioned for you to come alone.”
“Not likely,” Axl states, his tone shifting to one that sounds remarkably like his dad’s Marquess cadence. “Lady Rhodes is a lady by her marriage to me. You will address both of us or neither of us.”
Brady’s thin smile tightens for a fraction of a second, the only sign that Axl’s words have landed.
A ripple of murmurs moves through the room, the vultures shifting in their seats, their collective gaze flicking between us.
They didn’t expect this. They expected me, the street rat, to come in here alone and terrified.
They didn’t count on Lord fucking Rhodes, Viscount of I-Still-Don’t-Know-Where.
It has ruffled their feathers, and they are not impressed.
“Very well, Lord Rhodes,” Brady concedes, his tone dripping with false magnanimity. He gestures to an empty chair, while someone rushes to fetch another one. “Please, be seated.”
We move to the chairs, a united front. I slide into the leather seat and keep my expression neutral, my hands clasped in my lap, so they don’t see them tremble. Play dumb. Alex’s words echo in my head.
Brady clears his throat, reclaiming the room’s attention. “As you know, the tragic death of Vice-Chancellor Smythe has left a vacuum in the leadership of this institution.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. His eyes, small and black like a bird’s, pin me to my seat.
We give him nothing. I don’t even breathe. Axl simply looks bored to tears and reaches for my hand.
Brady blinks and narrows his eyes, pissed that he didn’t get a reaction.
“In light of this instability,” he continues, his voice slithering around the words, “the board feels it is imperative to appoint a successor immediately. Someone who can provide a steady hand. Someone who understands the unique traditions and legacy of St. Bartholomew’s.”
His gaze lands on me again, heavy and pointed.
A woman in a sharp grey suit leans forward, her face pinched. “Lady Rhodes, your recent marriage has been the subject of much discussion. An alliance between a Gannon and a Rhodes is unprecedented in the modern history of this college.”
So, this is it. They’re not playing dumb either. I meet her gaze, keeping my face a careful blank. “I wasn’t aware my personal life was a matter for the board.”
“Oh, but it is,” Brady says. “A marriage between a Rhodes and a Gannon put the cat amongst the pigeons, as it were. Founding family member plus powerful mafia royalty.”
I’m desperate to blurt out to him to just get on with it, but Axl squeezes my hand, and I clamp my jaw shut.
Brady’s eyes flash furiously as we just sit there like two dumbfucks not saying a single word. It goes against my very nature not to demand that he get on with it.
He finally cracks, his fake smile dropping.
“This alliance,” he says, his voice now sharp and cold, “has created a… unique situation. A potential threat to the established order of St. Bartholomew’s.
” He leans forward, his dark eyes boring into me.
“Some might even see it as a hostile takeover in the making.”
The accusation hangs in the air, thick and poisonous. I feel Axl’s fingers tighten on my hand, a silent command to hold my tongue. They know. Or they suspect. It doesn’t matter which. They see us as the enemy.
“Your marriage has implications,” Brady says, his voice dangerously soft as we still remain mute. “Implications we must address. The stability of St. Bartholomew’s is paramount. Therefore, the board has come to a decision. A pre-emptive measure, if you will.”
My stomach drops. A pre-emptive measure. That sounds like a fucking threat. Just fucking get on with it!
“You are both expelled, effective immediately, and neither of you will set foot back on this campus or be arrested for terrorism.”
“Terrorism?” I blurt out and wince when Axl crushes my hand, but I’m done being Lady Rhodes who keeps her trap shut. Sorcha Gannon has risen, and there is no putting her back in her box.