1. Valentina #2
He refused to come to her wedding and forbade the Brennans to come.
Most listened, but a few brave ones decided to show up, including Emma’s mother, Teresa, which shocked the hell out of me as I thought Teresa Brennan didn’t even breathe without Connor’s approval.
I really thought Teresa showing up to the wedding meant she finally grew some balls, but the fact that she’s sitting alone at a table while her daughter is feet away speaks volumes about the grip Connor has on her.
God, Connor is such a fucking asshole.
He’s estranged from his very pregnant only child, and instead of being upset about it he’s standing at the bar making conversation about god knows what with a smile on his face.
But he’s here for this fucking farce of a wedding.
He is attending and smiling and playing the gracious patriarch of this alliance, because this wedding benefits him and it was his idea.
This wedding serves Connor Brennan’s interests, therefore Connor Brennan is present for it.
I look at Emma again.
She hasn’t glanced at her father once, whether that’s because she’s made peace with it or because looking at him hurts too much to do in public, I don’t know.
Probably both.
Emma is better at surviving painful things than almost anyone I know, which makes sense given that she’s had a lot of practice.
I find Cillian in the crowd.
He’s standing with a group of Brennan men near the entrance, and I watch his eyes go to Emma for just a moment.
There’s a moment where his face twists with an unfamiliar expression, but then it’s gone and he’s back to his careful blankness.
Emma said he was her favorite cousin before everything fell apart. I think about that.
He hasn’t even talked to Emma today, and, from what Emma’s said, the last time he spoke to her was when he crashed her and Leo’s wedding.
Anger bubbles in me again.
How can he ignore his favorite cousin and seemingly accept that she’ll raise a baby without her own father’s acknowledgment?
Then I remember that Cillian is also doing what Connor asked.
That he is here, performing this, because Connor told him to.
Whatever complicated feelings he might have about Emma and Connor, they weren’t complicated enough to make him say no.
The hot thing in my chest cools into something that is simply contempt, and I feel better for it.
I am shown to my seat at the head table and Cillian materializes beside me like a very tall, very irritating shadow.
We sit down together at our own wedding reception, and it’s the most uncomfortable I have been in years.
This even beats the bad date I had a few years ago where my date decided to serenade me at a karaoke bar.
Cillian doesn’t speak to me. Instead, he sits there, cutting his food with precise cuts, nodding occasionally when guests come to offer congratulations.
He does this for the entire salad course without a single word in my direction.
This would be a mercy except that I can feel him beside me and the silence feels like the quiet before something goes wrong.
I’m halfway through my salad when he says, without looking at me, “Try smiling more. You look like you’re at a funeral.”
I set down my fork very carefully so I don’t throw it.
But I want to.
Oh, I want to so badly.
“I am at a funeral,” I say with poisonous sweetness. “My own. Thank you so much for noticing, it’s very touching that you’re paying attention.”
He looks at me for the first time since we sat down, and those ice-blue eyes are flat and assessing, like I’m a problem he’s trying to accurately measure. “If you’re going to be miserable, at least be miserable in a way that doesn’t embarrass both our families.”
“Embarrass—” I breathe before I stop and take a measured breath. “You have some nerve, Brennan.”
“I have plenty of nerve,” he agrees, looking back at his plate. “What I don’t have is patience for a sulking wife who can’t hold it together for one evening.”
The word sulking hits like a slap, and I feel my smile go sharp enough to cut glass.
“Sulking,” I repeat, my voice going dangerously quiet.
Those that know me know that’s a bad sign.
He doesn’t know me well yet and that’s going to be his problem.
“I am not sulking. I am performing at a level that deserves a standing ovation given the circumstances, and if you say the word sulking to me again I will—”
“You’ll what?” He looks at me again, and there’s something mocking in his expression that makes my fingers twitch toward my knife.
“Threaten me? Throw your drink at me? March over to your brother and tell him I wasn’t nice to you?
” The corner of his mouth curves, but it’s not warm, not even slightly.
“Go ahead. Be my guest. Let me know how that works out for you.”
I look at him for a long, steady moment.
“You know,” I say conversationally, “I’ve met a lot of arrogant men in my life.
Occupational hazard of being a Santoro. But you have a very specific brand of arrogance that is impressive in its scope.
The confidence it takes to be this unpleasant to someone you’ve been married to for approximately four hours—”
“Three and a half,” he says.
“Tre e mezzo,” I agree sweetly, enjoying that I can slip into Italian while the idiot barely knows English, “and already you’ve perfected the art of making me want to commit a crime.” I pick up my fork again. “Talent, really.”
He says nothing and goes back to his plate. He is done with this particular exchange, which is more infuriating than anything he could have said.
I look across the ballroom at Leo and Emma.
Leo has his arm around Emma’s shoulders and his dark head is bent toward hers, saying something that makes her laugh again.
A wave of jealousy hits me so hard that if I was standing, I would have been knocked down.
I want what that looks like.
I’ve always wanted what that looks like.
Not the circumstances that led to it because my idiot brother caused a lot of shit when he kidnapped Emma from her first wedding, but the thing underneath it.
The realness of it.
Two people who chose each other with their whole selves, who look at each other like that even in a room full of people.
Instead I have…this. A man who finds my existence offensive and hasn’t bothered to hide it.
The band starts a waltz and Cillian pushes back his chair, looking bored and a little irritated.
“Time to dance, wife.”
Amazing how much contempt he can put into the word wife. I’m sure there’s another four-letter word he would rather call me instead.
I take his hand and let him lead me to the floor.
I will not make a scene because there is the smallest, pettiest part of me that wants to show all these people that I am better at this than he is.
I’ve been in ballroom since I was six and I am exceptional. Whatever he’s capable of, I will match it and exceed it and I will look better doing it.
He pulls me into hold and I notice with immediate annoyance that his posture is perfect. Ugh.
His frame is solid and correct, lead hand in exactly the right place. He knows what he’s doing.
Goddammit.
Then he starts moving and goddammit again. I want to scream.
He is good at this.
Not just adequate, but actually, frustratingly good.
He takes up exactly the right amount of space and leads without forcing it.
We fit together on the dance floor with a synchronization that feels almost like the universe is mocking me personally.
“You move well,” he says.
“I know,” I say because again, false modesty is beneath me and I want him to know that I know I’m good at this.
He waits exactly one beat. “For someone who’s never done anything more demanding than decide which charity gala to attend next.”
There it is.
I keep my smile in place through sheer force of will.
“And you,” I say, matching his tone as we turn.
The bastard thinks he’s going to outwit me?
I was raised on how to weaponize my manners, “move surprisingly well for a man whose primary form of communication has always been physical intimidation. Almost like there’s a person in there somewhere. ” I smirk.
The hand on my waist tightens. “Keep talking,” he says quietly, his voice cold and foreboding, as if it’ll intimidate me. It’s not working. “See where it gets you.”
“I’m already married to you,” I point out pleasantly. “Where exactly do you think it’s going to get me that’s worse than my current situation?”
His jaw twitches, and it’s the only emotion I get from his impassive, punchable face. “You think this is a joke?”
“I think this whole situation is a farce,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “I’m just the only one willing to say it out loud.”
“You’re a spoiled girl who’s never had anything denied to her until now,” he says coldly. There’s no mocking tone. He’s saying what he actually thinks. “And you’re throwing a very elegant tantrum about it and calling it principle.”
I feel my jaw tighten. God, I hate him. I hate him. “You know nothing about me,” I spit out, hating that nothing nastier is coming to mind.
Cillian knows this and I want to punch the triumphant smirk on his face. “I know enough.”
“You know nothing,” I hiss, my careful control suddenly fraying. “You looked at me once and decided what I was and you’ve been operating on that assumption ever since, and you are so completely wrong about me that it would be funny if it weren’t so insulting.”
“Then prove me wrong, princess,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
“Don’t call me princess,” I snap.
His eyes gleam as he twirls me. “Why not? It fits.”
I purposefully step on his foot as hard as I can, the pointed heel of my Louboutin directly to his instep. He doesn’t flinch. Dammit. I’ll have to try again later and make sure I put more force into it.
“It doesn’t fit,” I respond, trying to pull myself together and regain the upper hand. “But keep using it. Every time you do, I’m going to find a new way to make your life slightly worse, and I have both the creativity and the time.”
He steps on my foot and I glare at him.
“Oops,” Cillian says casually, as if he didn’t just fucking mean it.
The song ends.