1. Valentina #4
You’re a coward. I think at him. Your cousin did nothing wrong except fall in love with a Santoro, and you punished her because that’s what Connor said.
I look away.
The reception ends at eleven o’clock and a black car awaits us at the front of the hotel.
We say our goodbyes together, side by side, performing one last round of the performance, and I hug my family.
My mother kisses my forehead, and Emma squeezes my hand, but Leo holds on for a second longer than usual.
I feel his breath against my hair and he says quietly, just for me, “I’m sorry, Val.”
“I know,” I say, because I do know and because it doesn’t change anything. I love my brother even when his decisions have consequences I’m paying for.
Then I’m in the back of the car with Cillian Brennan. The door closes and the city slides past the windows and neither of us says a word.
The silence is suffocating.
It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not the awkwardness of the head table. It’s just two people who have nothing to say to each other sitting in a car together, which is somehow almost worse.
There’s something exhausting about it.
Something that feels, very faintly, like the shared residue of having both survived the same ordeal, except I refuse to bond with him over that so I keep my eyes on the city and I say nothing.
He says nothing either.
We soon pull up to a building that overlooks Central Park, which is where we are going to live.
A wedding present, Connor called it, for the man who’s been like a son to him.
I didn’t miss the tightening of Emma’s eyes when he announced it at the reception.
The word gift is working very hard there given that nothing about any of this has been voluntary.
The building is neutral territory, neither Santoro nor Brennan property, which means it belongs to both of us and therefore to neither of us, which is the most accurate possible metaphor for this marriage.
Cillian follows me into the lobby and into the elevator. I’m aware of him at my back the way you’re aware of something that could become a problem.
When the elevator doors close and trap us together in a mirrored box, the tension ratchets up to a level that would be impressive if it weren’t so exhausting.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” Cillian mutters.
I look at him in the mirrored doors, narrowing my eyes. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours, and we’ll both pretend this marriage means something when we’re in public.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “That’s not how this is going to work.”
Something in his tone makes me turn to face him directly. “Excuse me?”
His jaw ticks. “We’re married,” he explains as if I’m simple. “That means we share a home. Share a life. Make this look real to both families.”
“Oh, it’ll look real enough,” I say, with the particular brightness I deploy when I am being at my most insincere. “I’m an excellent actress when needed.”
The elevator opens onto a private foyer, and I step into the apartment.
It’s beautiful and I’ll give Connor that much—and nothing else.
There are floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, furniture that looks like it came straight from Arhaus, and a kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances I will probably never use because I didn’t learn to cook to spite my mother and I’m not starting now.
My luggage is already here, sitting in the foyer like it’s made itself at home.
I turn to Cillian. “I’ll take the master bedroom. You can have the guest room. We’ll work out a schedule for the common areas so we don’t have to—”
“No.”
The single word stops me cold. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean we’re sharing the master bedroom,” he remarks, looking faintly amused. “Sharing a bed.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor on it. “Absolutely not. This marriage is in name only. I have no intention of—”
“I don’t give a fuck about your intentions.
” He crosses the space between us in two strides and suddenly he is in my personal space, towering over me even in my four-inch heels, and I refuse to step back because stepping back is losing ground.
“We’re married. That means we share a bedroom, share a bed, and make this look real.
The last thing either of us needs is questions from our families about the validity of this union. ”
“Get away from me,” I snarl, shoving at his chest, but it’s like shoving a wall, completely immovable. That enrages me. I shove again harder and this time he takes one step back. I’m counting it as a win.
“Make me, princess.” He smirks.
“Don’t call me that!” My voice has an edge in it, and I hate that he can tell he’s affecting me. “I am not sharing a bed with you. I am not playing house. This is a business arrangement and I will not—”
“You’ll do exactly what’s necessary to make this alliance work,” he cuts me off and his tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Or you can call your brother right now and explain why it failed before the ink dried on the marriage certificate.”
My face goes hot with rage.
I switch to Italian because English suddenly doesn’t have the right words for what I need to express, and I say things that would have made my father proud and my mother pretend she hadn’t heard.
Cillian waits until I run out of breath.
“I grew up in the Irish mob,” he says mildly. “I may not understand exactly what you’ve said, but I understand the spirit. I’ve heard worse.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, with everything I have.