Chapter 19
LEILA
I'm still shaking when I slip into the bedroom of the private jet, my legs unsteady and my heart hammering against my ribs. The door clicks shut behind me, and I can hear the attendants moving around, getting things together for dinner, probably. Meanwhile, I'm falling apart.
What the hell did I just do?
I press my fingers against my lips and try to make sense of what happened. He didn’t kiss me. He hasn’t kissed me, not since that brief, perfunctory kiss at the altar. I can’t help but think there must be a reason for that.
But the rest of it…
One minute we were talking about not having sex, about needing for me to not get pregnant, about staying safe, about keeping our distance until this is all over. The next minute, I was pressed against the bathroom wall with Ronan's hands all over me, both of us completely out of control.
And God, it felt so good. Too good.
I egged him on. I know I did. I don’t remember half of what I said. I was so caught up in the moment, wanting him. I’m still confused over what I felt when I walked in on him.
Startled. Hurt. Disappointed.
I hadn’t realized until that moment that he had no intention at all of repeating our wedding night.
We’d agreed it was a necessity, but I thought once we’d done…
that… we’d do it again. That if we slept together once, there was no point in denying ourselves in the future, for as long as we were married.
Clearly, I was wrong.
And I don’t fully understand why Ronan is keeping his distance.
It’s clear he wants me. It’s not for lack of desire. And if he’s so worried about a baby, I’m sure using a condom could take care of that. He might be so worried about it that he won’t even trust protection… but something tells me it’s not just that.
But he won’t open up to me, and I don’t think pushing him on the topic is going to help.
I look around the bedroom, awed by it, like I have by everything since I got on this jet.
It’s luxury like I’ve never imagined, a hotel room on a plane.
The bed looks soft and luxurious, done up in plush white sheets and pillows, and a duvet with gold embroidery, along with a table bolted to the wall and a plush-looking leather armchair next to it.
I can’t quite believe that this is my life for right now—or that for someone like Ronan, this is normal.
But it’s not normal for me. His life can never be normal for me, and I need to remember that.
Because no matter how gentle he is with my mother, no matter how he makes me feel when he touches me, Ronan O'Malley is still a criminal.
He's still the head of the Irish mafia. He still kills people—I've seen the blood on his hands, literally.
And this marriage, this whole situation, it's temporary.
A business arrangement to keep me safe until the threat is eliminated.
If I let myself get wrapped up in how he makes me feel, if I let myself get lost in wanting him, it’s only going to hurt when this ends. When he reminds me that nothing about this is more than a responsibility that he’s gone to great lengths to fulfill.
The flight attendant brings me dinner—grilled salmon with a lemon sauce, wild rice, and roasted squash, along with a glass of white wine. I eat mechanically, wondering if I should go check on my mom. She’s likely sleeping, though, and I don’t want to wake her.
By the time I finish my food, I’m exhausted. The attendant brings me dessert, angel food cake with strawberries, but my eyelids are drooping by the time I’m halfway through it. The chaos of the last two days, combined with what Ronan and I just did, has me ready to pass out.
When I wake up, the sky is still dark. I feel the plane shifting, and I realize we must be landing.
When I lean to look out of the window, I see a sprawl of lights that must be Dublin in the distance.
My heart races as I think about the fact that I’m in another country.
I’ve never traveled outside of the States before, and this is an adventure, no matter how it’s coming about.
As the plane touches down, I try to fix my hair and rumpled clothes before stepping out of the bedroom.
My mother is emerging too, looking put-together in jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and a navy cable-knit cardigan over that, and we head out to the seating area of the plane together, where Ronan is putting his tablet back into his leather messenger bag.
“I can’t wait to see it all in the light,” my mom says. “I’m sure it’s all going to be so beautiful.”
"Wait until you see the estate," Ronan says, and there's something in his voice—pride, maybe. "It's been in my family for over two hundred years."
My mom's face lights up. "Really? Oh, Leila, can you imagine? Your great-great-grandparents might have walked those same roads. Your grandparents, even. They lived near here before they immigrated.”
I force a smile, trying to push down the complicated emotions swirling in my chest. "Maybe they did." It is wild to think about, even if right now my complicated emotions about Ronan are superseding all else. My family came from here, and I’m going to see the country that they lived in very soon.
Through the window, I can see black SUVs waiting for us, along with several men in dark suits who can only be security. Ronan's people.
"Stay close to me," Ronan murmurs as we prepare to disembark. "The security here is good, but I don't want to take any chances."
I nod, helping my mother gather her things. She's moving slowly, and I can see the exhaustion in her face despite her excitement about being in Ireland. The long flight has been hard on her, though she’s doing her best not to let us see it.
Ronan notices too. Without a word, he moves to her other side, offering his arm for support. "Mrs. Murphy, let me help you."
"Thank you, " she says, accepting his assistance with a grateful smile. "And please, call me Claire. We're family now, after all. Isn’t that what you said?"
Something flickers across Ronan's face at that. "Claire,” he says with a nod, helping my mother as someone comes to grab our bags.
The drive from the airport takes about an hour, winding through countryside that’s shrouded in darkness, and I wish I could see in the light. I catch silhouettes of ancient stone walls and animals grazing in pastures, and I can see my mom looking to catch any glimpse of the scenery that she can.
"My mother used to tell me stories about places like this," she says, her voice full of wonder. "She said Ireland was the most beautiful place on earth, but she never got to go back after she came to America."
I watch Ronan's reflection in the window. He's listening to every word, his expression thoughtful. I wonder what he's thinking—if he’s been back here often, or if this is as wondrous to him as it is to us. I doubt it. He looks calm, unruffled, and lost in thought.
The estate appears gradually as we round a bend in the road—first the massive iron gates with the O'Malley crest worked into the metal, then the long drive lined with ancient oak trees, their branches forming a canopy overhead. And finally, the house itself.
I suck in a breath. It's not just a house—it's a manor, something out of a period drama. Gray stone walls rise three stories high, covered in ivy. Tall windows reflect the lamps that light the courtyard, and the roof has a light dusting of snow. It's imposing and beautiful and utterly intimidating.
"Oh my god," I breathe, forgetting myself.
Ronan glances at me, and I catch the hint of a smile. "It's a lot, the first time you see it, isn’t it?”
I nod, taking it all in. It’s beautiful, but it’s not mine, not the way it is for him. This is his home, his world, his life. And I'm just visiting. I remind myself of that, even as my chest clenches at the thought of really living in a place like this.
The SUV pulls up to the front entrance, where more security waits.
I count at least six men, all armed, all watching the surrounding area with professional alertness, and I’m sure there’s more.
This isn't just a beautiful estate—right now it's a fortress. Ronan is ensuring that no one can get to us here, and I do feel calmer, seeing them. We’re far from Rocco now, far from the people who want to hurt me.
Maybe here, I can start to recover and find some peace after what happened.
Ronan helps my mother out of the car while one of his men gathers our bags. She stands for a moment, just staring up at the massive structure, her hand pressed to her chest.
"Oh my," she whispers. "It's like something out of a dream."
"Come on," Ronan says gently. "Let's get you inside. You must be tired."
The interior is just as impressive as the exterior.
We enter through a grand foyer with a high ceiling.
A massive chandelier hangs overhead, crystal catching the light from tall windows.
The floors are polished wood, and oil paintings in heavy gold frames line the walls—portraits of stern-faced men and women who must be Ronan's ancestors.
"The O'Malley family gallery," Ronan explains, noticing my stare. "Going back several generations."
"They all look very serious," I can’t help but say with a small laugh, and Ronan actually chuckles.
"They had good reason to be. Life wasn't easy back then, even for wealthy families."
A woman appears from somewhere deeper in the house—middle-aged, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes. She's wearing a simple black dress, and she takes us in with the confidence of someone who's been running this household for years.
"Mrs. O'Brien," Ronan says warmly. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Leila, and her mother, Claire Murphy."
Wife. The word makes me flinch. I can’t help it—I’m not used to it, and it sounds strange. I don’t feel like someone’s wife. All of this still feels like a dream—or a nightmare that turned into a dream, and I can’t wake up from any of it.