Chapter 19 #2
Mrs. O'Brien's face breaks into a genuine smile. "Well, and it’s lovely to meet you both. Welcome to Aulinnross," she says, her Irish accent thick and musical. "I've prepared the blue suite for Mrs. Murphy, and the master suite is ready for you and your wife, Mr. O’Malley."
The master suite. Where Ronan and I will be sharing a bed, pretending to be a real married couple.
I’d wondered about that, but he must have decided that we can’t risk any rumors flying around that we’re not sharing a room.
My stomach flutters with nerves—and something else I don't want to examine too closely.
"Thank you," Ronan says. "Mrs. Murphy has been traveling for quite a while and needs to rest. Could you show her to her room?"
"Of course." Mrs. O'Brien turns to my mother with maternal concern, which makes me smile, since they’re not that far apart in age. "You look tired, dear. Let's get you settled, and I'll bring you some tea and something light to eat."
My mother looks like she's about to protest—she hates being fussed over—but exhaustion wins out. "That sounds wonderful, thank you."
As Mrs. O'Brien leads my mother up the grand staircase, I'm left alone with Ronan in the massive foyer. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything that happened on the plane, everything we're not talking about.
"Our room is this way," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.
I follow him up the staircase, my hand trailing along the polished banister. The walls are lined with more portraits, more stern-faced ancestors watching our progress. At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretches in both directions, lined with doors and lit by wall sconces.
"How many rooms are in this place?" I ask, trying to fill the silence.
Ronan chuckles. “I can’t say I ever thought to count. A lot. Most of them don’t get used regularly. Mrs. O’Brien had quite the job getting the estate ready for guests, it’s been a long while since we’ve visited.”
The mansion is vast, even bigger than Ronan’s back in Boston. I think of my mother’s brownstone apartment, which I always thought was spacious for the city, and how I tried to find space for my things when I moved back in. The contrast is almost absurd.
The master suite is at the end of the hall, behind heavy wooden doors that Ronan pushes open with a slight hesitation. I understand why when I see the room.
It's enormous, dominated by a four-poster bed that looks massive.
The posts are carved dark wood, probably mahogany, and heavy curtains in deep blue velvet can be drawn around it for privacy—again, something out of a period drama instead of real life.
Tall windows look out over the estate grounds, and a fireplace large enough to stand in takes up most of one wall.
But it's clearly a room meant for a couple. There's only one bed, and everything about the space speaks of intimacy—the sitting area with two chairs pulled close together, the vanity table with space for two people's belongings, the massive bathroom visible through an open door.
"I can sleep somewhere else," Ronan says quietly, reading my expression.
"There are plenty of other rooms." He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and I can see that he’s uncomfortable.
At the idea of sharing a bed with me, or this whole situation?
I press my lips together, unsure of how it makes me feel.
“You didn’t ask for us both to be in here?”
“No. Mrs. O’Brien assumed.”
“Should we let her assume?” I chew on my lower lip. “We need to look like this is a real marriage, right?
He nods slowly. "You're right. We need to keep up appearances."
Appearances. That's all this is.
I move to the window, needing some distance from him and that enormous bed.
The view is breathtaking even at night—the sky is vast and studded with stars, without any of the light pollution I’m used to in Boston.
I can see that the estate stretches far beyond the manor house, and I feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing it all in the daylight.
"It's beautiful," I say, and I mean it.
"My great-great-grandfather built this house," Ronan says, coming to stand beside me at the window. "The original castle was destroyed, but he wanted to stay on the land. Said it was in his blood."
"Is it in yours?" I ask, glancing at him. "The land, I mean."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring out at the nighttime expanse beyond the window.
"I used to think so. When I was a kid, I spent every summer here.
My father thought it was necessary to connect with our roots.
My grandfather still lived here, then. I knew every stone wall, every stream, every hiding place in those ruins.
" He pauses. "But I haven't been back much in recent years. Too busy with… other things."
Other things. The family business. The violence and danger that follow him everywhere.
"Maybe you should come back more often," I say softly.
He looks at me then, something unreadable in his eyes. "Maybe I should."
The moment stretches between us, the tension in the air thickening. I can feel myself leaning toward him, drawn by the same magnetic pull that got us into trouble on the plane.
But then he steps back, breaking the spell.
"You should rest," he says, his voice carefully controlled again. "It's been a long day."
Something jolts in my chest, a feeling that comes dangerously close to disappointment. This is about practicality. Survival. Remember that.
"Yeah," I say, turning away from the window and trying not to let what I’m feeling show on my face. "I am tired."
And I am… but more than that, I'm confused and frustrated and fighting an attraction that gets stronger every time I'm alone with him. And now we're going to be sharing a bed, pretending to be married, living in this fantasy manor like we're actually a couple.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
There’s a knock at the door, and Ronan takes another abrupt step backward, as if he’s going to be caught compromising my modesty instead of seen alone with his wife. “Come in,” he calls out, and Mrs. O’Brien comes into the room with an honest-to-God tea tray.
She sets it down on the side table. I see some small triangle sandwiches, a bowl of what looks like chilled pudding, and a teapot with two cups. “Just something light, and some chamomile tea. I took a tray to your mother already, Mrs. O’Malley.”
I wonder if that name will have stopped shocking me by the time I shed it. None of this feels real.
“Is she settling in alright?” I ask, biting my lip nervously. “Maybe I should go check on her.”
“She said she was going to get some rest shortly. She’s just fine, if you want to settle in yourself,” Mrs. O’Brien says. “I live on the property, just in the groundskeeper's cottage, so if you need anything at all, just call.”
I nod. As she leaves, Ronan crosses the room to pour us each a cup of tea, handing me one. It’s pleasantly warm in my hands, and I grip it like a lifeline.
“I hope your mother is able to settle in alright here. You may be here for a few months,” he says calmly. “I don’t think it will be that long, but it’s possible. We don’t want to make moves on Rocco until we’re absolutely sure we can finish this.”
I let out a breath, walking to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and sinking down into it. “My family was from somewhere near here, too,” I say quietly. “My grandparents immigrated from Ireland.”
Ronan nods. “I heard your mother talking about it in the car.”
I blink at him, surprised he was paying that much attention to our conversation.
"My mother always wanted to come back," I continue, surprised by my own openness.
"She used to talk about it when I was little—saving up for a trip to Ireland, seeing where her family came from.
But she was a single mother, and travel is expensive.
" I shrug. "It just never happened. I was going to save up and take her, with my salary from my new job. And then she got sick.”
"And now she's here," Ronan says quietly.
"Yeah." I look at him, feeling something soften in my chest. "She is. Because of you."
There's something in his expression when I look at him—something almost vulnerable. "I'm glad I could give her that."
"You've given us both something," I say, and the words come out more emotional than I intended. "I know this isn't… I know this situation isn't what either of us planned. But being here, seeing her expression when we pulled up to the house… thank you."
Silence stretches out between us for several long moments before he speaks again. "I know this is complicated," he says, his voice low. "I know I've put you in an impossible situation. I’ll make this as easy on you as I can, Leila. And I’ll do all I can to get you back home before too long."
I nod, swallowing hard. The air feels thick with things we’re not saying, but I’m not even entirely sure what those things are.
I can’t actually have feelings for this man.
He’s a mafia boss, a criminal, a man whose world is not one I belong in.
I’m a tourist in it, just like I am in this house, this country, and everything that there is between me and Ronan is temporary.
I can see the bed looming in my periphery.
And I want more, even if it is just until we no longer have to be married.
I want Ronan to teach me all the things that I don’t know, to show me all the different ways we could give each other pleasure.
I want to learn his body, and relish him learning mine.
We could have weeks together. Plenty of time for a torrid affair that I could remember for the rest of my life. It sounds romantic to me. Exciting. But I see Ronan’s jaw tense as he, too, looks at the bed, and my stomach drops.
He’s not thinking of this the same way I am. And even if I could tempt him into it, is that really what I want?
Or do I want him to desire this as much as I do?