Chapter 15 #2
Silence stretches on the other end, and I picture him sitting perfectly still, weighing every inflection I just gave him. Another pause follows, heavier this time. “Don’t forget who placed you there,” he says.
I straighten my spine as if he can see the shift. I don’t like the word placed. I don’t like what it implies. “I haven’t.”
“Then stop protecting him.”
My fingers curl around the burner, knuckles whitening. “I’m not protecting him,” I say evenly, though the image of Cillian at Roarke’s grave flashes uninvited behind my eyes.
“Then give me something useful.”
I close my eyes. “He’s consolidating the east docks and pushing Kinsella’s remaining shares into shell companies, but the filings won’t surface until next week.”
“You’re guessing.”
“I’m extrapolating.”
A thwack on the other end tells me he’s slapped his hand on his table out of frustration. “You’re betraying me, Saoirse.”
The accusation snaps through the line so cleanly that I don’t breathe for a second. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair,” he repeats softly, and now there’s no restraint at all. “You think this is about fair?”
“You’re asking for moves that don’t exist yet.”
“I’m asking for loyalty.”
“You have it.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” I clench my free palm into a ball so I can lie through my teeth.
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Give me something that hurts him.”
I open my eyes and stare at the far wall, at the faint shadow of a tree branch shifting outside the window. “You’re pushing too hard.”
That does it.
“I sent you in to destabilize him,” Father says, and now the restraint is gone completely. “Instead, you’re defending him in the middle of the night.”
“I’m not defending him. I’m telling you the truth.”
“The truth is you’re attached.”
My eyes well up, which is strange since I’m not normally a woman who gives in to emotions too quickly. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he snaps. “And if you’ve forgotten where your loyalty lies, I’ll remind you.”
A chill works its way up my spine. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
A shiver runs up my spine. “You wouldn’t.”
“You think I won’t finish what I started?”
My throat goes dry. “Finish what?”
“If you betray me,” he says evenly, “I will finish you.”
Before I can form a response, he disconnects.
The burner screen goes black in my hand.
I sit there for a long time, phone resting in my palm, heart beating too hard against my ribs, the words replaying in a loop I can’t shut off. Sleep doesn’t return.
By morning my head feels packed with cotton and my stomach turns at the smell of coffee in the corridor, but I dress anyway and walk into the strategy room like nothing is wrong. Midway into discussions, I lose the thread of my own sentence as heat climbs up my throat.
“I’ll be right back,” I manage, and I’m already moving.
The hallway tilts slightly as I walk, and I don’t make it gracefully. I barely make it at all.
The bathroom door slams shut behind me just as my body gives up control, and I’m gripping the porcelain again, knuckles aching, breath tearing out of me in short bursts.
When it stops, I stay crouched there, staring at my reflection in the mirror opposite. I look like a ghost occupying someone else’s skin.
A knock sounds.
“You okay?” Cillian’s voice carries through the door, low and threaded with something that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
“Stress,” I say, wiping my mouth and forcing the words out. “Just the pressure.”
He opens the door anyway.
He lingers in the doorway for a second, then steps inside and turns on the tap. Water runs. He wets a cloth and hands it to me without comment.
I rinse, fold it carefully, and sit on the edge of the tub until the last wave passes.
“You should lie down,” he says.
“I can’t. We’ve got the eastern files at ten.”
He studies me again, slower this time. “You look pale.”
I look directly into his eyes. “I am pale.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He crouches in front of me and rests his forearms on his thighs. “If you’re sick, we call a doctor.”
“I’m not sick. I just haven’t slept.”
He nods once, though he doesn’t look convinced. “Take the morning off,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
I hold his gaze, then let it drop. “Fine,” I say quietly. “I’ll take an hour.”
He stands and steps back to give me space. “Text me when you’re back at your desk.”
“I will.”
He leaves, and I stay seated until I can trust my legs.
By nine I’m at my workstation, answering two emails and closing three tabs I don’t remember opening. The room feels close. I stand and walk to his office door.
He looks up immediately. “What.”
“I’m going to step out.”
He leans back in his chair. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t step out.”
“I know.”
He waits.
“There’s a bakery near the harbor,” I say. “I haven’t been in months.”
He watches me like he’s trying to decide which part of that is true. “You don’t take breaks,” he says again.
“I haven’t been feeling great,” I reply, and I don’t elaborate. “I could use an hour.”
He stands and walks around the desk. “You want someone with you?”
“I can manage a croissant alone.”
“I wasn’t asking about the pastry.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t want an escort to buy bread.”
He considers that. “An hour,” he says finally. “Phone on. If you feel worse, you call me.”
“I will.”
“And you eat.”
“I plan to.”
He steps closer and brushes his thumb lightly under my eye. “You’re not invincible.”
“Neither are you.”
He lets out a short breath and nods toward the door. “Go.”
I don’t wait for him to change his mind.
The bakery sits on a corner where the street narrows toward the water, and the windows are fogged from ovens that have been running since dawn.
I step inside and am hit with sugar and yeast and coffee.
There are six tables along the wall and a counter stacked with trays of sweet bread glazed thickly and unevenly.
I order two pastries and a coffee, then add a third without thinking.
The girl behind the counter smiles. “Hungry morning.”
“Apparently.”
I sit near the window and tear into the first roll before the coffee cools. The sweetness steadies me. I finish it. Then the second. I slow down on the third, but I don’t stop.
Halfway through, I realize I’m not eating for taste. I’m eating to quiet something.
My phone buzzes. A message from Cillian.
You alive?
I type back.
Yes. I think the sugar’s helping me settle.
He replies almost immediately.
That’s new.
I don’t answer.
When I’m done, I sit there longer than necessary, staring at the empty plate and the crumbs scattered across the table. I check the time. Twenty minutes left.
I stand and leave, turning right instead of heading straight back toward the estate. The pharmacy is two streets over, tucked between a launderette and a hardware shop. I push the door open and keep my head down.
I walk the aisles slowly, pick up a box of tampons, then set it back and choose a different brand. I add a pack of painkillers to the basket. I pause at the shelf I’m not supposed to need and reach for the smallest white box on the bottom row.
I don’t read the front twice. At the register, I set everything down without looking up.
The cashier scans the items, slides them into a thin paper bag, and tells me the total.
I pay in cash and step outside to walk back toward the bakery instead of the estate, duck inside, and ask for the bathroom key.
The girl hands it over without question.
The restroom is narrow and clean, a single sink and a locked stall. I bolt the door behind me and set the paper bag on the counter. My hands are steady. That’s what scares me.
I open the box, tear the foil, and read the instructions once. I set the box aside and follow the steps exactly, my movements precise and detached, like I’m handling paperwork instead of something that can change the direction of my life.
Minutes later, I’m sitting on the closed lid, the test on the edge of the sink, my phone face down beside it.
I stare at the tile floor. I count the grout lines.
I listen to footsteps outside the door and the hiss of the espresso machine through the wall.
Someone laughs near the counter. A chair scrapes across the floor.
I don’t move when the first line appears, but my chest contracts and expands all together until a time comes when I’m feeling far too sick to see straight. My vision blurs for a second, and I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself, fingers pressing into porcelain.
It’s only one line.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I almost laugh, but it catches halfway up my throat and turns into something tight and unsteady.
Then the second line shows up slowly, darkening until there’s no room for doubt.
I stare at it like it might change if I look long enough. Like it might fade. Like I might have misread something simple. But naturally, that doesn’t happen.
My first thought isn’t fear.
It’s Cillian.
I see his face in my mind, not the one he wears in the war room, not the one he wore at Roarke’s grave, but the one at the kitchen table with his nephew balanced on his knee, arguing about a toy boat.
I see the way he wiped mashed potato from that child’s cheek and didn’t think anyone was watching.
I see him looking at me in the car, telling me we weren’t going back to how it was.
You’re allowed to want normal parts.
My hand moves toward my phone before I’ve decided anything. I could call him. I could walk out of here, get into a car, and tell him everything before the day even turns.
He would look at me first, then at the test, then back at me. And I have a good feeling he’d choose something that’d concern my health… unlike my father.
The thought hits hard enough to make me sit back against the wall. I slide down until my shoulders press into cool tile and my knees pull up toward my chest.
This isn’t just his child.
It’s mine.
And that makes it real in a way I didn’t prepare for.
My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. There’s nothing there yet. No curve. No sign. Just the faint echo of nausea and a line on a cheap plastic stick in a café bathroom.
I swallow.
My father’s voice cuts in, uninvited.
You move now. You destabilize him fast.
I picture telling him. I don’t even get to finish the thought before I know I won’t.
He wouldn’t see a grandchild. He would see leverage, timing, weakness in Cillian and an opportunity to split him open.
He threatened to send messages, to burn me down with a single click.
If he knew this, he would escalate. He would use it, make it a weapon before I had time to decide what it meant to me.
My throat tightens, and this time the nausea is not from hormones. I stand slowly and move closer to the sink. I pick up the test and hold it closer to my face, like proximity might reveal some technical flaw. The lines are clear. Even. Unmistakable.
Positive.
My mind starts running through dates. The cliffside. The week before. The nights in his office when the war maps were still open on the table and he carried me upstairs without breaking a sentence. I had taken the pill. I think I had. Once late. Once unsure.
It only takes one gap.
I press my lips together and close my eyes for a second.
This changes everything.
If I tell Cillian now, in the middle of this war, he’ll tighten security around me, limit where I go, who I see. He’ll protect what is his, and I will become part of that perimeter.
And if Patrick senses that shift, he will know something is different.
I push away from the sink and pace the narrow space, three steps one direction, three back. My phone sits on the counter, silent. I flip it over and stare at the screen.
No new messages.
For a brief, reckless second, I imagine not telling anyone and carrying this quietly, letting the war burn itself out while I decide whether I am strong enough to walk away from my father entirely.
But secrets don’t stay buried in houses like ours. They surface. They explode.
I lean over the sink and splash cold water on my face. When I look up again, my reflection is gaunt, eyes too bright, mouth pressed thin. I look cornered.
My mouth trembles as I dry my hands slowly and set the test back in its wrapper, then into the paper bag with the rest of the pharmacy items. I fold the top down neatly.
I think of Cillian again. He said he wasn’t going back.
Neither can I.
Outside the door, someone knocks lightly. “Will you be long, hun?” a woman’s voice calls.
“One minute,” I answer, and my voice sounds steady.
I have to tell Cillian. I must let him know everything before it’s too late.