Chapter 24
Something smelled delicious. I licked my lips with a groan and twisted around in silky sheets, groggy with sleep. The fabric feathered along my chest. My hands slipped through a long tear in the top of my outfit to my bare breasts.
What the…?
I sprang up in bed and swayed, a little lightheaded.
A rush of memories assaulted me. Trying to seduce the man I wanted to divorce.
Getting caught up in a panic attack because I forgot about his damn knife.
Being comforted and soothed by my villain until I fell asleep.
Oh, right, this was my dress from last night.
I patted the other side of the bed but found nothing but cold, empty sheets.
“Cillian?” I called out, fumbling through the sheets for my phone.
This was twice I slept in his bed. Twice I woke up alone. Except this time, there was no message on my phone.
A whirred hum picked up beyond the bedroom door, and a surge of relief swept over me.
He was still here and baking breakfast from the smell.
I inhaled the caky scent, delight pouring in.
He hadn’t left without me, and he was feeding me.
My cheeks heated. I bit my lip, buried my face in the sheets, and squealed, kicking my legs.
This was good, so good.
I hopped out of bed and smoothed the sheets back in place to appease his manic cleanliness. It was the least I could do. Goosebumps prickled up my exposed breasts, the room temperature not chilly but not super warm either, which reminded me—I needed clothes.
I cinched my dress top in a knot around my waist, then slipped on one of his shirts. On him, the fabric clung to his biceps and abs like a wet dream. On me, it swallowed me whole, potato-sack style, so I tucked it into the waistband of my dress. I gave a twist in his bathroom mirror.
It definitely gave off a freshly fucked look, the kind that screamed I was well cared for, even if sex and orgasms had been off the table last night.
At the bedroom door, I paused in confusion, my hand on the handle, my compact purse under my arm.
His deep voice hummed between beats of beatboxing, the sounds rolling and clicking with a nice, strong rhythm.
This wasn’t the type of music I imagined Cillian losing himself to. It was too upbeat, too cheery for him.
“Cillian? Are you—” The sight of him standing in the kitchen, back to me, cut me off.
It wasn’t a bad view, but he seemed to take up less space than I remembered, and honestly, the tight joggers and loose strappy workout tank didn’t fit his usual don’t-fuck-with-me personality.
Unless I was mistaken, his tattoos also didn’t match my memories.
I rubbed the last of the grogginess out of my eyes.
Whatever was gently sizzling in the pan had me practically salivating.
“That smells good. What are you making?”
“Pancakes.”
A man whirled around with more energy than I’d seen Cillian muster in an entire afternoon. A ginger, too, but definitely not the man I’d gone to bed with last night.
“You’re not Cillian.”
“You caught that, huh?” Liam O’Leary—I recognized him on sight from my recon over the years—scratched the back of his head, wooden spatula sticking up overhead. “He couldn’t stay. Pipe burst at one of our bars. You know how it is.”
“Of course.”
I rubbed my shoulder, swallowing down my bitter disappointment. Emergencies happened. At least he hadn’t left me completely alone like last time. This was better than nothing.
“He asked me to see you out. Make you breakfast first. Actually, he made the batter. I’m just”—he clicked his tongue and finger-gunned at me with each sound—“baking it. So, go. Sit. It’s almost done. Coffee’s on the table. Cream? Sugar?”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, that’s dark.” He chuckled at his own poor joke, then gasped at the sudden acrid smell of burnt pancake and jumped back toward the cooktop to flip it.
His accent was similar to Cillian’s, less pronounced but still heavy enough to leave an impression on my foreign ears.
Out of Cillian’s brothers, Liam looked the least like him, with a playful, almost childish touch to his features.
Where Cillian was the Doberman Pinscher of the O’Leary brothers—always serious and primed for action—Liam was the Belgian Malinois—energetic and intense, but downright focused when it came to business.
I dragged a chair out from the dining table. “Did he say when he would be back?”
“He won’t. It’ll take all day. Maple syrup on yours?”
“Huh? Oui—yes.”
Discomfort gathered in my throat and dripped down into my belly as I tried to justify this.
Cillian was busy. That was a completely normal thing to be.
After what we shared last night, he wouldn’t shut me out.
I had to believe that. We had a moment, a connection.
It meant something. It had to. At least, it had to me.
I absently traced a finger across the table.
When a plate of pancakes clattered in front of me, I startled, and Liam sat beside me. No plate lay in front of him.
“Are you not eating?”
“Ate before you woke up.” As I forked up a few bites, he scooted closer and cocked his head. “Have we met before?”
“Possibly,” I dragged out.
“You look oddly familiar.”
I forced an uncomfortable smile. If Cillian realized who I was, that was meaningful. If his brother figured it out for him and spoiled the game, that was a very different pair of sleeves.
“I get that a lot.”
His gaze never left me through every bite I took. From the fluffy texture and smell alone, the pancakes should have sent me into sensory overload. Instead, they tasted no better than ash, but I forced myself to chew and swallow.
I fidgeted with my fork, poked at my food, rolled my shoulders, adjusted my hair, tugged at the roots, cracked my neck…
Nothing dispelled the growing unease with every added minute in Cillian’s apartment without him, under someone else’s watchful stare.
Between bites, I typed, deleted, and retyped messages to Cillian.
Alizé
Thanks for last night.
Maybe we could try a more conventional rendezvous next?
We still need to go over business.
I hope the bar issues are not severe.
None were answered. None were read, but each one was marked as received. Obviously, he was busy. He wasn’t avoiding me. He wasn’t ghosting me. He was just…occupied. That was all it was.
“That was delicious. Thank you. I’ll clean this…” I picked up my empty plate, but he stole it out of my hands just as quickly.
“I got it.”
“Yes, okay. Well, I’ll get going, then.” I shouldered my purse and waved awkwardly at him. “Thank you again.”
He clicked his tongue and tipped an invisible hat my way. “No problem.”
The moment the door separating the penthouse and the private foyer clicked shut behind me, I slumped against the nearest wall and shook out my hands.
That had been a level of discomfort I hadn’t felt since my father caught my boyfriend climbing out of my window at nineteen.
So much for being a thirty-year-old woman comfortable in her own skin.
I checked my phone again. No new messages, and mine to Cillian were still unread. I stood there, staring at the bar of numbers above the elevator. My hands felt unnaturally heavy, and I scratched my nails across my palms. I was overthinking this. I had to be.
The bolt to the door of Cillian’s penthouse snicked locked.
“It’s done. Aye, she left. Don’t you worry, deartháir. I got you. You sure you want—” Liam’s voice moved away.
My jaw slackened, and my breath skipped. Stupidly, my eyes watered. I was an idiot. I had done everything to get his attention, just like I’d always done with my family, and it amounted to nothing. When was I going to learn my lesson?
Last night, he looked at me and listened to me like I mattered.
Under his dark, menacing blue eyes, I really thought that he saw me for me.
I thought he cared and in turn gave him a piece of myself.
I let myself be vulnerable and opened up to him because, in the heat of the moment, it wasn’t a game to me anymore.
When he held me like I was precious, the divorce papers no longer mattered. Only the fantasy of us did.
But that was all it was. A fantasy. He proved that by taking my bits and pieces and tossing them out like trash.
I scuffed my kitten heels along the marble tiles and groaned. Why? Why did I keep hoping there was something there after seven years when there obviously wasn’t?
Seven. Goddamn. Years.
What the hell had I been thinking? There would never be anything between us. It was more than time to accept that, do what needed to be done, and move the fuck on.
I shook out my limbs and trilled my lips.
Get yourself together, Alizé. Insecurity is not your thing.
Vases of flowers crowded the twin mirrors on either side of the blindingly bright oval foyer leading to the elevator.
I pushed one aside and primped up my look.
A touch-up of concealer and foundation. Some lip gloss.
A little hair brushing and mussing up for volume.
My outfit wasn’t particularly vogue, but I kind of liked the knotted style around the waist. It gave off a debonair-chic air that suited my hair and makeup.
My phone dinged.
I glanced at it and growled beneath my breath. Just what I needed, a work emergency. I was going to need to fly to New York before the day was up.
Alizé
You available?
Maeve
For you, always.
Pick me up?
I don’t like the sound of that.
Where are you?
His place.
Locked out.
That motherfucking shithead.
I’m on my way.
Meet me at the coffee shop across the street.
Two espressos later, buried in sales and marketing files my assistant sent me, I barely noticed the purse and puffer coat plopping atop the armchair across from me.
Then arms circled around my neck. In a jerk reaction, I broke the hold and almost cracked my assailant’s nose open with a palm heel strike before Maeve called out.
“Whoa.” She held her arms up. “I’m not him.”
“Merde. I’m so sorry.” I squeezed her in a hug and greeted her with cheek kisses.
“You okay?”
“Yes, of course. Just handling some things. I got carried away.”
“Ah, so he did do something. How much do I need to beat him up?”
“You don’t.” I forced a smile. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Eh, don’t worry about it. Erel’s ordering.” She sat in the tub chair beside me and hunched forward. “Wanna explain how you ended up locked out of his place?”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing. He got called in to work, and I didn’t feel comfortable staying there without him.”
She tipped her head and pursed her lips. “Smells like bull. Come on, babe. Talk to me.”
I wasn’t someone who failed. When I wanted something, I went for it, and I got it. No matter how long it took, I never gave up. It was how I’d learned eight languages, plus some Gaelic. How I’d built two companies from the ground up with barely any support from my family. It was why I was here.
After how vulnerable I’d made myself last night, telling her he’d indirectly kicked me out felt like a step toward admitting failure. I refused to do that. Anything worth doing took time. And dedication. One thing I very much had.
Erel thunked a mocha cup on the table, then collapsed in the armchair on Maeve’s coat and purse.
“Hey, off. Up, you big oaf.” She slapped at his leg until he lifted his butt and slipped her things out.
“Next time,” Erel groused in French, “ask your tail to take you back to the house.”
I perked up. “They are still there?”
“With an added three more. Plus the two government types. Three cars total. Ridiculous. It’s not stealthy at all. Or maybe that’s the point. If they are there, they can drive you. No point in waking me up.”
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“What?” Maeve urged, and I relayed the information in English. “That’s a little overkill. What is he expecting? An attack?”
Erel and I exchanged a glance. The cartel.
If Cillian gave a fling like me that much protective detail, whatever he had going down was bad beyond belief.
“You need to discuss the option we talked about with Adrien. Please.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And he’s more likely to listen to you.”
Erel grunted, unable to deny that truth.
“I’ll go through Tessa if I have to,” I warned, “but I’d rather not get her involved. If it’s a contract you both need to give the go-ahead, I’ll sign it. I’ll pay for it.”
“You’re going through an awful lot of trouble for him. Are you sure he’s worth the money?”
“I really need to learn French,” Maeve grumbled. “Just so you know, a man like Cillian O’Leary doesn’t give protection to someone he doesn’t care about.”
“Or,” Erel said in English, “someone he doesn’t trust.”
I liked Maeve’s theory much better. “All that matters is that his focus stays on me, and he can’t do that if it’s split with the cartel.”
My phone still had no new messages from him, and the ones I’d sent were still unread. Was it a transmission problem?
Let me know if you get this.
This time, the text showed as sent but not received.
Five minutes later, I tried again and got the same result. That little slice of hope from Maeve’s protection theory rotted away. He’d blocked me.
He. Blocked. Me.
Again.
My inner temperature gauge beeped a warning that a gasket threatened to blow.
No. Fuck no. He didn’t get to ghost me. Not after everything I’d shared with him. I deserved better than this, and the moment I got back from New York, I was going to make him understand that.
My anger stewed over the next three days, and nothing distracted me from it.
Not the meetings I sat through with suppliers or with my partners and their department heads in New York.
Not the dinners they invited me to or the guided tour of the city they gave—which I’d already experienced because, hello, international business owner here.
Neither did clubbing help, nor the hunk of a man who hit on me and the stranger who offered to buy me a drink.
Certainly not the eyes I felt on me everywhere I went, judging my every move at all hours of the day.
Because not one single message, phone call, or email to Cillian—I was back to trying those with him too—went through. Not one reply came back. It was radio silence.
On top of that, he shut off the camera connection. The only hint that I held any importance to him was my tail of five burly men who stuck out on New York’s busy streets as intensely as the reek of ammonia in freshly washed laundry.
I was in a blind rage by that point. The moment I got back to Boston, I was done. I was getting that damn divorce no matter what, even if I had to strap him to a chair, rip out every single one of his toenails, and stick them up his ass before he signed on the dotted line.