19. Cady
Cady
The only sound is cutlery against china.
For a table with four people at it, that says everything.
My father is at the head of the table in a remarkable mood, still looking as pleased with himself as he probably did when he went to bed.
It's rare enough for him that it reads like a warning.
Colin Gallagher's good moods have always meant someone else's bad days, and judging by the table, I have a solid idea whose.
Rian cuts into his eggs with focused calm. He's already been briefed and is deciding what to do about it. Killian hasn't touched his food. He's sitting with his coffee in his hands. Whatever he's holding back is fighting to get out.
Neither of them looked at me when I sat down.
That's how I know it's bad.
I eat. I drink my coffee. I watch my father's good mood, and I wait, because Colin Gallagher always gets to it eventually, and there's no point in rushing him toward something I don't want to hear anyway.
He sets down his fork and dabs his mouth, like a man wrapping up a good meal before moving on to business.
"I've taken the liberty of hiring a wedding planner."
Killian's coffee cup stops halfway to his mouth.
Rian sets his down carefully, like he’s making a point of not doing something else with it.
I say nothing.
Then the door opens.
A petite and polished woman with dark hair pulled back neatly waltzes in. Cream blouse, wide-leg trousers, the bright, professional energy of a woman who is very good at her job and has walked into tense rooms before.
She’s carrying a leather portfolio under one arm, a tote bag over her shoulder, and a warm smile.
"The Gallagher residence." She sets her bag at the end of the table and unzips the portfolio. "I'm Sophie. I'm so thrilled to be working with you. I’ve done three events at the Carlisle this year, and the spring availability is better than you'd think, so we have real options to work with—"
"Sophie," I cut in because this woman hasn’t read the room or the faces sitting at the table. She looks up. “Hold that thought.”
She smiles, nods, and takes a small step back with the practiced grace of someone used to families and their complications.
She's good.
I almost feel bad about what's coming next.
My father looks at me with a warning expression.
"You hired a wedding planner," Rian says with barely disguised fury. "Without speaking to Cady."
"I spoke to Cady."
"You told Cady,” Killian snaps. "That's not the same thing."
"This is a family decision—"
"Yeah." Killian's voice is flat. "It is. So why does it feel like only one person in this family made it?"
Sophie goes still at the end of the table.
My father's good mood doesn't disappear. This type of argument is rare.
"The engagement is happening. The wedding will follow. Sophie is here to help Caitlin begin making choices—"
Sophie takes this as her cue and begins spreading things across the table.
Swatches.
Lookbooks.
Venue photographs with color-coded tabs.
"Put it away," Killian clips out.
Sophie freezes, then glances at my father.
"Killian…” My father's voice drops. “Enough.”
"I mean it." He's looking at my father now and past the point of performing calmly. "You know she doesn't want this. You're sitting there looking pleased with yourself like you've done something good, and you've just—"
"I've done something necessary. Things are happening that neither of you has the full picture of."
"Then give us the picture," Rian demands.
My father looks at his sons for a long moment. Then briefly at me, with something in his eyes that's as close to regret as he gets.
"I threatened Lucas Manifold," he says. Rian's expression doesn't shift, but Killian's does.
" Told him to keep the task force pointed somewhere else and leave our business alone.
" He picks up his coffee. "He came back.
Said he'd come down on us tenfold. I already knew he couldn’t be bought, but I needed to hear him say it.
He means it. He's been building toward us for two years, and he's ready to move.
We need cover. We need something behind us that makes him think twice. "
"The Volkovs," Rian fills in.
"Benedikt Volkov has an army and the power to use it. An alliance with that family is the difference between a manageable problem and a war we lose. We need them."
"So go to Benedikt directly," Killian says. "Make a deal. You don't need to put Cady in the middle of it."
"Benedikt doesn't deal in handshakes. He deals in blood." My father's eyes move to me. "The marriage is the deal. It's a guarantee."
"You told Misha things were fine," I grind out.
“Clearly, your plan is a reach. When you met with him, you told him the situation was manageable.
That this was about alliance and mutual benefit.
We're not negotiating from strength, are we?
We need them, and he knows it, and you let him think otherwise. "
"Da." Killian's voice is dangerously quiet. "You've handed Manifold a target. If he finds out she's connected to the Volkovs—"
"Manifold finding out is the point. It's a warning."
"It's leverage." Rian sets both hands flat on the table, which for Rian is the equivalent of anyone else standing up and raising their voice. "You've given him something to go through if he can't go through Benedikt. You've made her the softer option."
"The Volkovs will—"
"Misha Makarov," Rian says, “is not a wall. He's not protection. Artem would've been a better choice. Benedikt's right-hand man. Nobody gets near what's his without going through him first. If you want a fortress, that's who you pick."
Something close to an agreement moves through me before I can stop it.
I’m almost thinking about a kitchen and a bar set at the counter on either side of me, and a voice that said “wrong brother.”
I look down at my plate.
"Artem Makarov would never agree to it," my father says. "He's too careful. Too suspicious. He'd want to know what was behind the offer before he touched it, and I can't afford for him to know that. Misha is the lessor.”
"Misha is a fucking moron,” Killian sneers, then glances over at me. "I heard he's been sleeping around, Cady. I heard he hasn't stopped since the two of you started."
I keep completely, carefully still, and underneath that stillness, I take the information, fold it, and put it in the back of my head where I keep the things I'm going to need later.
I'll pull it out when I need it.
"That's enough.” My father stands. "Both of you—out. I'll deal with you separately."
"Da—" Killian starts.
"Out of my sight. Now."
Rian stands first. Killian watches him do it, then pushes back from the table with everything he didn't get to say still sitting behind his eyes. He looks at me before he goes. One long, unhappy look that finishes the sentence that the room wouldn't allow him to.
Then they're both gone.
My father straightens his cufflinks, looks at Sophie at the end of the table, then at me.
"Cady," he says. "Go with Sophie into the parlor."
I look at him for a moment, letting him know I’m not going about this willingly, but I will for now.
Then I stand, smile at Sophie with everything I can muster, and say, "Shall we?"
—
Sophie Marks, it turns out, has good instincts.
She doesn't say anything for the first minute in the parlor, just sets her things out on the low table between the two cream sofas, letting the air in the room settle.
She's thorough and organized, and everything comes out in the same order. It’s the practiced routine of someone who does this enough that it's muscle memory.
"You don't have to pretend," she says without looking up. “I know the difference between a woman who's excited and a woman who's doing her best." A pause. "I'll make it as painless as I can."
I study her for a second.
Then I sit, reach forward, and pick up the book of color swatches.
Sophie opens her mouth, probably to guide me toward something tasteful, something that will photograph beautifully and make my father's associates nod approvingly.
I flip to a burnt orange.
Then a mustard yellow that has no business existing.
Then something the book optimistically calls terracotta dusk, which looks like a decision made in bad lighting and never revisited.
Sophie stares at the swatches.
I look up pleasantly. "I like this one." I tap the terracotta. "And this." The mustard. "Very warm."
"It's a spring wedding," Sophie says carefully.
"Bold choice, then."
She looks at the swatches.
Then at me.
Then back at the swatches, and I watch the moment she understands.
Her expression moves from professional uncertainty into something that feels a lot like solidarity.
She reaches forward and points to an aggressive olive green.
"There's also this one," she suggests.
My first real smile of the morning forms. "Write it down.”