Chapter 4
FOUR
Simone
“I can’t believe your dad’s selling you off like some cow.”
Chantal shakes her head in disbelief, flicking on the track lighting to the different art displays. Right now, she’s stopped in front of a surrealist portrait clearly inspired by the likes of Dalí.
I’m at her side, sipping from my iced green tea matcha like it’s my last meal. It’s the reason I’ve worn all black today—every day has started feeling like a funeral since I found out I’ll be a married woman within the week.
“It is like I’m a cow, isn’t it?” I sigh. “Some family cow being put to pasture.”
Chantal turns to me, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You could always elope with Heath. He’d be down for that.”
I scoff. “Are you kidding? Heath would never defy Dad. He’s really into me, but he’s also lowkey a coward. You know he is. He’d back down in five minutes.” I pause, taking another sip from my matcha. “Plus, is getting married to Heath Kaufman any better than Ronan Callahan?”
Chantal raises a brow. “You think Heath’s on the same level as Callahan?”
“Okay, Heath’s better on paper. He’s more respectable and obviously has better character.
But a marriage to him would feel just as suffocating.
” I stare at the paintings in front of us, each one featuring things like melting clocks and distorted figures.
“The truth is, I don’t even know if I ever wanted to get married. ”
“Sim, really?” She rolls her eyes. “More like you don’t think anyone out there is good enough.”
She’s sort of right. I’ve seen the kind of men out there, and realistically, most of them just don’t measure up.
Most men can’t even measure up to the man my father is—a devoted and loving husband and family man. Dad has always loved Mom and treated her like gold.
And unfortunately I’ve seen what’s out in the real world, and it’s disappointing. It’s a selection of losers, cheaters, abusers, and men with a host of other issues like drug problems and gambling addictions.
Criminals like Ronan Callahan and his ilk.
While Dad might dabble in black market weapons dealing, he’s still a good person at heart. He’s a respectable businessman.
Men like Seamus Callahan and his sons are not. They’re uncouth Irish gangsters who break kneecaps for a living and drink themselves blind. Their idea of fun is underground fistfights and fucking prostitutes.
Not husband material at all.
I check the time on my phone and realize I’m late for lunch with Heath. I drain the last of my matcha and toss the cup in the trash.
“I have to go,” I say, grabbing my purse.
Chantal calls after me as I head for the door. “Think about running away! Remember, I’ll give you the key to the family vacation home in Cali! Your dad won’t know… at least for a few weeks!”
I wave over my shoulder without turning around.
Running away.
The idea sounds tempting. But I know better.
There’s nowhere I could go that Dad—and now the Callahans—wouldn’t find me.
I arrive at Café Boulud in the Upper East Side minutes before noon.
The restaurant is elegant and polished, unmistakably French with its crisp decor and white tablecloths draping every table.
The dining room is a sea of tailored-suit professionals and bored heiresses out for their daily lunch appearance.
Heath is already seated at our table near the window, one of the many Wall Streeters in pale blue button-up shirts and navy slacks. His gray eyes light up behind his round, wireframe glasses and he stands up to meet me.
I’ve barely stepped toward the table before he’s leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek and pulling out my chair.
“I took an extra-long lunch to meet you,” he says, settling back into his seat. “You’re never available for lunch on a weekday.”
He has no clue about the engagement; he doesn’t suspect a thing.
Guilt pools in my stomach. I reach for the glass of complimentary water on the table and take a quick sip to wash down the sudden dryness in my throat.
But before I can even get to the point, a young woman in a black-and-white uniform floats over.
“Oh… I’m not that hungry,” I say.
“Come on, you have to eat something,” Heath insists, his tone gentle but persistent, like he’s trying to coax a child into finishing their vegetables. “You love the beet salad here, don’t you? Order that.”
I reluctantly concede, ordering the roasted beet and burrata salad just to make him stop nagging. Heath has a tendency to do that until he gets his way, however gently he goes about it.
The server nods politely and walks off, weaving between tables in conversation about business.
Heath launches into a ramble about how he’s snagged us tickets to see Little Shop of Horrors. His face lights up the way it always does when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.
But really, it’s something he wants more than anything. The show I’ve been interested in seeing is Moulin Rouge, but Heath insists on seeing the campier shows he wants.
“I know, I know—campy off Broadway shows aren’t your thing. But I think you’ll really like this one. It’s different from the others I’ve taken you to. It’s campy but it’s fun—”
“I can’t,” I interrupt.
He pauses mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. “Oh. As in can’t make that night? That’s okay, I can probably get the same good seats for a different date.”
I reach across the table and grab his hand, stopping him. His fingers are warm and moisturized, unlike what the hands of Ronan Callahan felt like.
It was only a brief moment… but he had grabbed me.
He had wrenched me toward him and shoved his family heirloom of a ring on my finger. He had looked me in the eye, his green gaze striking and almost mesmerizing.
I found myself blinking up at him as his fingers dug into my arm. Rough and calloused pads that signaled he was anything but soft.
His touch wasn’t hesitant or gentle. He was the kind of man who saw what he wanted and seized it immediately.
And he had no problem making it known.
I pull my hand back from Heath’s at the memory, clearing my throat and focusing instead on what I have to say.
“Heath, actually… it’s not just that I can’t make that night. I can’t any night because I’m getting married.”
He laughs as if I’ve told a clever joke, the tittering sound almost nervous. Then his gray eyes widen behind his glasses when he realizes I’m serious.
“Married, Simone? To who? Since when?”
“My father’s business associate. In five days.”
Heath’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “That’s crazy. I’ll talk to your dad. I’ll marry you. Tomorrow! Any day. Just… just give me a chance to—”
“That won’t work. It’s already been agreed. We’ve already had the engagement dinner.”
He shakes his head, leaning forward on a desperate beat. “I’ll talk him out of it. He’s told me I should be the one. He respects me. He’ll change his mind.”
“Don’t you mean me?” I ask irritably. “Where is my consent in any of this, Heath? Are you assuming I’d want to marry you?”
“Well… I… I just thought…” he stammers, his face flushing pink. “You’re at the age—”
“We have to break up,” I interrupt, standing abruptly. My chair scrapes against the polished hardwood floor, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. “I’m sorry, but it’s the way things are.”
I grab my purse and walk out, weaving through the tables and heading straight for the glass doors at the front of the restaurant.
The server is heading back with our food, a confused expression on her face as she glances between the empty seat and Heath’s stunned face.
But I don’t look back. I’m already gone.
Over the next few days, I learn that with enough money and influence, an extravagant seven-figure wedding can be planned in less than a week. You just need the right name to drop and enough cash to toss around.
I’m dragged from one prep event to the next—from cake tastings and dress fittings to live music auditions and venue visits.
Both families designate a wedding planner for the occasion, which means constant clashing between the two sides.
The Callahan planner wants traditional Irish touches: Celtic knots in the invitations, a bagpiper during the ceremony, the family tartan and coat of arms on display. The Langston planner insists on modern elegance: a string quartet, a champagne tower, imported flowers.
I’m often stuck in the middle, left to find a compromise that’ll fit Dad’s demands and Seamus Callahan’s.
The entire time, I don’t see Ronan once.
My groom is absent. He’s given the opportunity to enjoy his last few days as a bachelor without the stressors of wedding planning.
But me? Not so lucky.
I’m bogged down with so many details that by the time the eve of the wedding arrives, I’m exhausted and ready to get it over with.
I’m lying on my bed with aching feet and a pounding head when Mom taps on my bedroom door and enters. She’s wearing a sympathetic look as she crosses the plush carpet, her long silk robe swishing.
She sits down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting gently on my ankle. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I’m not fooled by the gentle tone. I’ve been moody and bitter toward my parents all week. How can I not be when they’re literally giving me away? They’re handing me over like some possession to the mob.
“What do you think?” I retort. “You and Dad are marrying me off to the Irish! And not just any Irish… mobsters!”
Mom sighs, frowning in sympathy. “It won’t be as bad as you think, Simone. The Callahans have sworn to treat you well. You and Ronan might find common ground. You might even fall for each other in time.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Doesn’t that sound backward to you? Marriage first, then love?”
She remains silent as if recognizing my point. Her hand moves from my ankle up to stroke my hair like she’s always done since I was a girl.
It soothed me and set me at ease once.
But not now. Not in the face of what’s coming.
In the pause of our conversation, I find another thing to gripe about. Another point in my favor.
“And what about Daddy wanting me to marry within our race?” I continue, the frustration bubbling over.
“He gave me a hard time about Heath for the longest, and he’s only half Jewish!
Ronan is full-blooded Irish! He’s got red hair and green eyes.
You see how pale he is. He’s about as White as they come.
Suddenly he’s okay with me marrying someone outside our race? ”
Mom eyes me with some sympathy but also resignation. “It’s not your father’s first choice, Simone. But he’s making this concession for the bigger picture—protecting LDS against our enemies. The Callahans can help us do that.”
“That’s a lot of trust to put into Irish gangsters. Don’t they have a reputation for being underhanded and ruthless?”
“Your father has given this a lot of thought. They’re the best option of the bunch,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind about them in time.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” I say stubbornly.
“Your father and I were arranged, you know. When we first married, I wasn’t in love with him either. He was handsome and established and intriguing. So I gave him a chance and—”
“Mom, please leave,” I interrupt, turning away from her. “It’s bad enough you’re siding with Dad. I don’t need to be regaled with your fairytale love story.”
She sighs again, rising slowly from the bed. “Alright. But you’ll make a beautiful bride. Get some sleep, baby. Tomorrow is a big day. One you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Good or bad.”
The door closes behind her. I’m alone again, left to stew in solitude.
A part of me feels guilty for snapping at her the way I have. I’ve never been one to mouth off to Mom and Dad. I’ve always done as they’ve asked.
Always the perfect daughter.
Their princess.
But given what they’ve decided to do, I think some attitude is justified.
They’ve decided it’s advantageous to marry off their only daughter to Irish gangsters. All so they can protect LDS in the black market.
All while knowing I don’t have much of a choice.
Even if I did run away like Chantal suggested, where would I go long term? I have no connections outside of our family and its elite circle. I have no experience outside of working for LDS, and my inheritance would be gone.
I’m sure they’d bring me back anyway.
Before I was even born, my Uncle Karter once tried to escape an arranged marriage he had been set up for with a young woman from another wealthy family we did business with.
The story goes that Grandpa hired bounty hunters to track him down and drag him back in time for the wedding.
I’m sure Dad sees nothing wrong with such methods. He willingly entered into an arranged marriage himself.
Running or causing a scene will only make the situation even worse.
It’s the exact opposite advice I’d give a client I was doing public relations damage control for.
I sigh and glance down at the engagement ring Ronan Callahan jammed onto my finger the other night.
By this time tomorrow, I’ll be his wife.
I close my eyes and hope against all odds that I’ll wake up in the morning and it’ll turn out to be some horrible week-long nightmare.
…though deep down, I know the truth.
This is no bad dream. This is reality, and it’s worse than any nightmare.