Chapter 8
EIGHT
Simone
I wake to a ringing phone.
My head pounds, and the room is too bright even with my eyes closed. I’m still lying in the bed at the Crown Plaza Hotel, the sheets tangled around my legs, otherwise naked.
But Ronan is gone without a trace.
The hotel phone keeps ringing off the hook. Whoever is calling refuses to give up anytime soon.
It takes me a second to even sit up.
I’m groggy and disoriented, partially hung over from all the wine and champagne I had last night, as I reach for the hotel phone on the nightstand and answer.
“Hello?” I rasp.
“Good morning, Mrs. Callahan,” a polite voice replies. “This is the front desk. I’m calling to let you know you have some visitors here to collect you.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the words. “Visitors? What visitors?”
Before the clerk can answer, there’s a sharp knock at the door.
I rub my eyes, trying to clear the fog from my brain, slide on the complementary hotel robe, and pad over to the door on the other side of the huge hotel suite.
The door’s barely open before it’s being shoved the rest of the way. An older portly woman and three men stride in like this is their suite, not mine.
I scream and back up, my heart doing a flip. “What the—”
“Calm yourself, love,” the woman says in a thick Irish accent, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m Oona, keeper of the house.” She looks me up and down, unimpressed. “And you’re comin’ with me.”
I stare at her in confusion. “What? No… I’m not—”
“Callahan House,” she clarifies, as if that explains everything. “You’ll be livin’ there now, won’t ya?”
“I’m going nowhere!” I snap, backing away. “Where’s Ronan?”
But my protests go ignored.
The three men—each as broad shouldered and stone faced as the next—start collecting my things.
My wedding dress. My heels. My veil.
The discarded pair of panties Ronan had impatiently removed.
My whole face warms as I watch them in disbelief.
Oona sighs and digs into a tote bag, pulling out a plain gray sweater and a pair of jeans. She tosses them at me. “Figured he’d leave you with a wet arse and nothin’ else to wear. He’s a Callahan man, alright.”
“Excuse me?” I clutch the clothes to my chest, indignant.
“Get dressed, love. We haven’t got all day.”
Everything’s a whirlwind. I get dressed in a daze, pulling on the sweater and jeans—both of which fit surprisingly well—and then I’m ushered out of the Crown Plaza Hotel into a gold Rolls-Royce parked outside.
The morning air is crisper than usual, even for this time in November.
The city itself is already awake, people rushing past on the sidewalk.
I’m shoved into the back seat, Oona sliding in beside me. The door slams shut, then we’re pulling into traffic.
“What’s going on?” I demand, finally finding my voice again. “Where are we going?”
Oona sighs like I’m a child asking too many questions. “Today’s movin’ day, love. You’re movin’ into Callahan House.”
“That’s a mistake,” I say quickly. “I still have my things to get—”
“The Callahans sent a small movin’ truck over already,” she interrupts. “Packed up much of your things from your parents’ estate. They’ve already been delivered to the house in Bay Ridge.”
My brows jump. “Bay Ridge? As in Brooklyn?”
“That’s where Callahan House is located, yes.”
I pull out my iPhone. “I need to speak to Ronan.”
“Not possible. He’s very busy.”
“Busy?! He’s my husband!”
“Aye, and a husband with responsibilities. You’ll see him when he comes home.”
I stare at her, fury bubbling in my chest. But there’s nothing I can do. The car is already speeding across the bridge, leaving Manhattan behind.
We arrive at Callahan House in Bay Ridge in no time.
Unlike my family’s estate in Scarsdale, Callahan House is still immersed in the city’s urban terrain, simply cordoned off with tall gates and lush trees.
It’s a large three-floor home made of red brick and gray stone, ivy crawling up the walls.
There’s a cracked marble statue in the garden that no one’s bothered to fix.
It looks old and lived in.
Rough around the edges.
Very fitting for Irish mobsters the more I think about it.
The interior has the same gritty, ancient vibe.
Dark woods, leather furnishings, green and blue tartan everywhere. The sweet and spicy scent of Irish whiskey permeates every corner.
It’s the exact opposite of the Langston estate, which is bright, polished, and sleek. Where my family’s home looks like it belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine, Callahan House looks like the set of some gritty TV drama.
Oona takes me by the arm and leads me up two flights of stairs, her grip firm for her age.
“Welcome home, love,” she says as we climb. “Your bits’ve been unpacked. The staff’ll do whatever else you need. Your schedule’s already been sorted—”
“What schedule?” I interrupt.
“The schedule Ronan’s set for you. He’s keepin’ you quite busy, love.”
“I set my own days.”
“Not anymore.” Oona stops at a door on the third floor and pushes it open.
“You’re a Callahan’s wife now. Comes with a very particular role, dear.
Don’t worry, all that’s really asked of you is to look pretty and work on poppin’ out some wee ones.
That’ll be expected soon enough. The Callahans like to keep the family big. ”
I stare at her, my stomach churning.
If she notices, she doesn’t care. She merely carries on, a brisk air about her. She shows me into the room.
It’s Ronan’s room.
A large bedroom, clearly masculine, with dark wood furniture and bedding in the same shades as the family tartan. My clothes have already been hung up in the closet alongside his.
I stand in the doorway, speechless.
This isn’t a fake marriage. Not in the way I’d hoped, where I’d get to keep my distance from Ronan and the Callahans.
It’s exactly the opposite—they’ve integrated me.
I’m truly seen as a Callahan now.
The rest of the day passes in a blur.
For supposedly being a big family like Oona claimed, I don’t see anyone at Callahan House the entire day but staff and security.
Oona spends a long time with me, showing me around the home and the grounds. The estate is smaller than my family’s, nowhere near as sprawling or modern.
But I notice a common thread as we walk through the halls lined with family portraits and old Irish artifacts: size and modern luxury don’t seem as important to the Irish mobsters as family and legacy are.
Very different from Dad, who’s proud about enjoying the finer things in life.
Everything feels too fast. Just a week ago, I was Simone Langston, living up my spoiled, privileged life. Shopping on Fifth Avenue with Chantal. Brunching at Café Boulud. Answering to no one but myself.
Now I’m married off to an Irish gangster who makes me come with relative ease.
I block out any more thoughts about our wedding night. It’s bad enough I can still feel Ronan between my thighs.
That my pussy’s noticeably sore from his big dick. That he’ll always be the man who took my virginity on our wedding night.
…and it was exactly the opposite of how I always envisioned. Instead of loving and affectionate, it was angry and hateful.
I had pulled a blade on him. I nicked it from my cousin Karter and smuggled it up to the hotel suite, hiding it under the pillow. If I were riding Ronan, I could pull it out when he least expected it and give him a warning that I meant what I said.
He didn’t have an obedient little wife on his hands. I would never be that woman.
But it hadn’t gone according to plan. He easily flipped me over and used it against me. He fucked me deep and roughly without consideration for the fact that it was my first time.
If anything, he fucked me harder, as if to really drive home his crude lesson.
I came anyway, pussy clamping on his dick in a way that makes me ashamed in the light of day. How could I come after Ronan manhandled me like that? How did he drag the most toxic lust imaginable out of me?
It was painful yet pleasurable all at once, and as he finished inside me, a part of me craved more. Even as the other half of me was angry and upset and cussed him out.
I eat dinner alone… unless the staff count as company. The meal is expertly prepared and tastes excellent, but I’m left hollow after the fact.
What good is some first-class meal if I’m in a home I hate?
I try to call Mom, but she texts back that she’s busy at a charity gala representing LDS’s philanthropic arm and will call me tomorrow.
I sigh, staring at my phone.
Tomorrow.
It seems like Mom and Dad are already forgetting about me; they’ve married me off and no longer seem interested in what happens now.
I decide to turn in for the night. I head upstairs but refuse to sleep in the same bedroom as Ronan.
Instead, I find a private study with comfy sofas, bookcases, and a TV. I settle in there, making a makeshift bed with some blankets and pillows from a linen closet.
It’s as I’m setting up that I sense I’m not alone anymore. Glancing up, my heart does a flip inside my chest.
Ronan’s in the doorway. He’s finally home.
Against my stubborn will, I can’t help but notice how handsome he is.
…how good he looks even now.
His six-foot-something frame fills the doorway, his dark reddish brown hair slightly mussed like he’s run his hands through it a million times today. His square jawline is shadowed with stubble, his piercing green eyes set on me.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, thick arms folded, showing off the muscle and definition in them.
My mind goes right back to last night. Thoughts of how those arms had flipped me over in bed like I weighed nothing fill my head. How those large hands and long fingers had touched me everywhere, gripping me so roughly but in a way that made me shudder and whimper for more…
“Evening, princess,” he says, cocking a brow. His gaze has traveled from me to the makeshift bed I’ve created. “Looks like you’re settling in. But it seems you’ve got the wrong room.”