Chapter 8 #2
I straighten up, crossing my arms to mirror his posture. “I’m right where I want to be. If I’m forced to sleep under this roof then this is where I’ll do it.”
“You don’t decide where you sleep. I do.” He pushes off the doorframe, taking a step into the room, his gait smooth and effortless. Naturally masculine. “And your place is in my room. In my bed.”
“My place?” I give my loudest, most condescending laugh. “I don’t have a place, Callahan. I’m not one of your little foot soldiers you can order around.”
The corner of his mouth curves, his green eyes gleaming. “Never a soldier, princess. You’re my wife. Which is a much more… intimate position.”
Heat flashes through me, warming my skin all over.
It’s anger, I tell myself. Just anger.
And yet as I meet his gaze, my thoughts refuse to move on from last night. Our explosive wedding night. I stammer out my next response.
“I didn’t agree to share a bed with you every night.”
“Actually, you did.” He takes another step closer. “When you said I do in front of two hundred people and God himself.”
I scoff and turn my back on him, fluffing the pillow with more force than necessary. “That was a business transaction. The deal our families made. This is my personal space.”
“No such thing. Not between a husband and wife. Not in this family.”
“Well, I’m not like the other Callahan wives,” I snap, spinning back around to face him. “I won’t be some docile little housewife who jumps when you snap your fingers.”
“You’re right, princess. You damn sure seem much more entertaining.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved. “You’re testing boundaries. Seeing how far you can push. I get it, princess. You’re used to being in control of your life.”
“I am still in control.”
He laughs, the thick and cocky sound making my blood boil. “You’re in my house. Living under my roof. Wearing my ring.” His gaze drops to my left hand where the emerald and diamond band shines from my ring finger. “Pretend all you want, but we both know the truth. You’re mine.”
“I belong to myself,” I hiss.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
He moves then, faster than I expect, and suddenly his arms are snapping out and his hands are on my waist.
“What are you—don’t you dare—”
But he does.
Ronan scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder in one quick motion.
As easily as you’d pick up a backpack or bookbag.
Except I’m a full grown woman he’s just handled like nothing, throwing me over his shoulder like he’s prepared to carry me around.
I scream, pounding my fists against his back. “Put me down! Ronan, I swear to God—”
“Swear all you want, princess.” His hand travels up the back of my thigh, copping a feel as if to further taunt me. “You’re sleeping where you belong.”
“You fucking caveman!” I hiss. “This is assault!”
“This is marriage,” he counters, striding out of the study and down the hall. “Get used to it.”
I try to twist out of his grip, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and the angle gives me no leverage. I’m damn near hanging upside down the way he’s slung me over his shoulder.
So… instead, I let him have it with my words. I shout any and everything that comes to mind.
“Everyone was right about you Irish thugs! No class. No sophistication. Just brute force!”
“And yet you married me anyway. What does that say about you?”
“I had no choice, you fucking asshole!”
“There’s always a choice, Simone.” He kicks open the door to our bedroom. “You could’ve run away. Refused at the altar. But you didn’t.”
“Because—”
“Because you’re loyal to your family. Same as me.” He crosses to the bed and dumps me onto it unceremoniously. I bounce against the mattress, scrambling to sit up, glaring daggers at him despite the hair in my face.
“You are unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.” He dusts off his hands like he’s completed a chore.
I’m on my feet in an instant, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to manhandle me whenever you feel like it! I’m not some toy you can toss around!”
He catches my wrist mid-jab. “In this house, wives sleep in their husband’s bed. Unless he has other places to be.”
“Excuse me?! If you think you’re going to be sleeping other places—with other women—”
“That’s tradition. How things are in this lifestyle.
” He releases my wrist and strolls to the door, twisting the lock into place with a click.
Then he turns back, his insufferable smirk widening.
“Now, you gonna behave yourself? Or am I gonna have to bathe you and dress you for bed too? Don’t get me wrong, princess.
I’ll happily take on those tasks. But you probably won’t like it as much as I will. ”
My face burns. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing the hard planes of his tattooed chest. “We’re already married. You can make it easy, or you can make it difficult. Either way, you’re stuck with me.”
Then he turns and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me standing alone.
Shaking with rage.
And an urge that’s far more dangerous.
My first week at Callahan House can only be described as isolated misery.
I discover the extent of my “schedule” that Oona mentioned. Hair appointments. Nail appointments. Facials and skincare treatments. Sessions with a personal trainer at some gym in Brooklyn I’ve never heard of. Even a shopping trip.
But not the kind I’m used to, where me and Chantal wander Fifth Avenue and splurge to our heart’s content.
This trip is supervised by the Callahan security team, two hulking men who follow me through a boutique like silent shadows, sucking any retail therapy joy from me.
I have no freedom.
When I try to leave for LDS Headquarters in Manhattan, I’m stopped at the door by one of the security guys and told I’m not authorized to go.
“Not cleared, Mrs. Callahan,” he says.
“Cleared? I work there!”
“Not anymore. Mr. Callahan’s orders.”
I call Mom, furious. She answers on the third ring, her voice distracted.
“Simone, sweetie, I’m in the middle of—”
“They won’t let me go to work,” I interrupt. “His security team is holding me hostage in this house.”
“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. You just got married a few days ago. You’re not needed at the company. Enjoy the break!”
“We’re coming off the Roberts embezzlement scandal. I’m needed to make sure we recover in the public eye. I’ve got to run interference with the press—”
“Your father has already handled it, Simone,” she answers. “He’s put you on an indefinite leave of absence. Your assistant director will be stepping into your role for the time being. You need time to settle into being Ronan’s wife.”
“I don’t want to settle in! I want my life back!”
“This is your life now. Give it time, Simone. You’ll adjust.”
She hangs up before I can argue further.
I try Dad next. He’s even less sympathetic.
“You’re a Callahan now, Simone,” he says simply. “You can’t call us every time you have a complaint.”
And that’s that.
But Ronan’s never around.
He’s always busy, staying gone most of every day and returning only late in the evening. Sometimes after I’ve already gone to bed.
The same can be said about his father, Seamus, who I’ve only seen once since moving in, passing through the foyer in a dark suit with a cigar clenched between his teeth.
His mother, Shaylee, is gone too, though Oona mentioned she’s on one of her spa retreats.
I’m alone in this massive house with nothing but staff and security.
I feel like I’m going crazy.
On the eighth day, I call Chantal.
She answers immediately. “Oh my God, Sim! I’ve been dying to hear from you! How’s married life? Are you miserable? Please say no so I don’t feel bad about having fun without you.”
I collapse onto the sofa in the study, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I’m losing my mind, Chani. They have me on a schedule like I’m a child. Hair appointments, trainer sessions, supervised shopping trips. I’m being monitored constantly. I can’t even leave the house without permission.”
“Permission? Girl, you’re not in prison!”
“It damn sure feels like it. Ronan’s never here. He’s out doing God knows what, coming home at midnight every night like he doesn’t have a wife waiting.”
“Waiting? Babe, you hate him.”
I exhale the breath I’ve held in. “I know! But it’s the principle. He gets to do whatever he wants, and I’m stuck here like some... some...”
“Trophy wife?”
“Yes! That!”
“I figured when you missed the mixer at the gallery.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. “Chani, I’m so sorry—”
“Girl, I get it. But it was amazing. Sold three pieces, including the Basquiat-inspired one I was obsessing over. Ooh, and this fine silver fox named Gregory bought the biggest piece of the night and asked for my number.” She giggles. “Fifty-three, divorced, and owns a hedge fund.”
“Wait, what about Derrick?”
“What about him? He’s child’s play. Gregory’s more my speed. Exactly my type.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Of course he is.”
“But seriously, Sim, if you’re miserable, let’s get you out of there. My dad has a private jet. We could be in Cali by tonight. You can hide out at the vacation house. Who’s going to check you? Nobody! He won’t even know you’re gone ’til you are.”
I consider it for half a second. Then reality crashes back in.
“They’d find me,” I say quietly. “And it would only make things worse.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I sit up, a spark of defiance lighting me up.
Ronan gets to go out every night, doing whatever he pleases while I’m stuck here like some decorative houseplant.
Two can play that game.
I might not leave the state or even the city, but I can get my lick back in a different way.
“Get dressed,” I say. “We’re going out for drinks.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I stand and head toward the bedroom. “It’s time I have a little fun. If Ronan can stay out all night, so can I.”