Chapter 11 Ronan #2
The banquet hall is massive and gold trimmed. High ceilings stretch up far above our heads, adorned with ornate molding and frescoes of cherubs and clouds. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light around the room.
Round tables draped in cream linens fill the space, each one topped with elaborate centerpieces of white roses and gold-dusted branches. The stage at the front is framed by velvet curtains, and a podium stands ready for speeches.
It’s opulent. Excessive. Everything I hate about these kinds of events.
I already want to get the fuck out of here.
I hate stuffy functions like these. Everybody’s fake. Smiling and shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries while plotting backdoor deals and alliances.
It’s all a performance, a carefully choreographed dance where one wrong step could cost you everything. But that’s never been my style—I respect what’s real. I’ve always preferred hard and gritty because that’s how reality is.
The people that try to pretend otherwise aren’t to be trusted.
I scope the floor with my gaze, a habit I can’t break even in a place like this. Maybe especially in a place like this. I pick out several members from crime families embedded in the crowd, dressed just as nicely as the politicians and businessmen they’re rubbing elbows with.
A couple of Italians near the bar, deep in conversation with a city councilman. Two Russians by the windows, surveying the room just like I am. And somewhere in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, the Albanians are here too. I can feel it.
Senator Banks strides up to us, a broad smile plastered on his face.
He’s average height, bald up top but with a thick mustache, well-dressed in a tailored tuxedo, and an American flag pin on his lapel.
Simone’s best friend, Chantal, gets her rich mahogany complexion from him.
A man who’s built his career by shaking the right hands and saying the right things.
“Simone!” He pulls her into a fatherly hug that she gracefully accepts, her smile warm and genuine. “Congratulations on your nuptials. You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
“Thank you, Senator,” she says in a soft, girlish tone. One she’s never used with me. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“Now, now. You know better than that. Call me Keith. And this must be…”
Banks glances over at me, his smile faltering. He tries to recover, but I’m too perceptive to miss out on such minor details.
He extends a hand out of forced politeness, always one to practice proper etiquette. He’s not good enough to hide the distaste buried underneath, though.
I’ve experienced the same cold pleasantries a thousand times over. The way certain rich people look down at gangsters like me. The way they smile and shake your hand while internally recoiling.
He clearly knows what I am. What my family is.
For that reason alone, I don’t shake his hand. Just give a curt nod. “Senator.”
Simone releases a sigh beside me, obviously frustrated or embarrassed. It doesn’t matter which because I don’t give a fuck either way.
Banks slowly pulls his hand back, his smile tighter. “Well. Lovely to see you both. Congratulations again.”
Then he walks off, disappearing into the crowd with the ease of a career politician.
Simone turns to me, her eyes narrowed and tone sharp. “Would it kill you to be polite?”
“Would it kill him not to look at me like I’m dirt on his shoe?” I counter.
“Chantal and her father are very close.”
“Which means he knows you hate me,” I predict. “He knows how our marriage came to be.”
“Never mind.” She walks off toward the bar, her gold dress flowing behind her like a river of liquid gold.
The rest of the evening carries on in tedious fashion.
Dinner begins, and everyone sits down to their ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate meal. We’re seated at a table near the front with Malcolm and Ashante Langston, along with a few other high-profile guests—a tech CEO, a hedge fund manager, and their perfect, surgically altered wives.
The first course is a creamy lobster bisque served in fine china bowls, garnished with a drizzle of truffle oil and a sprig of chervil.
That’s followed by the second course of seared scallops and microgreens. I feel like a fucking cow grazing on grass ’til the main course arrives and it’s finally a meal that’ll satisfy a grown ass man.
Filet mignon seared just right, roasted vegetables like carrots and fingerling potatoes, and a red wine reduction that pools the plate like blood.
I clear the plate between the couple of whiskeys I knock back. If I’m staying any longer, I might as well be plied with alcohol.
A woman across from me, who’s dripping in pearls and diamonds, gives me a startled look. Like I’m some barbarian who doesn’t know how to behave at a fancy dinner.
I don’t give a fuck. I don’t even want to be here.
Simone sits beside me, stiff and silent. She picks at her food, barely eating. Malcolm makes polite conversation with the hedge fund manager about market trends and investment portfolios. Ashante smiles graciously and compliments the tech CEO’s wife on her dress. It’s all surface-level bullshit.
As the meal ends and more socializing begins—people standing, mingling, moving between tables to exchange contact info—I notice Simone’s no longer by my side.
I scan the large room, my gaze sweeping methodically over the crowd. Politicians laughing too loud. Businessmen and entrepreneurs clinking glasses. Women in expensive gowns clustered together like rare, bright, endangered birds.
Then I spot her.
She’s off by the stage, near the velvet curtains, talking to Heath Kaufman.
Her ex.
He looks the same as ever in his bland navy tuxedo, wire-framed glasses, and defined curls he’s probably emptied half a bottle of mousse in.
It’s always obvious from one red-blooded male to another when he’s attracted to a woman. When he’s shooting his shot and trying to win her over.
One glance at Heath gesturing animatedly and encroaching on Simone’s space, and I know he’s got it bad. Kaufman still very much carries a torch for her.
But she’s damn sure not signaling she minds. As he talks, she nods and smiles.
Actually fucking smiles.
It’s her first real, genuine smile of the night. Then she laughs. She laughs at something he’s said as if it’s the most hilarious thing she’s heard all evening.
A sharp, visceral spike of jealousy twists into my chest like a knife.
I grip my whiskey glass tighter, my jaw clenching.
She’s never smiled at me like that. Never laughed at anything I’ve said or done. Not once in the two weeks we’ve been married.
With me, she’s nothing but fire and venom. But with him? She’s soft. Warm. Happy.
She giggles.
If I’m being honest, I don’t fucking like it.
I hate that she can be that way with him and not with me. I hate that she’s standing there, glowing in that gold dress, the most beautiful woman in the building, giving him her attention when she won’t give me anything but contempt.
But why do I care?
I don’t even like her. I don’t want this marriage. She’s a spoiled, defiant princess who makes my life harder with every breath she takes. She’s stubborn and rebellious and refuses to fall in line. She hates me as much as I hate her.
So why does seeing her with him make me want to cross this room and drag her away?
Why does the thought of her being happy with someone else—someone safe and boring and utterly forgettable like Heath Kaufman—make my blood boil?
I take another drink, trying to drown the feeling. But it doesn’t work. The jealousy is still alive and well, hot and irrational, gnawing at me.
Maybe it’s possession.
She’s mine now, whether either of us likes it. She wears my ring. Sleeps in my bed. Carries my name. Some primal part of me can’t stand the idea of another man making her smile.
I’m still trying to make sense of it when suddenly Byrdie sidles up, appearing out of nowhere like a bad habit I can’t shake.
She’s dressed in a tight red gown that clings to her waifish frame, what little cleavage she has on full display. Her matching red lips spread in a naughty smirk as she runs a finger along my tie.
“How’s the marriage going, Ronan?” she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion. “Your princess doesn’t seem so into her prince.”
I glare at her, my patience already worn thin. “None of your damn business.”
She gives a sultry laugh, stepping closer. “I’m always available if you get bored with her. We both know a frigid little princess like that won’t hold your attention for long.”
I glance over at Simone. She’s stopped talking to Heath. She’s noticed me now, her gaze locked on me and Byrdie. Her brows are knitted, her mouth turned down almost in a frown. She doesn’t like what she’s seeing.
Me and Byrdie standing so close. Byrdie with her hand trailing down my chest. The waif knows this as her smirk deepens and she whispers, “You know what you really want, Ronan. Now come get it.”
My gaze returns to her, and I step back, breaking contact. “You’re about to be waiting a long time. I’m not interested. Haven’t been in a long time. You know that.”
“You will be eventually,” she scoffs. “Men like you always are.”
She stalks off as quickly as she’s shown up, but I hardly notice. I look back over to the stage and realize Simone’s gone.
She’s disappeared.
I scan the room again, my pulse quickening. The crowd is thick, dozens of people mingling and socializing, yet Simone’s nowhere to be found among them.
Where the hell did she go?