Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Simone
I’ve been so incredibly wrong about everything.
About Ronan.
Somewhere along the way, I let myself believe Ronan and I could actually make our marriage work. We could come to our own understanding from this mess of an arrangement neither of us asked for.
I thought we were building some sort of partnership. It was born out of our initial mutual dislike, but it seemed possible. It seemed like we had reached a truce I could learn to live with.
But I was delusional. I was as foolish and naive as he said I was.
Ronan Callahan is the same brutish gangster he’s always been.
Whatever I thought was developing between us was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Some form of temporary insanity where I thought he could be decent and not the cold and cruel asshole he is deep down.
It doesn’t matter that I’m physically attracted to him or that our chemistry burns hot enough to scorch us both.
Neither of those things change the truth of the situation, which is Ronan and I will always be mortal enemies.
I’m not sorry for keeping that damn business card. Maybe I’ll ask Chantal to reach out to that hitman after all…
The thought should horrify me, but it doesn’t, and I’m not sure what that says about the person I’m becoming inside these walls.
The next few days pass by in a blur. The tension’s so thick it lingers in the air. It’s as if the Cold War has descended upon Callahan House and Ronan and I are two superpowers refusing to blink first.
We share the same space in stanch, suffocating silence, communicating only through the energy we give off and the things we do. The way I slam a cabinet shut when he enters the bathroom. The way he strides out of our bedroom like the gangster he is.
We don’t need words when our actions illustrate our mutual hatred just fine.
I prefer it this way. At least now, in our silence, we’re finally being honest with each other. No more pretending—or even pondering if—our marriage could ever be anything more.
I spend the days intentionally isolating myself, keeping distance even from the staff members. They might be polite and dutiful, but at the end of the day, they’re still on the Callahan payroll; their allegiance is to Ronan and the rest of the family.
Not to the wife that’s been forced to marry into it.
During the afternoons, I find a lounge chair on the terrace and immerse myself in some reading.
Ronan’s nephew, Eddie, happens upon me on the third afternoon and releases a derisive snort.
“Hiding out from the big, bad Irish Mob? Good luck, princess.”
He lets out a bullish laugh as he wanders off, throwing his head back with the sound. I glare after him, my grip on my E-reader tightening.
Being an asshole seems to run in the Callahan bloodline.
Oona is the only other person on the estate who’s tolerable. She was supposed to leave for her vacation, but she decided to stay behind last minute. I suspect it’s equal parts concern for Ronan’s increasingly erratic behavior and her instinct to hover over me like a protective mother hen.
Whatever the reason, her presence is one of the few comforts I have left.
On the fourth night of our Cold War, Ronan comes home resembling a Jackson Pollock painting, with blood splattered across his shirt. His knuckles are bruised and busted open, which in itself speaks volumes.
I’m sitting at the vanity brushing my hair, though I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I’ve learned by now that it’s best to ignore things like this.
Bloody clothes and bruised knuckles seem to be a regular occurrence for Ronan Callahan. Just another reminder of the brute I married.
“Tomorrow’s Chantal’s art gallery event,” he grunts suddenly. The first words he’s spoken to me in days. His fingers are fast on his shirt buttons, undoing them before he slides the shirt off altogether. “We’re still going.”
I catch his reflection in the mirror, surprised despite myself. I assumed we were no longer attending. We’d agreed to go back when we were still pretending to get along.
He must read the question on my face because his lips curl into a sneer. “Why would I go back on my word? I said we would go, so we’ll go. Unlike some people, I’m not a liar. I don’t double-cross.”
I catch the barb with irritation instantly spiking through me. I spin around on the vanity stool with a retort burning on my tongue.
It’s still not quick enough. He’s already disappearing into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
The night of Chantal’s gallery event comes faster than I’d like. It feels like I blink and the next thing I know, I’m dressed up for the event.
I’m wearing a strapless midi dress in a nude tone that complements my brown complexion. Romantic and feminine black roses adorn the dress, trailing across the bodice and cascading toward the hem.
I’ve clipped my hair up in a simple twist, leaving a few tendrils loose to frame my face. My jewelry’s minimal though admittedly expensive and tasteful, and I’ve finished the outfit off with some strappy sandal heels.
I’m fully aware of how good I look. Most men would jump to have me on their arm.
Ronan emerges from his shower already dressed. He strides back into the bedroom and makes my heart flutter despite my mind’s protests.
He looks… good. Really fucking good.
Frustratingly good. Irritatingly fine and sexy.
I cross my arms and sulk as my husband proves once again that we’re undeniably attracted to each other.
He’s kept things simple—a classic black button-down shirt and slacks, both fitted to highlight his solid, toned frame. His dark brownish red hair is pushed back from his face with the casual slide of his hand, like he couldn’t be bothered to properly tame it with a comb and product.
But it somehow works for him; it adds to his rough, uncouth vibe.
Right down to the way he carries himself.
We both freeze once we accidentally make eye contact.
A couple seconds pass where we’re stuck in time, obviously attracted and drawn to each other.
His green eyes almost darken as they track me, traveling over me inch by inch, lingering on various curves like my cleavage and how shapely my hips look in this dress.
I recognize the flicker of heat in them. The lust he feels the moment he begrudgingly drinks me in and knows he likes what he sees.
We’re just both too stubborn to ever admit it, so we say nothing at all.
The drive to the west side of Manhattan is equally as unbearable and awkward. I accidentally catch a whiff of his cologne as we settle into the backseat. The warm, smoky notes tease my senses and make my pulse quicken.
It’s a masculine scent I’ve grown way too used to over the past few weeks; a scent that signifies the sexual chemistry between me and my husband, regardless of how much I hate him.
We sit in silence during the ride to the art gallery. I turn my face toward the window and watch the city buildings and lights zip past.
Ronan’s busied himself with his phone. Any excuse so we don’t have to confront how moments like these will be the rest of our lives.
When we arrive at the art gallery, I’m genuinely surprised by what greets us.
The event is more prestigious than I anticipated, impressively guarded with professional security stationed outside the door and velvet ropes lining the entrance.
A steady influx of well-dressed guests is ushered inside, one by one like the VIPs they are.
I knew Chantal’s gallery was doing well. She’s been working tirelessly for the past couple years to build her reputation in the art world, but I had no idea her events had become some hyper upscale, big-money affairs.
As we step inside, I recognize several high rollers scattered throughout the room.
There’s Meg Cassidy, the famous actress who just wrapped that critically acclaimed limited series everyone’s been talking about. A cluster of big-time investors I’ve seen featured in Forbes.
Unless I’m mistaken, I even spot Mayor Gonzales himself chatting and laughing with what looks like a young socialite.
Ronan seems immediately irritable beside me. He’s always been one to dread social events, especially those crawling with the rich and famous.
Tonight’s no different as he radiates hostile energy and his jaw clenches in a scowl.
Good. Let him suffer.
“Sim! You came!”
Chantal’s giddy shriek reaches my ear only half a second before she reaches me, dragging me into a sisterly hug where she then pulls back and assesses my outfit.
She’s obviously put a lot of effort into hers, which is a given since it’s her special event. She’s in chunky high heels that boost her usual five-foot-two frame, paired with a red-velvet mini dress that features a giant bow perched on the small of her back.
It’s perfectly feminine and playful and so utterly Chantal I can’t help but smile.
“Cute fit,” she gushes. “Love the earrings.”
“Love the dress,” I reply. “Very tongue-in-cheek.”
“You know me. It’s how I do. But I didn’t think you’d come!”
“I promised, didn’t I?”
Her eyes briefly flit over to Ronan before returning to me. “I know. I guess I just thought stuff would get in the way.”
“Tell you later,” I say quickly.
She nods in understanding, then loops her arm through mine and tugs me forward. “Ooh, now seems like a good time to introduce you to Greg!”
She leads us toward a man standing near one of the featured installations. He’s dignified in an old-money way, still blessed with a full head of hair in his late fifties even though it’s gone stark white.
He’s no GQ model, but there’s a refined appeal to him, passably cute for his age, and he’s wearing a tailored suit with a crimson tie that matches Chantal’s dress.
“Greg, this is my best friend, Simone,” Chantal announces proudly. “And her husband, Ronan.”
Gregory takes my hand for a gentle shake, his eyes crinkling with warmth. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Chantal talks about you constantly. Though she failed to mention her best friend is as beautiful as she is.”