Chapter 30
THIRTY
Simone
Sean lets out a low whistle as I approach the towncar, shopping bags dangling from both arms.
“Damn, Mrs. Callahan,” he says, holding the door open with a grin. “You treat shopping like an Olympic sport.”
“What can I say? If it was one, I’d be a gold medalist.” I hand off the bags and slide into the backseat while he loads them into the trunk.
A moment later, we’re pulling away from the curb and merging into the familiar chaotic Manhattan traffic.
I settle back against the leather seat and gaze out the window, watching the storefronts and pedestrians and yellow cabs roll past.
It’s strange how different everything feels now compared to three months ago. Back then, I was a prisoner in my own life, forced into an arranged marriage I never asked for, shackled to a man I was convinced I’d hate forever.
Now I can’t imagine my life without him.
I can’t imagine returning to my life before I married into the Callahan family.
The realization still catches me off guard sometimes, sneaking up on me in quiet moments like this one.
I’m genuinely content in a way I didn’t think was possible when Dad first dropped the bombshell about the arrangement.
It still feels like yesterday that I was called into his study, Duchess curled at his feet, and he delivered the devastating news that my future had been bartered away like a shipment of weapons.
I was angry. I was bitter and resentful. Suddenly my life didn’t feel like my own.
But after the past few months, in some strange and twisted way, I’m grateful.
In hindsight, I’m not sure I would’ve wanted that other existence for the rest of my life. The one where I was just the sheltered Langston princess, floating through galas and board meetings and press junkets, only pretending to understand the dangerous world my family’s company operates in.
Sure, I knew Langston Defense Solutions dealt in the black market and that the circles my father moved in weren’t exactly legal.
But I’d always been kept at arm’s length from the worst of it. Protected from the true reality and bloodshed of the underworld.
As Ronan’s wife, I’ve seen behind the curtain. I’ve witnessed the brutality of the underworld up close and experienced what it’s like to be in the thick of it. Instead of breaking me, it’s made me stronger. More resilient than the pampered princess I used to be.
…it also doesn’t hurt that I’ve fallen completely in love with my husband.
My phone buzzes in my lap and I glance down to see his name on the screen.
You done shopping til you drop?
I miss my wife.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
Three months ago, a text like this would’ve seemed impossible. These days, it makes my heart flutter like a lovesick teenager.
I’m typing out a response when I happen to glance up and out the window and realize we’re passing by Chantal’s art gallery.
The lights are on inside, which is strange, because Chantal told me she and Greg were going on a couple’s retreat to the Maldives this week.
She’d been gushing about it for days leading up to their departure, showing me pictures of the overwater bungalow they’d booked and the spa treatments she had scheduled.
There’s no way she’d cut that trip short. At least not voluntarily.
“Hey, Sean,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Pull over for a second. I want to stop in here.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror but doesn’t question it, easing the Rolls-Royce to the curb in front of the gallery. I tuck my phone into my purse and step out onto the sidewalk, the cool winter air drawing a shiver out of me.
The displays in the window are tasteful and attractive thanks to Chantal’s impeccable eye for curation. But it’s a little eerie to see the place lit up when she’s supposed to be out of town.
Unease churns in my stomach as I push through the front door.
“Chantal?” I call out, my heels clicking against the sleek flooring. “Girl, you better have a good explanation for why you’re back early and didn’t even text me—”
I stop short, cutting myself off mid-sentence.
Chantal’s not back early from her trip to the Maldives. Her wealthy, older boyfriend, Greg LaMalfa, is.
He’s the one who’s come by her gallery—and he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by two bulky men in black, who are currently in her private office, rummaging through the desk drawers.
I’m so thrown by what I’ve walked in on that I linger for a moment, struck speechless.
“Greg?” I choke out finally. “What are you doing here? Where’s Chantal?”
His thick white brows lift, clearly surprised I’ve turned up like I have, then the rest of his features settle into an even-keeled expression. “Simone,” he says aloofly. “I didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.”
“Where’s Chantal?” I repeat. My gaze travels from him to the ajar door of Chantal’s office, where the two men he’s with are looking through her desk drawers. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your couple’s retreat in the Maldives?”
“We… err, came back early,” he says vaguely. He fusses with his tie as if unconcerned by my questioning, then adds, “There was a change of plans.”
“Okay, then where is she?” I ask for the third time. “Why isn’t she here?”
“Jet lag. She’s exhausted from the trip and wanted to rest. You know how she is. Quite the pampered princess.” He flashes a grin, though it never reaches his eyes. Those remain cool and detached. “She asked me to stop by and pick up something for her. Which… it seems we have found. Let’s go.”
He beckons his head, gesturing for the two men to follow. The three of them head for the door as if gallery guests no longer interested in admiring the art on display.
“You have a nice rest of your afternoon, Simone. Give my regards to your husband.”
The gallery door snicks shut behind them, leaving me standing alone in my best friend’s gallery with a pit in my stomach.
The first thing I do is pull out my phone and call Chantal. It sends me straight to voicemail, where I leave a message. Then I type up a series of texts.
Hey, you’re back from the Maldives?
I just ran into Greg at the gallery and he was acting a little weird.
Call me when you can.
Or text back and let me know you’re okay.
The message shows as delivered, but no response comes. Chantal’s usually the type who is glued to her phone; she usually answers most messages and calls immediately, especially when it’s me.
But I sigh, reminding myself if she’s jet lagged she could be sleeping. Greg did mention she was tired from the trip.
I return to Sean and the Rolls-Royce idled by the curb outside, hoping I’m overreacting. It’s just paranoia left over from everything I’ve been through in recent months and my best friend is perfectly okay…
Ronan’s waiting for me in the hall when I walk through the front door of Callahan House.
He crosses the foyer in a few long strides and pulls me into a kiss before I can even set down my purse, his hands cupping my face like he hasn’t seen me in weeks instead of hours.
When he finally pulls back, his green eyes flicker with warmth. A reminder the man’s got it bad for me, even if he tried his damnedest to fight it for so long.
“I got done with work early,” he says, his thumb tracing along my jaw. “Thought we could have lunch together on the terrace.”
I raise an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “I didn’t know my husband was so clingy.”
“That’s how husbands tend to be with the woman they’re in love with.” He says it casually, like it isn’t the L word we both held back on for so long. But though it’s special, we don’t make a big deal about it.
We’ve both drawn the same conclusion about each other—we’ve officially caught real feelings.
Love.
“Funny,” I reply playfully. I step into him, my hands coming to rest on his chest. “Wives tend to feel the same when they’re in love with their husbands.”
His lips twitch. “That include you? Are you in that demographic?”
I rise on my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his mouth, lingering for a second before pulling back enough to meet his gaze. “What do you think?”
He grins broadly, a cocky quality about it that used to drive me crazy but now makes my pulse race. He takes my hand and leads me through the house toward the terrace.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant afternoon for early February, the sun breaking through the clouds and lighting up the sky that was once dreary. The air’s still cool and breezy, but not enough to be uncomfortable.
The table has already been set with white linens and gleaming silverware. Oona bustles around arranging plates and pouring water in her usual brisk manner.
“There you are,” she says as we settle into our seats. “I was wonderin’ when you’d be back from your shoppin’ spree. Returned with half of Manhattan in your shoppin’ bags, did you?”
“Only a quarter,” I reply with a grin.
Oona shakes her head, though there’s a fondness about her expression as she sets down a basket of fresh bread between us.
“You’ve just about got the whole of Callahan House to yourselves these days, you know.
What with Mrs. Callahan off on another one of her spa retreats, and Mr. Callahan takin’ a reprieve for his health.
” She pauses, her brows knitting at her next train of thought.
“And Lochlan bein’… well, gone. Same for Eddie. Even Cara’s not comin’ around anymore.”
Ronan’s jaw tenses, the muscle more defined. He gives a stiff nod and says, “A lot has changed around here over the past few months. Some for the worse. But there’s been some for the better too.”
He stares across the table at me as he utters the last part, my heart fluttering faster.
Oona’s lips quirk as if tempted to smile. “I’d say so. We’re still blessed. Will that be all then? I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs tendin’.”
“That’s all, Oona. Thank you.”
She nods and disappears back inside, leaving us alone with the February sunshine and the quiet rustle of wind through the bare garden trees.