Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Present day…
Bianca
The applause is deafening as I walk across the stage, diploma in hand. Somewhere in the crowd, Mam is crying. I can hear her even over the roar.
I sigh. Of course she is. But why does it still feel like she's doing it for attention so she looks like the proud mother moved to emotion?
No. Stop it, Bianca. Don't think like that.
And why does it feel like someone's… watching me? Every once in a while, I feel like I'm under a spotlight, and I…
Of course someone's watching. I'm in a crowded auditorium. There are likely loads of people watching me .
Get it together.
I square my shoulders and smile.
I did it! Six years of late nights and early mornings, of essays and exams and barely scraping by on loans and scholarships, and I'm done. I finally have my master’s degree in history.
I should feel triumphant. Accomplished.
Instead, I feel like I'm walking toward the edge of a cliff.
The ceremony blurs into a haze of handshakes and photos. My friends pull me into hugs, squealing about freedom and futures and the party tonight at O'Malley's.
But I won't be going to that party. I'll be packing to move into Marcus Crowning's house, starting my new life as his fiancée.
Three months until I become his wife.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, something I can't think about right now.
“There she is!” Aunt Anna's voice cuts through the crowd, and suddenly, I'm engulfed in hugs and kisses and a crush of fresh flowers. “My brilliant girl! Your father would be so proud.”
Mam dabs at her eyes with a tissue, her mascara already perfectly smudged, like she practiced.
“He would have been so proud of you. I wish he were here to see you.
If it weren't for those damn McCarthys— no .
We won't talk about them, not today.” Then her expression shifts, just slightly, and her voice drops.
“Though I do wish you'd chosen the ivory dress, like I suggested.
This one washes you out a bit and hugs your curves, doesn't it? The wrap dress has a minimizing waist, Bianca.”
In other words, my tiny mother thinks I look fat.
The joy drains from my chest, replaced by the familiar ache.
Minimizing waist.
I left behind teenage acne and curves I could hide under baggy clothes in favor of my maternal grandmother's generously wide birthing hips, rounded belly, and unfashionably well-endowed breasts.
I'd have fit right in some cultures and time periods, but my peers side-eye my plus-sized clothing.
“I thought the white looked nice,” I manage. The worst part about being a plus-sized girl is the ever-pressing need to make oneself small. To disappear. Oh, the irony.
“Oh, it does, darling. It's fine.” She pats my cheek. “You look fine.” She sighs, tucking the tissue away. “At least Marcus won't care. He's just happy to have you, isn't he?”
“Mam, please—” Why here? Why now?
“I'm only saying what everyone's thinking.” She pulls me into a brief, tight hug that feels more like a restraint. “But you're lucky. Very lucky. Not every girl gets a second chance at a good match after—well.” She doesn't finish, but I know what she means.
After my father died. After we had nothing… because of the McCarthys. After she had to sacrifice everything.
I've heard it so many times I could recite every line and still, she never fails to make me feel guilty.
“I know,” I whisper against her shoulder, my throat tight. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Well.” She pulls back, smoothing her own dress. “Let's just hope it was all worth it.”
Marcus appears at my side, one arm sliding possessively around my waist. He's impeccably dressed, as usual. Pressed suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Effortlessly handsome in that way that makes people stare.
I really should feel… lucky that he chose me. No, I do feel lucky.
He's classically handsome in a way that makes women swoon…
he's well-respected, gentlemanly, and successful.
He practically dotes on my mother and me.
I'll want for nothing as his wife. And best of all, he's a businessman, not…
not some criminal. I promised myself I'd never marry someone who works with the mafia after what happened to my father.
Maybe I'm just getting cold feet or whatever.
“Congratulations, beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. His hand rests on my hip, his thumb stroking in small circles. It feels like a warning when it should be reassurance. I shiver and pull away, but he only moves closer .
Maybe something inside me's broken. Why do I suspect the motives of the two people who love me most?
“Ready to celebrate?”
“I suppose.”
He smiles in that effortless way of his. “My poor girl. I know it's a lot. Graduation, moving. You're overwhelmed. Try to be excited.”
Why does that feel so patronizing?
I should be excited, but all I can think about is tonight. Moving in, leaving my cat, Sir Lancelot, behind, and how going out to eat means every bite of food I put in my mouth is under scrutiny.
“Soon we'll get you sorted, and then you'll be absolutely perfect.”
Like I'm a project to be completed.
Isn't that what I should… want? To be better?
“Come on,” Mam says, linking her arm through mine. “We've got reservations at D'Agostino's in an hour. We don't want to be late.”
The restaurant's one of Marcus's regulars, but somehow it feels different. More final. Like this is the last meal of my old life before everything changes .
Marcus orders grilled salmon and steamed vegetables for both of us, and I don't argue.
Conversations swirl around me. Aunt Anna gushes about the wedding. Mam talks about flowers and seating arrangements and whether we should have a string quartet. Marcus discusses his work, something about investments and portfolios that I tune out.
“You're awfully quiet, love,” Mam says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Everything alright?”
“Just tired. It's been a long day.”
“Well, you'll get plenty of rest once you're settled in at Marcus's place. No more of that rickety old flat with the dodgy heating, hmm?”
Marcus's place. Not our place. His.
“Aye.” I twirl the huge diamond on my finger. I don't mind the rickety old flat with dodgy heating, but I know I have to do this.
When the dessert menu arrives, Marcus waves it away before I can even look at it, as usual.
“She's moving in tonight,” he tells the waiter with an indulgent smile. “Wants to look her best.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I stare at my plate, at the half-eaten salmon I forced down, and try to breathe.
I don't actually like salmon. And who orders salmon at a restaurant known for the best damn pasta this side of Dublin ?
Marcus smiles and rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “I can't believe you're mine,” he says, and part of me wonders why I should feel something, anything, other than a growing sense of dread.
What's my problem?
I know I can do this.
Can't I?
By the time we get back to the flat, it's nearly six. The sun hangs low over Ballyhock, painting everything gold and amber. It's beautiful and heartbreaking.
“I'll pick you up at nine,” Marcus says, idling at the curb. “That gives you three hours to finish packing. Should be plenty of time.”
“Marcus, I?—”
“Don't forget to pack light. You won't need most of those old clothes anyway. We'll go shopping next week, get you a proper wardrobe.” His smile is warm and affectionate. He wants to spoil me… I know he does. He does spoil me. But I can't help but feel hurt when he thinks I need new clothes.
I know I'm the worst. He loves me. He wants me to look my best, that's all.
Marcus drives away, and I'm left standing on the pavement, staring up at the building I've called home for six years. The flat where I stayed up late reading by lamplight, where I drank tea with my friends, and Lancelot curled up on my lap while I studied.
The flat I'm leaving tonight.
“Right then,” Mam says, appearing beside me with her spare key. “Let's get you sorted, shall we?”
The next two hours pass in a blur of packing tape and cardboard boxes. Mam flutters around, folding clothes I've already folded, reorganizing things I've already organized.
“This is exciting,” she keeps saying. “Your new life. Finally.”
Finally, as if my old life was something to escape from.
By half eight, most of my things are packed. Books in boxes. Clothes in suitcases. My small collection of jewelry is wrapped carefully in tissue paper. The framed photo of Da goes in last, nestled between sweaters.
Lancelot watches from the bed, his tail flicking.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “I'll visit. I promise. Every week.”
He purrs, oblivious that this is goodbye. To Marcus, he's a nuisance, but the chubby tabby's been my most steady companion for years, and I'll miss him.
“I'll take good care of him,” Mam says softly from the doorway. “He'll be happy with me. ”
But he won't be. Lancelot is my cat. He likes to be near me, follows me from room to room, and meows at the door when I come home. He'll think I've abandoned him.
“I should finish up,” I say, my voice thick. “Marcus will be here soon.”
Mam nods and slips out, closing the door behind her.
I stand in the middle of my nearly empty room, surrounded by boxes and bags, and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
This is what I want. This is what's best.
Isn't it?
I walk to the window, pushing it open to let in the cool evening air. The city sprawls before me, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk settles. Somewhere out there, Marcus is on his way. In thirty minutes, he'll be here in his beautiful car with staff to help carry my things.
And my life as I know it will end.
The breeze picks up, sudden and sharp, making me shiver. Above me, clouds slide across the sky, thick and dark. They swallow the moon whole, plunging the street below into shadow.
“I'm doing this for Mam,” I whisper, and I imagine my father hears my proclamation. I don't know if I believe in an afterlife, but it helps to not feel so lonely.
My skin prickles .
Something's… wrong.
When I turn from the window, the reflection of a man glints in the glass. My pulse spikes, and I gasp. I try to scream just as a warm hand closes over my mouth and spins me toward the wall so I can't see his face.
“Shh. I'm sorry it has to be this way.”
The voice is unfamiliar. Definitely not Marcus’s.
The touch is different, the voice deeper, raspier. But something about it tugs at the edges of my memory, like a half-remembered dream.
I try to scream, but the hand presses harder, cutting off sound. My heart hammers against my ribs as I thrash, my fingers clawing at the arm wrapped around my waist.
“No, lass, don't struggle.” The voice is closer now, breath warm against my ear. “Don't want you to hurt yourself. You're alright. I'm not going to hurt you.”
Not going to hurt me? A full-grown man breaks into my bedroom, and I'm supposed to believe he hasn't come to hurt me?
I kick backward, connecting with a shin. He grunts but doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens.
“Easy, love. Easy now.”
Who—?
Something sharp pricks my neck, and heat spreads through my veins like fire. I'm screaming under his palm but quickly lose control over my limbs. My legs buckle, the fight draining out of me.
“That's it,” he murmurs in my ear. “Just sleep. When you wake up, you'll understand. Eventually.”
The room tilts and spins. My vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is a shadow moving across the wall—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the easy grace of someone who's done this before.
And then… nothing.