—
I don’t seeSean for another three days, until we’re called into Father McCleary’s office again, this time with Connor McBride and Liam Fitzgerald there as witnesses, to sign the betrothal contract. It’s not as if I expected a ring and a proposal, but staring at the stack of papers that have much more to do with what Sean’s agreeing to than what I am is another cold dash of reality.
Sean is dressed similarly to both of the other times I’ve seen him—dark jeans, a sweater, a leather jacket. Once again, he barely looks at me, sinking into a chair and taking the papers handed to him. He reads through them thoroughly, then looks at me before reaching for a pen to sign and handing me the stack.
There’s very little for me to agree to, beyond marrying him. It’s mentioned that I’m expected to be faithful—notably, nothing is said about that for Sean—that I’m expected to produce heirs for the Flannery name. The rest of it is all about Sean—his agreement to marry me, to subsume the Connelly fortune, connections, holdings, and contracts under his name, to produce children to carry on those things after us, to remain loyal to the Council in his dealings, and be beholden to their ultimate decisions in all things. His responsibilities, it seems, are numerous, while mine on the surface are very simple. Say yes, sayI do, open my legs only for Sean, produce children.
It stirs an unfamiliar anger in me to see it laid out so black and white. I always knew this was my future—a marriage to someone who would be chosen for me—and that my role in the marriage would be straightforward. I saw my sister agree to it, and I knew I would eventually as well. I didn’t allow myself to think about it often enough to be angry. In fact, I realize, as I read through the contract, I haven’t allowed myself to be angry aboutanythingin my life that maybe I had a right to.
I was never angry at Siobhan for her cruel tongue. Never at Desmond for his bullying or his controlling ways after our father died. Never at my father for his micromanagement of our lives. I accepted all of it, remaining as small and quiet as I could so that the worst of it would all pass me by.
But in the end, the worst of it found me anyway. It’s sitting right in front of me, impatiently waiting for me to sign so that we can get this over with.
I look at the clause informing us that there can be no divorce. I knew this, obviously. Our world doesn’t allow for divorces. But I read it again anyway, looking up when I’m finished.
“What if this doesn’t work?” I say slowly, thinking of my sister and Ronan, of how miserable they both were. “If we can’t stand each other, if we’re unhappy, what if I want out? If Sean?—”
"There won't be a divorce," Sean says flatly, making me jump. "So that doesn't matter."
I look up at him, my pulse beating faster. "But if?—"
"There won't be," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The Council wouldn't allow it. Once we're married, we're married. That's final."
The words should terrify me—and they do—but there's something else, too. A certainty, a commitment, even if it's a cold one. He might not want this marriage, but he's not planning an escape route either.
We're both trapped. Maybe that should be comforting. It's not.
I sign where I’m supposed to, feeling defeated. Connor takes the paperwork from me. "Congratulations," he says, though his tone suggests he knows how inappropriate the sentiment is. "You're all set for the ceremony."
Sean stands immediately, fishing in his pocket for his keys. He's leaving without a word, without even looking at me.
"Wait," I hear myself say. I stand up without thinking, my heart pounding. Sean pauses, his back to me, tension in the line of his shoulders.
"Could we… could we talk?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. "Just for a few minutes? I just thought—maybe we should try to get to know each other a little. Before?—"
"No."
The word is hard and final.
"But we're getting married in a week," I press, desperation creeping into my voice. "We're going to be living together, sharing a life—shouldn't we at least try to?—"
He turns then, and the look on his face stops the words in my throat. It's not hatred, exactly. It's worse. It's nothing. Complete emptiness, like I'm not even worth the energy of emotion.
"We're not going to be friends, Maeve," he says, and that strange feeling rolls through me again at the way my name sounds when he says it, rolled across his tongue in his thick accent. "We're not going to share cozy conversations and get to know each other. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us. Just show up on the wedding day, and let’s get this finished."
Each word lands like a slap. I feel my eyes burning, but I refuse to cry in front of him. "Fine," I manage. "I understand."
Something flickers across his face, that flash of emotion that I’ve seen before but can’t read, but then it's gone, and he's walking away, leaving me alone in the office with the two Council members and Father McCleary.
“Maeve,” Father McCleary says gently. “Are you alright?”
I swallow hard, still fighting back tears. “Fine,” I manage, my fingers trembling as I head toward the door.
Five minutes later, I’m in the car being driven home. But home feels less like a sanctuary than it ever did.
In a little over a week, I’m going to have to share it with a stranger.
—
