"Fine," I lie. I don’t look at him, reaching for my wine glass to refill it. I had a faint buzz before I ran into Brendan Kearney, the first of my life, and I want it back. Maybe that will help me get through this.
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push.
A few minutes later, I see Brendan approach Sean, leaning down to murmur something in his ear. I can't hear what he says, but I see Sean's jaw clench, see one of his hands curl into a fist on the table.
Brendan claps him on the shoulder and walks away, looking pleased with himself.
Sean's staring straight ahead now, his expression darker than before. Did Brendan tell him the same thing he told me? About consummation, about making sure the marriage is properly sealed? Did he make some guys-will-be-guys joke about what’s going to happen later?
The thought makes my stomach churn.
The reception drags on for another hour. People talk and drink, and celebrate a marriage that's nothing to celebrate. I smile until my face hurts. We’re supposed to dance, but Sean ignores the request, and I sit there, my cheeks burning. It’s clear he’s determined to slog through this with his jaw clenched and a refusal to participate in anything he doesn’t strictly have to, which means all I can do is wait for this to be over.
Finally, mercifully, Connor approaches our table. "I think it's time for you two to head out. Long day, I'm sure you're ready to… relax." He looks meaningfully at Sean. “You’ve done your duty so far, Flannery. Don’t slip now.”
My stomach twists and flips. He’s less crass about it than Kearney, at least, but his meaning is clear.
“Your suite is ready upstairs,” he continues. "The concierge will escort you up.”
Sean stands, buttoning his suit jacket. "Ready?" he asks me, his tone flat.
Of course I’m not ready. How could I possibly be?
"Yes," I say, a tremor in my voice that I hate. But I can’t help it. I feel almost weak with fear. I’m afraid my knees won’t hold me up, but they do as I stand, hiding my hands in the tulle of my skirt to disguise their shaking.
We say our goodbyes—brief and awkward—and then I’m following Sean out to the lobby, where a tall man in a concierge’s clothing leads us to the elevator. Sean stares straight ahead as we step inside, and I try to breathe, try not to panic. Neither of us speaks.
The silence is suffocating.
I want to say something. Want to break this awful tension. Want to ask him what he's thinking, what he's planning, what's going to happen when we get to that hotel suite.
But I can't make the words come out.
I wonder what the concierge must be thinking. If he’s ever seen a couple like this before, so clearly unsuited for each other, so obviously unhappy in their supposed wedded bliss. I wonder if he thinks about it at all, or if he’s just going through the motions of his job.
Soft classical music is playing as the elevator goes up. I can see our reflection in the mirrored walls—me in my champagne dress, Sean in his black suit. We look like a bride and groom. Like a caricature of what that should be.
The elevator doors open onto a private hallway with only one door. Our suite.
“Champagne is in the suite already,” the concierge says politely. “If you need anything at all, call and it will be brought up to you. Congratulations.”
Sean swipes the key card, and the door swings open to reveal a stunning space. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the city. Elegant furniture. A sitting area. A bar. Through an open doorway, I can see the bedroom and a massive bed with pristine white linens.
Where my husband is going to claim his rights.
Tonight. Now? Soon? My hands start to shake as the door closes behind us with a soft click, and suddenly we're alone.
Truly alone, for the first time since we met.
And I'm terrified.
7
MAEVE
Ifeel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m going to suffocate and die right here, in a cloud of tulle. Maybe that would be for the best. At least we wouldn’t have to go through with this, then.
Sean says nothing, just tosses the key card on the small table near the door, and strides toward the bar. He pulls out a crystal glass, drops in a large ice cube, pours whiskey, throws it back, and then pours more, without ever looking at me or asking if I want anything.
