Smart girl,I can’t help but think. She’s powerless, owned by the Council and me now, and any agency she can keep for herself she’s going to need.
I climb out of the car myself before Patrick can rush around to open my door like I'm some kind of invalid. He flinches slightly when I emerge, and I catch the way his gaze darts to my scarred face before looking quickly away. It’s clear I’m frightening him.
Good. He should be nervous.
The front door opens before we reach it, revealing an older woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun. She's wearing a simple black dress, and she has an air of authority about her as she looks down her nose at me despite being several inches shorter. Her face softens when she looks at Maeve.
"Maeve, darling." Her voice softens as she pulls my wife into a hug. "I’m so glad you’re back. Are you alright, dear?”
"I'm fine, Mrs. Brady." Maeve returns the embrace, and I don't miss the way she seems to relax slightly in the older woman's arms. "I'm glad to be back, too.”
Mrs. Brady squeezes Maeve once more, then turns to look at me. Any warmth disappears entirely.
"Mr. Flannery." Her tone is polite. Nothing more. "Welcome to the Connelly residence."
"Mrs. Brady is the housekeeper," Maeve says quietly, and I catch the unspoken message:Be nice to her. She's family.
"Ma'am." I nod, keeping my expression neutral.
The housekeeper's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, clearly taking my measure and finding me wanting, before she steps aside. "I've had your rooms prepared. Maeve, I assumed you'd want to stay in your old suite, and I've had the master bedroom made up for Mr. Flannery."
"Actually—" Maeve starts, but I cut her off.
"That's fine. Thank you."
Separate rooms. Perfect. Exactly what I need right now. Trying to sleep next to Maeve will only cause us both more grief. I’m surprised she argued with it at all, but right now, I don’t particularly fucking care why. I just want to make sure that I can keep as much distance between us as possible, as often as possible.
Maeve's jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue. Just follows Mrs. Brady into the house, with me trailing behind like some kind of unwanted stray they've taken in out of pity. My jaw tightens. I’m the owner of this house now, the man in charge, but I’ve never felt less like it. This isn’t my world in the slightest.
The interior is exactly what I expected. High ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors that probably cost more per square foot than my entire apartment in Dublin. Antique furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum. Oil paintings of dead Connellys staring down from the walls with expressions ranging from stern to mildly constipated.
This is Maeve's world. This wealth, this history, this suffocating perfection.
And now, apparently, it's mine too.
The thought makes my skin crawl. I started working for the Council for revenge, not for wealth. They’ve kept me paid well enough to ensure I’m comfortable, but I’ve hardly spent any of it at all. Maeve probably thinks I married her for her money, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Mrs. Brady leads us through a maze of rooms—parlor, sitting room, library, dining room—all of them meticulously maintained, walls painted rich colors or patterned with wallpaper, everything heavy, antique, and old-fashioned. It feels like a museum rather than a house, and I have the urge to avoid touching anything.
“Lunch will be prepared at one,” Mrs. Brady explains as we climb the grand staircase to the second floor. "There is staff available for any of your needs, and you’ll have someone particularly assigned to your comfort, Mr. Flannery, so if you’re in need of refreshments, an errand run, or?—”
"How many staff are there?" I interrupt.
She blinks at me. "Twelve full-time, sir. Plus additional help for events and?—"
"Christ."
Maeve flinches at my tone, and Mrs. Brady's expression goes frosty.
"The estate requires considerable upkeep, Mr. Flannery. The Connelly family has always taken pride in maintaining both the property and providing good employment to?—"
"I'm sure they have." I force myself to sound less like an asshole. "I'm just not used to… this."
The understatement of the fucking century.
Maeve gives me a quizzical look, but she says nothing. Mrs. Brady sniffs, clearly unimpressed, and continues down the hallway. She stops at a door near the end and opens it to reveal a bedroom that's very obviously Maeve’s. Soft blues and creams, white furniture, books everywhere. A window seat overlooking the garden. The kind of room where a sheltered girl might grow up dreaming of a life she'd never be allowed to have.
"Your suite, Maeve." Mrs. Brady's voice gentles again. "I’ve tidied up and made sure everything is pristine for you."
