"Thank you." Maeve steps inside, and I see her shoulders relax slightly. This is her sanctuary. The one place in this mausoleum where she feels safe.
I stay outside. I have no desire to invade it. No interest in making her feel worse than she already does.
"The master bedroom is just down the hall, Mr. Flannery." Mrs. Brady gestures vaguely. "I'll have Patrick bring up your luggage. Lunch will be served in the dining room at one," she reminds me.
She leaves before I can respond, and suddenly it's just me and Maeve in and out front of her childhood bedroom, with about six feet of expensive Persian rug and a doorway between us, and an ocean of things we're not saying.
“I don’t have to stay in here,” Maeve says quietly, not looking at me. "You can… I mean, if you'd rather I stay with you, I can?—"
"No." The word comes out harsher than I intend. "Separate rooms is better."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "Okay."
Fuck.I'm handling this badly. I'm handling everything badly.
"Maeve—"
"I should unpack." She moves to the window, putting more distance between us. "Maybe rest a little, before lunch.”
I realize I’ve been dismissed. By my own wife, in a house that's technically mine now. I should probably be angry about that. Instead, I just feel tired.
"Fine. I'll see you at one."
I leave before I can say anything else stupid, before I can see the hurt and fear that I know is written all over her face.
—
The master suite is ridiculous.
There’s a king-sized bed with a canopy, and more antique furniture, as well as another of those expensive rugs stretched over the gleaming hardwood floor. There’s a fireplace, for fuck's sake, and an ensuite bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a shower that could fit four people. Three huge windows that overlook the estate, with a gorgeous view, and a balcony leading off of the bedroom. It's easily three times the size of my entire flat in Dublin.
I drop my bag on the bed and move to the window. From here, I can see the rolling hills of the estate’s land, one side of the gardens, a pool deck with a tarp stretched over a pool that’s likely been winterized. It’s all excessive and luxurious and not what I ever imagined myself presiding over—nor have I ever wanted to.
My phone buzzes. A text from Liam, one of the Council members.
Documents are in the study. Review them today. We'll expect your report by week's end.
Right. Because in addition to figuring out what the fuck to do with my unwanted wife, I'm also supposed to take over management of the Connelly business interests. Properties, investments, holdings I know nothing about and care even less for. I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do with any of this. I’m an assassin, not a bloody accountant.
I pocket my phone and head downstairs, following the route Mrs. Brady showed us. The study is exactly where she said it would be—first floor, east wing, overlooking the garden. Maeve’s father’s former study, used by her brother after their father’s death. It doesn’t feel like mine in the slightest.
It's a masculine room, with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk dominates the center, and on it sit several stacks of papers. There are filing cabinets behind it. My phone buzzes again, andI see a text with the password to the computer. I was given keys yesterday, too. Presumably, they unlock some of these drawers.
Twenty minutes later, I have a raging migraine. I’ve been looking over legal documents, property deeds, and investment portfolios, and it’s all Greek to me. I can plan an operation, handle weapons, kill a target from a thousand yards out. But corporate finance? Estate management? I'm about as qualified for this as I am for marriage. Which is to say, not at all.
I spend the next hour trying to make sense of it, growing more frustrated with each page. The Connelly empire is large—properties in Boston, New York, Dublin, London. Holdings in shipping, real estate, manufacturing. Maeve’s father built his family something substantial, and it feels wrong that it’s all been handed over to me. I have no stake in this, no desire to do anything with it, no ties beyond the ones that were forced on me yesterday.
But it’s all mine now.
And so is she.
I doubt Maeve knows how to access any of this, and that thought pisses me off more than it should. She grew up in this house, surrounded by wealth, and they kept her deliberately ignorant. Sheltered. Useless.
No wonder she was so easy for the Council to marry off.
"Mr. Flannery?" Mrs. Brady's voice from the doorway makes me look up. "Lunch is ready."
I glance at my watch. One o'clock already. "Thank you."
