The music is still playing, but Sean and I have stopped dancing. The woman—Mrs. Sullivan, I remember now—is looking at me with that expression of practiced sympathy I've seen too many times tonight.
"And your sister," she continues. "Such a beautiful girl. You must miss her terribly."
My throat closes. I can't breathe. Can't think. All I can see is Siobhan's face, the way she looked the last time I saw her. Vibrant and alive and whole, before she was murdered. She was a bitch, but she wasmysister, and I never thought I’d lose her the way I did. I thought, for so long… that maybe something would change one day. Thatshewould change.
Maybe she never would have, but now I’ll never know. And the look of simpering sympathy on Mrs. Sullivan’s face is, somehow, the last straw.
"Excuse me," I manage, pulling away from Sean. "I need—I need some air."
I don't wait for a response. I just move, pushing through the crowd of dancing couples, past the groups of people chatting and laughing, toward the doors I spotted earlier that lead to a balcony.
The cold night air hits my face, a relief that I welcome with a deep breath, frigid in my lungs. I grip the balcony railing, gulping in air, trying to force down the panic rising in my chest.
Siobhan. Desmond. Dad. All gone. And here I am at a gala in a designer dress, married to a man who can barely stand to touch me, playing pretend while my entire family is dead.
"Maeve."
I hear Sean's voice, soft behind me. I didn't hear him follow, but of course he did. He's always watching, always aware. He could never let me out of his sight, even for a moment, because who knows what could happen?
And then it would be his fault. The Council would blame him.
He’sresponsiblefor me. The thought feels like a collar. A chain.
"I'm fine," I lie, not turning around. "Just needed a moment."
"You're not fine." He moves to stand beside me at the railing, not touching but close. "We can leave if you want."
The lingering worry in his voice startles me.Since when does he care if I’m upset?"No, I—" I shake my head. "You said we were expected to be here. We should stay. It’s only what… halfway through the night?"
"Fuck what's expected." There's an edge to his voice now. "If you want to leave, we leave."
I finally look at him. His dark eyes are intense on my face, searching. Concerned, maybe. I didn't know he was capable of concern.
"Everyone keeps talking about my family," I whisper. "About how tragic it is, how sorry they are. But they didn't know them, not really. They did business with them and saw them at events like this, but they have no idea what it was like to know my sister couldn’t have an open coffin because of what the bullet did to her face. To watch my father succumb to illness right after. To know my brother is a rapist and an attempted murderer, executed by the same family hosting this gala. But none of them will mentionthat, even though they’re all thinking it… how lucky I am that I got to keep my wealth and position despite what my brother did, when Ronan could have taken it all away and left me penniless.”
I’m out of breath as I stop speaking, and I press my hand against my waist. “They don’t want me here, not really. They just want to gossip about the poor, tragic Connelly girl who lost everything. The charity case who should be grateful that she was allowed to marry and not be thrown out."
"I know." Sean's voice is quiet.
"Do you?" I turn to face him fully. "Do you know what it's like to have people look at you like you're broken? Like you're something to be pitied?"
His jaw tightens. “You have no idea what my life was like, Maeve. And it’s not important. I don’t ask for pity. But sometimes it comes, all the same.”
“I’m not asking for… I don’t want?—”
“I know.” His voice is sharp. “Ignore them. They mean nothing.”
“It’s hard when they won’t fucking leave me alone!” My voice rises, and I quickly break off, glancing nervously toward the double doors. My behavior tonight reflects on Sean, and I’m sure if I were to make a scene, he would hear from the Council about it.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I shouldn't have?—"
"Stop apologizing." Sean takes a step closer. "You're allowed to be upset, Maeve. You're allowed to feel things."
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "Am I? Because it feels like I'm not allowed to feel anything around you. Like I'm supposed to be this perfect, obedient wife who doesn't complain or cry or?—"
"That's not what I want." Another step closer. He's invading my space now, towering over me. His hands go to either side of me, clenching the railing, and he has that look in his eyes again, the one that makes my knees feel weak and my stomach churn. "That's never been what I want."
"Then what do you want?" The question bursts out of me, desperate and breathless. "Because I don't understand you, Sean. You push me away, and then you teach me to fight. You tell me you want me too much and then you avoid me for days. You bring me to this gala and dance with me and look at me like—like?—"
