Róisín
Morningcomesquietly.Tooquietly for a house that still feels like it’s holding its breath.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, silk sheets cool against my skin, the weight of last night pressing down harder than any hand ever could. My body aches in that dull, infuriating way that makes it impossible to pretend nothing happened.
I don’t move. If I move, I have to acknowledge where I am. If I move, I have to remember.
Dinner flashes back in fragments—sharp, disjointed, like a piece of music played in the wrong key. The long table. The candles. The way Finn’s father looked at me like I was a transactionalready completed. An olive branch forced into my hands whether I wanted it or not.
I remember the knives being taken from my place setting. The audacity of it still makes my jaw tighten.
I remember Finn watching me from the corner of his eye, infuriatingly calm, like he knew exactly which parts of me were about to break and which would hold. I remember biting down on the fork, refusing to look away, and the way his expression changed—just enough to tell me I’d won something I hadn’t meant to.
And then—I squeeze my eyes shut.
The room off the corridor. The wall at my back. His hand at my throat, not choking, never choking, justthere. The way anger and heat tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart anymore. The way I said I hated him and meant it—and still arched into him like my body had never learned the same language as my mouth.
It makes me furious all over again, not at him, at myself. I roll onto my side, sheets whispering, and stare at the far wall where the light is just beginning to creep in. Somewhere in this house, his father is already awake, already congratulating himself on a deal well struck. Somewhere in this house, Finn O’Callaghan is moving through his morning like nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.My hand drifts to my throat without thinking, fingers brushing skin that still feels too warm there.I hate that my pulse jumps. I hate that the memory sits heavy and insistent instead of fading. I hate that part of me is already bracing for him to come back.
Valentine’s Day is two days away. A wedding I didn’t agree to. A necklace I already know he’s going to force around my throat like a brand. A month I have to survive without losing whatever pieces of myself I still recognise.
I swallow hard and stare at the ceiling again. If this is the overture, I think grimly, and last night was only the first movement—Then whatever comes next is going to draw blood. I close my eyes and wait.
The door opens, but I don’t jump. I simply turn my head on the pillow and look at him. Finn stands just inside the threshold like he owns the air in the room. Dark clothes. Awake too early. Already composed in a way that makes my teeth ache. If he’s surprised to find me watching him, he doesn’t show it.
“You’re up,” he says.
“I never slept,” I reply.
He accepts that with a brief nod and crosses the room without asking, stopping at the wardrobe. He opens it, already deciding things that do not belong to him.
“We’ll be busy today,” he says. “Tailors. Jewellery. The priest wants another meeting.”
I roll onto my side and push myself upright, sheets falling away. “You can cancel all of it.”
He snorts quietly. “No.”
He reaches into the wardrobe and pulls out a dress—structured, expensive, unmistakably chosen to suithishouse. He holds it up like an offering. “You’ll wear this.”
I slide my feet onto the floor and stand, slow and deliberate. My body still remembers last night; I refuse to give it the satisfaction of showing. I walk past him and reach into the wardrobe myself.
“I’ll wear what I choose.”
I pull out something darker. Cleaner.Mine. He watches me with narrowed eyes as I lay it out on the bed, hands steady. A small victory. I take it.
“Fine,” he says after a beat. “That.”
I don’t thank him. He turns away again, this time to the dresser. When he faces me, he’s holding something else entirely. The necklace. Cold gold catches the light, heavy and unmistakable. Rubies set deep, dark as drying blood. At the centre, the O’Callaghan crest—old, deliberate, meant to be seen and recognised. My stomach tightens.
“No,” I say flatly.
Finn steps closer. “You’ll wear it.”
“It’s a collar,” I snap.
“It’s a mark.”
