He narrows his eyes, assessing me from head to toe like he’s scanning for malware. ‘You never say no to champagne. It’s your love language.’
Yeah. Well. It used to be.
I shrug and take a sip of water instead. ‘I have a lot of work to do later, prepping a proposal for a client.’
‘Workaholic,’ Rian teases.
It’s two tiny words—I’m pregnant—all I have to do is say them. But the words are lodged in the back of my throat.
At the other end of the table, Ivy, Avery, Scarlett, Layla and Rebekka are all in deep discussion regarding Avery and Killian’s Christmas wedding venue. Layla is listening, but her eyes keep drifting to Sean. My parents are fetching more champagne because apparently no one has had nearly enough yet. Maybe it’ll soften them up for the blow I’m about to deliver.
‘I can’t believe Jack O’Connor still hasn’t surfaced,’ Killian says from my left, his voice low and lethal. His jaw tenses as he spits out the words. Instinctively, he scans the room, like our enemy is liable to jump out from anywhere. We’re in the safest house in Ireland. Fifteen security staff are stationed around the perimeter, and our own personal bodyguards are all in the building.
James exhales sharply. ‘I can’t believe there hasn’t been a sighting of him on any CCTV since he ran into the woods. No cars flagged, no transactions, no burner phones. Nothing. How is that even possible?’
Killian circulated images of Jack O’Connor throughout the family and staff, but no one has so much as glimpsed even a lookalike.
‘He has no assets, no money, and no friends left,’ Caelonadds. ‘His oldest son has been transferred into solitary, in case he tries the same stunt as his father.’
‘Could he be working with anyone?’ I ask quietly. To me, it’s the only plausible suggestion. ‘Could someone be hiding him?’
‘Like who?’ James’s attention turns to me.
I hate saying the name, but it’s the only loose end I can think of. ‘Christopher Cole.’
Caelon’s fingers whiten around his wineglass and he visibly stiffens—precisely why I didn’t want to mention the man who put a hit on Caelon’s first wife, Isabella, which resulted in her untimely death.
Killian’s long, low, rumbling laugh is as rich as it is rare. ‘He’d have a hard job helping anyone from where he’s buried deep in the Wicklow mountains.’
We must be one of the only families in the world where it’s normal to discuss murder over Sunday lunch. Thankfully, Ivy, Avery, Scarlett, Layla and Rebekka are all still animatedly engrossed in wedding talk. I’m sure they have some idea about the family they’re married to or are marrying into, but the boys try to keep them out of it as much as possible.
A shiver dances down my spine.
The one saving grace of not knowing California’s true identity means that my brothers can’t torture it out of me, hunt him down like a pack of lions, then tear him to pieces for knocking up their little sister.
Caelon clinks his glass against Killian’s in a silent toast. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if O’Connor is dead.’
‘We’d never be that lucky, would we?’ James shakes his head, clearly baffled.
‘I’m beginning to reach the same conclusion. But still, don’t let your guard down for a second,’ Killian warns us all grimly, eyeing us in turn. ‘Silence isn’t always safety. For all we know, he could be biding his time, luring us into a false senseof security. Until I see his dead body myself, we stick to the same increased security measures.’
My parents return from the kitchen with two more chilled bottles of Beckett’s Black Label, because apparently, they haven’t had enough.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’ My father’s eyes crinkle as he beams at me. It’s taken years, but he’s finally settled into retirement. He no longer pops into the Beckett Building on Grafton Street, preferring to travel Europe with my mother. They still look at each other with hearts in their eyes. Their love is the reason we all exist. They must be so proud of the family they’ve built together.
I’ll never have that.
I’ll never look at my child with his father by my side and feel that shared sense of amazement. And I never wanted it, but now that it’s not an option, I feel bereft somehow. Robbed of a future I was never interested in until I realised I’d never have it.
‘Honestly, Dad, no.’ I hold my hand up to stop him pouring me a glass. ‘I’ve an early appointment tomorrow.’
I don’t mention that the appointment is with Dr Karly Kensington, the country’s best obstetrician, to discuss the secret grandchild growing in my stomach.
I push my chair back from the table and stand. One by one, my family members stop talking. Every eye in the room is on me.
‘Are you quite alright, dear?’ My mother asks, slipping into her seat at the top of the table.
‘I have some news.’ I suck in a deep breath and will my pulse to stop thundering in my ears.
