“I’m your lawyer,” she explains. “I’ve reviewed the contract on your behalf.”
I stare at her, then at Cillian. “You actually...”
“I told you I would,” he says.
Patricia opens a folder. “The terms are extremely favorable to you, Nora. You’re well-protected in this agreement. If you have any questions?—”
“Is it fair?” I ask. “To him?”
Cillian’s hand tightens on mine.
Patricia glances between us. “Many of the provisions…lean in your favor. But Mr. O’Rourke insisted.”
I look at Cillian, this man who could have demanded anything from me.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods once.
The ceremony itself is brief. The officiant speaks about commitments and responsibilities, but I barely hear the words. All I can focus on is Cillian’s hand holding mine, the weight of this moment, the irrevocability of what we’re doing.
“Do you, Cillian Patrick O’Rourke, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” His voice is deep, certain, his eyes never leaving mine.
“And do you, Nora Elizabeth Murphy, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
This is it. The moment where I choose this life, this man, this future I never imagined I could have.
My voice shakes. “I do.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
Cillian steps closer, his hands coming up to gently cup my face. For a moment, he simply looks at me, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
Then he asks, so quietly only I can hear, “Is this alright?”
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
His lips touch mine—soft at first, questioning. I freeze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the newness of it. Then something in me relaxes, and I lean into the kiss. His mouth is warm and firm but gentle. One of his hands slides into my hair while the other stays on my face, holding me like I’m something precious.
The kiss lasts only seconds, but when he pulls back, I can’t catch my breath. My first kiss, ever, and it’s at my wedding with my new husband.
The officiant hands us the marriage certificate. I stare at my new name written there:Nora O’Rourke.
I’m no longer Nora Murphy, the nobody girl from nowhere who didn’t matter to anyone.
I’m Nora O’Rourke, wife of Cillian O’Rourke, one of the most powerful men in Chicago.
Chapter 7
Cillian
My wife’s fingers are laced with mine as the elevator climbs.
My wife. Nora O’Rourke. I roll the name around in my head, and it fits in a way nothing about this arrangement should. And I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
She hasn’t spoken since we left City Hall. Her hand is warm in mine, her pulse a rapid flutter where our palms meet. I run my thumb over her knuckles—our thing now, I suppose—and she glances up at me, so goddamn gorgeous.
