“Mother.”
Cillian fills the doorway. He takes in the room in one sweep—Kathleen’s composed posture, my hands locked together in my lap, whatever is written across my face—and his jaw hardens to stone.
“A word. Now.”
Kathleen rises without hurry, smoothing her skirt again. She passes me on her way to the door and doesn’t look at me.
I sit very still and listen to them move down the hall. Their voices carry.
“You will never speak to her like that again.”
“I’m protecting you, Cillian?—”
“From what? Being happy?”
A pause. “From making a mistake. The Sullivan alliance?—”
“Will either develop without a marriage contract, or it will fall through.” His voice is quiet, absolute, and terrifying. “Nora is my wife. She will be treated with respect in this family, or you won’t see me again.”
Silence.
I press my fingers against my mouth and stare at the pale carpet.
He collects me five minutes later, making curt goodbyes to his brothers—Lorcan squeezes my shoulder and says “Next time, bring more book recommendations”—and thenwe’re outside, gravel under my heels again, cold air cutting through the thin fabric of my dress.
In the car, I stare at the gate as it closes behind us.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You’resorry? For what?”
“For...” I press my hands flat on my thighs. “For being me. For not being good enough.”
The car pulls over. Not gradually—he just stops abruptly on the side of the road, engine running, and turns to face me.
“I don’t wanna hear you apologize for yourself ever again.” His voice doesn’t leave room for argument. “Ichose you. You are my wife. That’s all that matters.”
“Your mother?—”
“Is wrong. About you, about us, about everything.”
I study him. The set of his jaw, the expensive suit, the strong hands on the steering wheel. He was born into this world—the money, the power, the weight of a name that makes grown men step aside. He moves through it like he was built for it, and it was built for him. Because it was.
And then there’s me. A girl who grew up counting ceiling tiles when she was nervous, and eating stale, moldy bread ends when her father drank away the grocery money.
Kathleen’s voice threads through my head, quiet and precise as a needle.Novelty. Pity. Savior complex.
Cillian reaches over and takes my face in both hands, tilting it toward him. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, careful and warm.
“Stop,” he says.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I can see those wheels in your head turning, and they’re churning out nothing good.” His eyes hold mine, andthere’s no coldness in them right now. No distance. “Whatever she said to you, I need you to ignore it. It’s not true.”
I want to believe him. I do believe him, in this moment, with his hands on my face and the earnestness in his expression.
But Kathleen’s words don’t evaporate just because he tells them to. They’ve already found the cracks in my armor and settled in.
