I look down at my left hand where my wedding ring sits.
I think:he chose me.
And then, underneath it, I wonder why.
Chapter 13
Cillian
I find myself checking my phone every five minutes. No messages from Nora.
I guess that’s a good thing. I promised her I wouldn’t worry. We had a deal. But, honestly, she can’t have really meant for me not to worry at all.
I’m on a call with the legal team when Finn appears in the doorway. He waits until I wrap up.
“Your wife’s been at the luncheon for two and a half hours,” he says. “Thought you’d want to know.”
“I know.”
“Also thought you’d want to know that Aoife Sullivan is on the guest list.”
I set down my pen.
“Say that again.”
“Aoife Sullivan. She and your mother are apparently?—”
“I know what they are.” I’m already standing. “Who arranged the guest list?”
“The hospital committee. Your mother sits on it.”
The rage that settles in me is familiar. It’s the feeling Iget before I make a decision that can’t be undone. I breathe through it, regain my rationality, and sit back down.
If I show up now, not only will I break my deal with Nora to not worry about her, but I’ll confirm to her that I don’t think she could handle it. That she needed rescuing. I don’t think that’s the best course of action. She needs to walk out of that room on her own two feet.
But every minute that passes is a minute Kathleen O’Rourke and Aoife Sullivan have with my wife, and I know exactly how both of them operate.
I choose to wait.
That decision ends up costing me.
Chapter 14
Nora
The penthouse is quiet in a way it never is when Cillian is here. He fills spaces without trying. His presence has weight and temperature. Without him, the penthouse is just a beautiful box thirty-two floors above the city.
I shower, dress, make coffee I don’t drink, and stand at the kitchen counter staring at nothing.
Aoife Sullivan’s face keeps surfacing. The photograph she showed me. Cillian in black tie, Aoife in a gorgeous burgundy gown, both of them looking like the perfect power couple.
I look at my hands wrapped around the mug. Bitten nails, still. A callus on my right palm that won’t fade. I’ve gained a little weight—I’ve tried to anyway—but I still look like someone who’s been hungry for a long time. Someone assembled from shortage.
Nothing about Aoife Sullivan resembles shortage.
I set the mug in the sink and start cleaning.
The kitchen doesn’t need it. The cleaning service came two days ago and the place gleams. It doesn’t matter. Myhands need something to do, and scrubbing gives my brain permission to go quiet.
