I love him too—that’s the problem. I love him too much to keep dragging him down.
After, he falls asleep. I lie in his arms, wide awake.
The weekend was perfect. But it’s not real. Real is Chicago, his family, the business, the constant cost of choosing me.
I look at his face, peaceful in sleep. This man would do anything for me. He’s given up so much for me already.
Maybe the kindest thing I could do is givehimup. Let him go. Give him back his life before I destroy it.
He’d be angry at first. But eventually, he’d see I was right. He’d marry someone like Aoife, someone who bringsvalue instead of taking it. Someone who belongs in his world.
The thought makes me want to throw up. But loving someone means wanting what’s best for them. Even if it kills you.
Chapter 17
Cillian
The Romano meeting runs for two hours. I manage to smooth over all ruffled feathers from being unavailable over the weekend, and instead of pulling out of the deal, as they’d threatened, the Romanos agree to continue—after I offer a few concessions.
Ronan looks pleased. Declan looks satisfied. I look at my phone.
Nothing from Nora.
“Can anyone say pussy-whipped?” Declan says afterward, nodding at my phone.
I glare at him.
He holds up both hands. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just stating what I see.”
“Keep your commentary to yourself.”
He doesn’t push further. Smart.
Ronan claps me on the shoulder. “This arrangement with the Romanos has turned out to be better than what we were planning with the Sullivans. Less political noise.”
“Good.” I know they’re both still pissed at me for not being able to contact me this weekend while shit was hittingthe fan with negotiations over our brand, new deal, but I honestly don’t care. Neither of these fuckers understands what it means to love a woman, and I’m not sure they ever will.
Before Ronan can try to rope me in for celebratory drinks, which I will decline, I grab my jacket and get the hell out of there.
On my way home, I call Nora’s phone. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. I call again. Same result. I text.
On my way home. Everything okay?
The message delivers. No response.
My instincts—the ones I’ve sharpened over twenty years in a world where hesitation gets people killed—are screaming.
I drive too fast.
The doorman greets me with his usual nod, and the elevator takes forever. When I push through the penthouse door, the silence hits me wrong—not peaceful, but a specific kind of hollow. The place feels empty.
“Nora?”
Nothing.
I searched the kitchen, bedroom, living room, and guest bathroom—all empty. All undisturbed. Our bedroom looks untouched until I open her side of the closet. The dresses I bought her hang in a neat row. The shoes are lined up. Her old clothes—the thrift store things she came with, the ones I never threw away because she asked me not to—are gone.
The garbage bag that was folded in the back corner is gone.
