Declan leads us into what I would call a formal living room. It's where the rest of the family is.
Nora crosses to me first, and her hug is sincere and genuine. "You look beautiful."
I don't feel it, but I smile gratefully.
Cillian nods from the window with sharp eyes. "Saoirse. Welcome to the family."
Ronan offers a handshake and an easy smile.
Lorcan grins from an armchair with the loose confidence of a man who has never once felt uncomfortable in his own skin. "There she is. The woman who tamed Declan O'Rourke."
"Shut up," Declan says, without heat.
And then Kathleen O'Rourke stands.
She's not what I braced for. Not a tower of cold authority. She's compact, precise, elegant in the way that comes from decades of knowing exactly how to command a room. Her gaze moves over me thoroughly, but not in an unkind way. The gaze of a woman who notices everything and files it somewhere useful.
"Saoirse." A nod. "It's lovely to meet you."
"Thank you, Mrs. O'Rourke. Thank you for having me."
"Kathleen, please." She gestures toward the couch. "Sit."
I sit. Declan drops beside me, our thighs touching. His hand finds mine again.
Dinner is easier than I expect.
Lorcan carries most of the conversation, and when he's not telling a story about a bouncer that has Ronan pressing his lips together in a failed attempt at composure, he's asking me questions with the cheerful relentlessness of someone who genuinely wants answers. Have I redecorated Declan's boring house yet? What's it like being the wife of Declan O'Rourke? Have I tried the bakery on Division? Why haven't I been to O'Rourke's pub yet?
I answer. More words come out of me than I intended.
Kathleen asks careful, measured questions. How I'm settling into married life, whether I need anything, and if the brownstone is comfortable. Polite. Not warm, but not pointed either.
I eat what's placed in front of me and carefully watch for traps and pitfalls.
They don’t come.
Nora catches my eye halfway through the main course and winks. I almost smile back.
After dinner, Kathleen insists that Nora and I retreat with her to another room while the men discuss business. Nora had warned me about this on her visit to the brownstone. Apparently, it's a tradition dating back to when Declan's father ran the family business.
In the drawing room, Kathleen pours us each a cup of tea. Everything about this is so foreign, I feel like I've entered a parallel dimension—drawing rooms and after-dinner tea, and business discussions.
Nora settles close to me on a settee, a quiet presence at my shoulder. “Saoirse’s been good for Declan," she tells Kathleen. "I noticed a big difference in him, don't you, Kathleen?"
“Mmm,” Kathleen hums, and I'm not sure if she's agreeing or disagreeing. Her gaze settles on me. "In this family, he's always been the one who has given the most and asked for the least in return." Her voice is even, unhurried.
I have no idea what she's trying to imply with those words. Is she trying to tell me that I'm “the least” and Declan should've asked for more for himself? Or is she just giving me inside information about my husband? I glance over at Nora for her reaction, but Nora doesn't seem to know what to make of Kathleen's statement either.
“Umm, okay,” I finally respond. Suddenly, I need air. I feel stifled in this room.
Two weeks ago, I would've just started walking, but now I'm indoors in a drawing room in a mansion, wearing expensive clothes, and there are expectations placed on me. I can't just get up and walk out the door. I'm no longer free to roam the city whenever I feel like it.
“E-excuse me. Restroom?”
Kathleen gestures toward the hallway, and I bolt up and through the door.
The bathroom is crazy. Marble with gold fixtures and an ornately framed mirror. Running cold water over my wrists seems to settle me down a bit, and I don't linger for too long.
