It’s her voice in my head when everything else goes quiet. Her laugh echoing through the cracks of my control. Her face haunting the dark behind my eyes.
She’s in every bruise and in the ghost of her touch, tracing my knuckles like I mattered.
She isn’t trouble. She’s war. And I’m not sure I want to win.
Chapter 17
Aoife
Idon’t want to be here. Not this weekend. Not any weekend. Not ever.
Conor hasn’t looked up from his phone, thumb moving, jaw tight, silence matching mine.
I look up at the driver as the car stops. “Don’t start!” I’m already out, door slamming hard enough to echo off the stone walls. Not in the mood to listen to him.
The moment my boots cross the estate gates, my chest locks. The air presses down, it’s heavier, thick with old smoke and secrets that cling to the throat.
Marble lions guard the path. Windows glow like watchful eyes. The O’Brien estate breathes pride and power, but under my skin it feels like a chokehold.
I steady my breath. This is the house where I sign my life away.
My mother greets me with a brittle smile and a hug that smells like rose water and nerves. “My little girl. Beautiful.” Her voice is soft but tight.
She leans in, eyes flicking toward the hall. “Don’t fight him,” she whispers “Your father and uncle, they’re already in bad moods. Keep your head down.”
I nod once, the smallest movement, because there’s nothing left to give her.
“She’s finally here,” my aunt says “Looks tired already. Go freshen up.”
“You’ll need to be radiant,” my mother says, still smiling. “Blue brings out your innocence.”
If only she knew, Matteo burned that out of me a weeks ago.
Uncle Liam steps into my path, adjusting his cuffs. “Be good, Aoife. You know what today means.”
I nod. My last black eye only just faded. I’m not leaving here with another.
By the time I hang my coat, the performance has begun. My mother twists my hair, pins biting like a crown I never asked for. Photographers shuffle their gear, lenses waiting to swallow me whole. So much for freshening up.
“You look stunning,” my aunt says with a smile.
I draw a long breath, follow her inside. Conor gives me a weak smile from across the room. My father and uncle are still murmuring business in the corner, not even glancing up.
Then I see him.
My fiancé. Seventeen years older, suit tailored like armor, glass of whiskey in one hand, ownership in his eyes.
“Aoife,” he drawls. “You look divine.”
The camera flashes. His arm snakes around my waist, heavy and possessive. Each flash drives another nail in my coffin. I force a smile, stomach empty, head light. No one asked if I’d eaten, or if I wanted a drink. No one ever asks.
“Closer,” the man behind the camera says.
He leans in. His lips brush my ear. “You’ll make a beautiful bride, Aoife,” he whispers. “And an obedient one.”
I want to shove him off. Or better, take the blade Matteo made for me and bury it deep in his throat.
Instead, I smile. A dead, practiced smile. My father's favorite.
