Now I’ve got to figure out what comes next.
TWENTY-TWO
Simone
I’ve been so incrediblywrong about everything.
About Ronan.
Somewhere along the way, I let myself believe Ronan and I could actually make our marriage work. We could come to our own understanding from this mess of an arrangement neither of us asked for.
I thought we were building some sort of partnership. It was born out of our initial mutual dislike, but it seemed possible. It seemed like we had reached a truce I could learn to live with.
But I was delusional. I was as foolish and naive as he said I was.
Ronan Callahan is the same brutish gangster he’s always been.
Whatever I thought was developing between us was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Some form of temporary insanity where I thought he could be decent and not the cold and cruel asshole he is deep down.
It doesn’t matter that I’m physically attracted to him or that our chemistry burns hot enough to scorch us both.
Neither of those things change the truth of the situation, which is Ronan and I will always be mortal enemies.
I’m not sorry for keeping that damn business card. Maybe I’ll ask Chantal to reach out to that hitman after all…
The thought should horrify me, but it doesn’t, and I’m not sure what that says about the person I’m becoming inside these walls.
The next few days pass by in a blur. The tension’s so thick it lingers in the air. It’s as if the Cold War has descended upon Callahan House and Ronan and I are two superpowers refusing to blink first.
We share the same space in stanch, suffocating silence, communicating only through the energy we give off and the things we do. The way I slam a cabinet shut when he enters the bathroom. The way he strides out of our bedroom like the gangster he is.
We don’t need words when our actions illustrate our mutual hatred just fine.
I prefer it this way. At least now, in our silence, we’re finally being honest with each other. No more pretending—or even pondering if—our marriage could ever be anything more.
I spend the days intentionally isolating myself, keeping distance even from the staff members. They might be polite and dutiful, but at the end of the day, they’re still on the Callahan payroll; their allegiance is to Ronan and the rest of the family.
Not to the wife that’s been forced to marry into it.
During the afternoons, I find a lounge chair on the terrace and immerse myself in some reading.
Ronan’s nephew, Eddie, happens upon me on the third afternoon and releases a derisive snort.
“Hiding out from the big, bad Irish Mob? Good luck, princess.”
He lets out a bullish laugh as he wanders off, throwing his head back with the sound. I glare after him, my grip on my E-reader tightening.
Being an asshole seems to run in the Callahan bloodline.
Oona is the only other person on the estate who’s tolerable. She was supposed to leave for her vacation, but she decided to stay behind last minute. I suspect it’s equal parts concern for Ronan’s increasingly erratic behavior and her instinct to hover over me like a protective mother hen.
Whatever the reason, her presence is one of the few comforts I have left.
On the fourth night of our Cold War, Ronan comes home resembling a Jackson Pollock painting, with blood splattered across his shirt. His knuckles are bruised and busted open, which in itself speaks volumes.
I’m sitting at the vanity brushing my hair, though I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I’ve learned by now that it’s best to ignore things like this.
Bloody clothes and bruised knuckles seem to be a regular occurrence for Ronan Callahan. Just another reminder of the brute I married.
