And no it’s not us running away.
I stare at the message, my heart skipping a beat. What does she mean by that? Permanent solution to my marriage to Ronan?
Before I can respond, Killian announces, “We’re here.”
For the rest of the morning, Killian shadows me. We go from boutique to boutique in SoHo, searching for a dress.
The neighborhood is quintessentially New York—cobblestone streets, cast-iron buildings painted in muted colors, artificially planted tree pits and shrubbery, and expensive storefronts with floor-to-ceiling windows displaying mannequins in cutting-edge fashion.
The air smells like expensive perfume and fresh coffee from the cafés tucked between designer shops.
Killian barely leaves me alone long enough to try outfits on in the dressing rooms, standing just outside like some kind of prison guard. His arms are crossed, his expression severe.
Every sales associate knows to give him a wide berth.
It’s no wonder he and Ronan are so tight. They have a similar brooding aura, a distinct masculine energy that’s both attractive and threatening.
He’s as fearsome of an Irish gangster as my husband is.
Which is exactly the reason I decide to try to lose him.
We enter a larger boutique called Atelier Noir, a spacious multi-level shop with exposed brick, no shortage of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and racks of designer clothing on display like art installations.
The lighting is moody and ambient except for spotlights highlighting key pieces. The dressing rooms are in the back, cordoned off by thick velvet curtains.
I slip between a couple of different racks, weaving through the crowded store. The boutique is busy today with women browsing and the sales associates that tend to them.
I glance back. Killian is distracted, taking a rare moment to check the notifications on his phone.
It’s the opening I need, and I dart between a rack of evening gowns. I disappear to the other side of the store, near the back where it’s quieter and less crowded.
Satisfied to finally have a moment alone, I exhale, my shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning.
I step up to a full-length mirror framed in ornate gold and hold a dress on a hanger against myself. It’s a navy blue wrap dress that accentuates the hips and backside.
My head tilts as I study my reflection, debating if it’s the right one for a family event.
One moment I’m standing alone in the mirror. The next, I’m joined by a huge, muscly, mean-looking man who steps up behind me.
He’s not Killian. He’s someone I’ve never seen before in my life, appearing so suddenly it’s like he materializes out of thin air.
I jump in place, my breath catching. The dress slips from my hand, the hanger clattering to the floor. You’d think I’d scream, but my brain goes blank, and suddenly I’m struck speechless.
He’s massive, easily six foot five or six, built like a tank with a neck so thick it looks painful. His face is no less brutal, his brow heavy and furrowed and eyes dark and cold.
Unnervingly lifeless.
“I… I…” I stammer, taking a step to the side and bumping into the mirror.
His hand reaches out, and he grabs my wrist before I can even think to run. His grip is crushing, almost as if he intends to break my bones. I gasp and try to wrench myself free, but he doesn’t budge.
He simply looms closer, baring his teeth like a wild animal.
“Simone Langton,” he grunts in a harsh accent. “Or is it… Simone Callahan?”
Terror floods through me, ice cold and paralyzing. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He leans down, bringing his face closer to mine. His breath smells like cigarettes and bitter coffee.
“Answer me.”
