I force my eyes open, squinting at the screen.
Four missed calls. Seven texts.
The time reads 5:47 PM.
"Fuck."
I sit up too fast. The room tilts violently. My stomach lurches, and for a moment, I think I'm going to be sick. I breathe through my nose, forcing it down.
I scroll through the messages with fumbling fingers. Matty:“Meeting at 6. Don't forget.”
Aidan:“Where the fuck are you?”
Another from Matty:“William. Answer your fucking phone.”
The meeting. My future wife. The O'Rourkes.
I'm supposed to be at my house in thirteen minutes, and I'm across the city in this penthouse suite, smelling like sex and drugs and whatever else.
Perfect. Fucking perfect.
I stumble to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help. In the mirror, I look like death. Red-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. My pupils are still dilated from the coke.
There's no time for a proper shower. I brush my teeth twice, gargle with mouthwash until my mouth burns. I find the spare clothes I keep in the closet—dark slacks, white shirt. My hands shake as I button the shirt.
Get it together. You can do this. Just one meeting.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. This isn't just one meeting. This is the rest of my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aoife
THE MURPHY HOUSE is colder than I expected.
Not temperature, though the drawing room we've been shown into isn't exactly warm, but atmosphere. There's something hollow about this place, like the walls themselves are mourning. Dark wood paneling absorbs what little light filters through the heavy curtains. Persian rugs muffle our footsteps. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watch from gilt frames, their eyes following me as I cross to the window.
I've been here twenty minutes. Or maybe it's been longer. Time moves strangely when you're waiting to meet the man you've been sold to.
Father sits on one of the leather sofas, perfectly composed in his charcoal suit, discussing weather and whiskey with AidanMurphy like we're here for afternoon tea instead of a business transaction disguised as courtship. His voice carries that easy confidence that comes from decades of negotiations. He's good at this. Pretending everything is normal when we're all drowning.
Aidan Murphy is polished, while his brother is reportedly wild. Tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks that catch the light when he gestures. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his brown eyes are sharp and assessing. He keeps glancing toward the door, then back to Father with an apologetic smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"William should be here any moment," he says for the third time. "He had an unexpected meeting run late."
Father doesn't call him on what sounds like a lie. He simply nods and accepts another finger of whiskey from the crystal decanter Aidan keeps refilling. They're going through the motions, these men. Pretending this is all civilized when we both know William Murphy isn't late because of a meeting.
He's late because he doesn't want to be here.
I can't blame him for that. Neither do I.
I turn back to the window, letting their voices fade into background noise. The garden beyond the glass is immaculate. Perfectly trimmed hedges, rose bushes that will bloom in a few months, a stone fountain in the center. It's beautiful in that controlled, intentional way that requires an army of gardeners and ridiculous amounts of money.
It's also a cage.
My reflection stares back at me from the window pane. Navy dress that's expensive enough to feed a family for weeks. Hair styled in soft waves that took an hour to perfect. Makeup applied with meticulous care to make me look naturally beautiful. I look exactly what I am. A prize being offered up for inspection.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
