Business. Right. That's what this is. A business transaction. I'm buying a wife, and she's being sold. Love and romance have fuck-all to do with it.
I force myself to step back, putting space between us.
"Of course." I turn to Dillon, who's watching this entire exchange with an expression I can't quite read. "Shall we?"
Dillon nods and produces a folder from the leather briefcase at his feet. The marriage contract. Pages and pages of legal bullshit that boil down to one simple fact: Aoife O'Rourke becomes mine, and in exchange, the O'Rourkes get the protection of the Murphy name.
We settle around the large mahogany table that dominates the center of the drawing room. Aidan pulls out a second copy of the contract. He's been over every word, every clause. Making sure we're not getting fucked.
As if any of us have a choice.
"The terms are straightforward," Dillon begins, and his voice is all business now. The warm conversational tone from earlier is gone. "Marriage within six weeks. Aoife retains rights to her personal property and investments. Any children born of the union will carry both O'Rourke and Murphy names."
Children. The word hits me like a fist smashing into the side of my head. I haven't thought that far ahead. Haven't thought past the wedding itself, past the immediate problem of Russian threats and family alliances.
The idea of children, of bringing kids into this fucked-up world, into this life of violence and betrayal, makes my stomach turn.
I glance at Aoife. She's standing slightly behind her father now, arms tucked behind her back, face carefully blank. But I catch the way her jaw tightens when Dillon mentions children. She doesn't want this any more than I do.
Good. At least we're on the same page about something.
"The O'Rourkes maintain control of western territories," Aidan continues, reading from his copy. "The Murphys maintain control of eastern territories. Joint decisions required for any operations that span both regions."
Joint decisions. Like we're business partners. Like this is a merger and not a marriage.
I suppose in our world, those are the same thing.
The contracts are thick. Probably fifty pages each. I scan the first few, but the words blur together. My head is pounding now, the cocaine wearing off, leaving me with that familiar hollow feeling. I need another line. Or a drink. Or both.
But I force myself to focus. To at least look like I'm reading this shit.
Property rights. Financial arrangements. Conditions for annulment (betrayal, abandonment, failure to produce an heirwithin ten years). It's all here, spelled out in black and white. The entire rest of my life, reduced to legal terms and conditions.
"If both parties are satisfied," Dillon says, pulling a pen from his jacket, "we can proceed with signatures."
Both parties. Like Aoife and I have been consulted. Like we agreed to any of this.
I look at her again. She's staring at the contract with an expression I recognize. Resignation. The look of someone who's been backed into a corner and knows there's no way out.
I know that look. See it in the mirror every goddamn day.
"Any objections?" Aidan asks, and he's looking at me specifically.
thousand objections. Starting with the fact that I'm in no condition to be anyone's husband, let alone the husband of a woman like this. That I'm a disaster on a good day and barely functional on a bad one. That I'm still mourning a father who was murdered by my own brother. That I'm drowning in whiskey and cocaine and rage, and I don't know how to stop.
That whoever decided I should lead this family, whoever thought putting me in charge was a good idea, was out of their fucking mind.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, I reach for the pen Aidan's offering. "No objections."
I sign my name. William Murphy. The signature is shaky, less steady than it should be. Anyone paying attention would notice. But no one says anything.
Dillon signs next. Then Aoife.
I watch her hand move across the page, watch her sign away her freedom with a few strokes of ink. Her signature is elegant, controlled. Nothing like the fury I saw in her eyes earlier.
She sets down the pen and steps back, and I realize this is it. It's done. She's mine now. Or I'm hers. However the fuck this works.
