Reilan's arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close. "Aoife, you're the strongest person I know. If anyone can survive the Murphy family, it's you."
Survive. Not thrive. Not be happy. Just survive.
That's what my life has become.
I have one day to prepare myself for a life I don't want with a man I don't know.
One day until I become Mrs. William Murphy.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
CHAPTER THREE
William
I WAKE TO sunlight burning through my eyelids and the taste of stale whiskey coating my tongue. My head pounds with each breath, a reminder of how many bottles I emptied last night. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat, and I have no fucking memory of how I got home.
Rolling onto my side, I check my phone. One missed call from Matty. A text from Aidan that simply reads:“You alive?”
It's barely past noon. I've slept maybe four hours, and my body feels like I've gone ten rounds with someone twice my size—every muscle aches. My ribs protest when I sit up, and there's dried blood on my knuckles that I don't remember acquiring.
I stagger to the bathroom and turn the shower as hot as it will go. The water hits my skin like needles, but I welcome the pain.It's better than the numbness that's been threatening to swallow me whole.
Steam fills the small space as I scrub at my skin, trying to wash away the feeling that I'm drowning. The water swirls pink at my feet before running clear. My knuckles sting where the skin has split, and I watch the wounds close under the spray, knowing they'll scar.
When I finally step out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. Jaw tight with tension. I look like Da. The thought makes my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat.
I can't do this. Can't sit in this house and think about the fact that in a few hours, I'm supposed to meet the woman my family has decided I'll marry to save us all from the Russians.
I need to not think. Need to not feel. Need to lose myself in something that doesn't require me to be anything other than a body going through motions.
The Fitzgerald Hotel is one of mine, at least on paper. A silent partnership that keeps my name out of the business while the profits roll in. It's upscale and discreet, the kind of place where people come when they want privacy and are willing to pay for it—the kind of place where I can disappear for a few hours and no one will ask questions.
I dress quickly in dark jeans, a black shirt, and send a text to Marcus, the hotel manager:“Be there in twenty. I want two blonde escorts. Have them ready.”I'm out the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The city passes by in a blur of gray stone and morning traffic, people going about their normal lives while mine crumbles around me.
The hotel rises above the street corner like a monument to old money—red brick and cream stone, with gold accents that catch the morning light. I park in the underground garage and take the private elevator to the penthouse suite I keep for occasions like this.
The elevator doors open directly into the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, but I don't spare them a glance. I pour myself three fingers of whiskey from the bar and down it in one swallow, relishing the burn.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus, the hotel manager:“They're on their way up.”
I don't respond. Just pour another drink and wait.
The knock comes five minutes later. I cross the suite and open the door to find two women standing in the hallway. Both are beautiful in that manufactured way that money can buy: perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect bodies wrapped in expensive dresses that cling in all the right places.
The first blonde leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that's dangerously close to my mouth. "Mr. Murphy. I'm Claire. This is Simone."
I step aside and let them in.
I cross to the leather chair by the window and sit, spreading my legs. The leather creaks under my weight. Claire closes the door with a soft click, the sound echoing in the quiet suite. Simone approaches, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Her eyes lock on mine as she sinks to her knees between my thighs.
Her hands slide up my legs, nails scraping lightly through the denim. I watch her fingers work my belt, the clink of metal filling the silence. She pulls the leather free, then moves to my zipper. The rasp of it fills the quiet as she pulls it down. Her hand slides inside, wrapping around my cock, and I'm already half-hard.
She frees me from my jeans, and her mouth closes around me. Hot and wet and perfect. The sensation drags me under, pulling me away from the chaos in my head. I groan, my head falling back against the chair.
Claire moves behind me, her perfume wrapping around us. Her hands find my shoulders, kneading the tension there. Her lips brush against my neck, just below my ear, and I tilt my head back, giving her access. Her teeth graze my throat as Simone takes me deeper, her tongue working along my length.
