DOMINIC
Aoife is silent for the rest of the drive to The Shelbourne, clutching her bouquet on her lap so hard her fingers are white. She looks breathtakingly beautiful in her dress. Anyone who dares to question the authenticity of my affections for her would only have to take one look at us to be convinced.
When we arrive, St Stephen’s Green is drenched in afternoon sun, illuminating the cream stone façade like a temple. The hotel looks exactly as it always has—regal, unshakeable, dripping in old money and quiet power—but today it’s been dressed for war.
A deep red carpet unfurls from the revolving doors, cutting a bold slash across the pavement, a deliberate provocation in broad daylight. On either side, towering arrangements of blush-pink peonies spill from crystal urns, soft and extravagant, just as I requested.
She gasps beside me as she drinks them in.
Guests gather in clusters beneath the awnings, champagne glasses catching the sun, silk dresses and tailored suits murmuring with curiosity. Lewis cuts the engine andsteps out of the car, ushering everyone inside as they squint and stare at the car. Thank fuck for the tinted windows.
Ciaran waits on the step outside, flanked by two of his own protection detail. When the guests are all inside, Lewis opens the BMW door for us. I climb out first, then offer Aoife my hand. She takes it like a lifeline, her palm clammy in mine.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the happy couple.’ Ciaran approaches, slapping my back playfully.
‘Aoife,’ a woman calls, practically jogging towards us in a blush pink dress and four-inch stilettos. Huge silver eyes dart wildly over my fiancée.
‘Abby!’ Aoife exclaims.
The best friend.
She snatches her hand from mine, and the two women embrace like sisters.
‘Are you okay?’ Abby takes a step back, scanning Aoife from head to toe like she’s searching for scratches.
‘I’m fine.’ Aoife twists to face me.
Abby’s eyes land on mine. Her mouth falls slack. Her pupils practically double in size. ‘What the…’ she whispers.
I flash her a wolfish grin, one that she’s probably imagined every time she heard a rumour about what I’m capable of.
‘It’s okay,’ Aoife promises, squeezing her friend’s hand.
‘You’re marrying that beast?’ Abby hisses. She doesn’t even attempt to hide her horror. She’s brave, like Aoife. No man has dared to call me a beast to my face.
Aoife nods, motioning her friend towards the entrance, before returning to my side. ‘It was the only way.’
Was, notis—I note. Now that sounds promising. I’m praying to every god I don’t believe in that this is as real forher as it is for me. Because the alternative doesn’t bear contemplating.
‘He’s actually quite… charming underneath it all,’ Aoife’s mouth breaks into a smile.
‘Why thank you,’ I offer her my arm and she takes it, clinging onto it like a safety net.
‘You’re going in together?’ Ciaran’s eyebrows wing up.
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘Worried she’s going to do a runner on you?’ He teases.
‘It was my idea,’ Aoife admits, glancing at Ciaran, then back to me. ‘I feel better when he’s by my side.’
That tiny admission sets my soul alight.
Abby gasps. Ciaran’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he ushers us up the stairs.
Inside, the hotel is bright. The light flooring is polished to perfection. The sun slants in through tall sash windows, illuminating the ivory painted walls. Lewis and James remain stationed discreetly outside the double doors. Fifteen of our men are inside, dispersed around the building, some in the congregation.
The ballroom doors are open. The organ begins to play. I spent all week trying to work out which song we should walk down the aisle to. It came to me yesterday. ‘Songbird’. Fleetwood Mac. There’s no lyrics, but I hope she understands the meaning of it anyway. When she barrelled into my bar, I wiped her tears away. Now, there will be no more crying. I’ll love her, protect her, cherish her. All she has to do is let me.
