A pause. “Through intermediaries.”
“Whose?”
“Mine. His.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Council?”
“Not formally.”
“So not settled.”
“Settled enough.”
I look at the paper. “Define ‘enough.’”
His temper flashes, then he smothers it. Poorly. Rory has never had my father’s gift for quiet, but he has learned to place anger behind his teeth when necessary.
“You leave today,” he says. “With me. No pursuit. No retaliation. No claim against you. No claim against Brennan interests based on withdrawal from the arrangement.”
I wait.
“The marriage contract is suspended, pending formal dissolution.”
My breath catches. “Suspended?”
“For now.”
“So not dissolved.”
“It will be.”
I can’t believe this. There’s no way I can marry the man I’m sure killed my father. “By whom?”
“Our counsel.”
“And theirs?”
His silence answers for him. I almost laugh. Men love exits that still have strings tied under the ribbon.
He sees my expression and leans forward. “It’s real.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“You’re looking for the trap.”
“Habit.”
“There isn’t one.”
“There’s always one. Sometimes it’s just smaller than advertised.”
He exhales through his nose and looks toward the ceiling as though asking God for patience.
God, having watched this family for generations, wisely doesn’t answer.
“You think I’d walk you into one?” he asks.
“No.”
