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My mother had very definite ideas about my wedding look—including the giant dress she tried to convince me to buy, a tight shellacked updo, and heavy makeup so it would “show up in photos.” But I want none of that, and I’ve decided that today, my wedding day, is the day I start standing up for the things I want when it comes to my family. After all, in a few hours I’ll no longer be my father’s daughter. I’ll be Connor’s wife.
And I want to be something more, too. More than just defined by the men who have ties to me. I don’t know how to accomplish that just yet, but I intend to figure it out, beginning with my foundation, and after that with the freedoms Connor promised me.
By the time we’re finished, my makeup is soft and light just as I wanted, my lids done in shimmery golds and bronzes that look natural and lovely next to my dark red hair, complementing the dark fringe of my lightweight lash extensions. My hair is curled in soft waves, the front pulled back and secured with my grandmother’s gold, diamond and pearl hair clip, and my jewelry is all gold and pearls too—my mother’s double strand necklace, my aunt’s drop earrings, the pearl-studded gold cuff that was a gift on my sixteenth birthday. I step into my wedding dress as Maggie zips it up and starts buttoning the back, and I have to admit that I look like the perfect bride.
My mother and Maggie both attach the veil to the comb in my hair, leaving the blusher flipped back until we get to the church, and when I turn around I can see that even Maggie is glowing.
“You lookstunning, Saoirse,” she tells me, a thread of nervous excitement in her voice despite what I know she thinks deep down about this wedding. “Connor is a lucky man.”
“I hope he thinks so,” I say with a small laugh as I smooth down the gold-and-pearl flecked lace of my skirt.
“Well, he’s stuck with you after today,” Maggie chirps cheerfully, and I resist the urge to dryly remark that he’ll have plenty of others. I don’t particularly feel like talking about how my husband plans to be unfaithful to me before we’re even married, and I know Maggie would only be that much more confused and horrified by the whole thing, even if I’ll be able to do the same.
It’s not a long ride to St. Paul’s, but my nerves have well and truly set in by the time we’re nearly there all the same. Maggie helps arrange my train as we stand just inside, bringing my blusher down over my face as we wait for my father to join us.
He appears, tall and crisp in his black suit and well-groomed beard, and he links my arm through his, patting my hand.
“You’ve done well, daughter,” he says with a smile. “We’ve won, thanks to you. Connor and the Kings are ours.”
A tremor runs through me, because I know that’s not true. Connor has every intention of making mehis, of severing the loyalties between my father and I and ensuring that every word I speak, every action on my part, is in Connor’s interests, not Graham O’Sullivan’s.
But I just nod, my mouth feeling slightly dry. I can’t speak as the doors open, revealing the aisle I’m about to walk down, the church filled with white flower arrangements bursting from every available space. I had very little say in the planning or decorations, and it’s clear from the proliferation of flowers that my mother had her hand in this. I clutch my own bouquet of soft pink peonies, white roses and forget-me-nots and take a deep breath as the strains ofAve Mariaswell, and my father and I start our walk down the aisle.
Connor is waiting at the end of it, Jacob at his side, another man I don’t know beside him, Maggie standing opposite with Angelica. I can see Luca and Viktor and Sofia and Caterina sitting in the second row, just behind my mother, and I try to take in all the guests, to look anywhere but at Connor’s impassive, stone-like face.
I will myself not to shake as my father hands me over to Connor, lifting my blusher just enough to give me a light kiss on the cheek before placing my hand in Connor’s broader, rougher one. The touch of his skin against mine sends a thrill through me. I like that his hands are rough. I liked that about Liam, too. Both brothers have the hands of stronger men, men who take care of problems themselves, who work, who don’t wait for others to settle their scores.
Tonight, I’ll get to feel those rough handseverywhere.
Another shiver runs through me, and when I look up at Connor, I can see his mouth curved faintly with amusement, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I feel myself flush a little underneath the veil, and I miss the first part of what the priest is saying as I try to wrestle my thoughts back under control.
The priest clears his throat faintly, and I realize it’s my turn to speak. I blush harder, knowing that Connor almost certainly knows by this point what I’m thinking about.
Get yourself under control, Saoirse. You’re giving him too much power over you again—especially when he has no intention ofeverwanting you this much.
In fact, he doesn’t look distracted at all. As I gather myself and repeat my vows in the coolest, clearest voice I can manage, Connor looks almost bored. As if he’s ready to get this over with and do anything else—definitely not as if he’s anticipating finally consummating what we’ve been holding ourselves back from all this time.
He slips the gold band onto my finger, intoningwith this ring, I thee wed,after the priest, and I do the same, feeling a small thrill of victory as I push the thicker band over his knuckle.I’ve won,I think, repeating my father’s words over again in my head. Whatever happens now, I’ve done my part in this coup. I’ve succeeded at the one thing that I’ve been taught all my life was my purpose.
Now it will be my job to decide what comes after this.
“By the power vested in me by God and the state of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the priest says, and Connor reaches for me, pushing my blusher back with one hand as his other rests on my waist, sliding around to the small of my back.
I don’t know why I had it in my head that he would kiss me passionately—for show, at least, if nothing else. But no one here is expecting that kind of show. Everyone present knows exactly what this is—a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement to benefit all parties.
I’m the only one who seems to keep forgetting that. Who’s disappointed when Connor’s kiss that binds us together is just a cool brush of lips over mine, lacking the passion of the fiery kisses we shared back in London and Dublin.
But of course, we’d agreed that there would be no more of that. And our drunken phone call aside, Connor seems intent on sticking to it.
The rest feels like a blur. We walk down the aisle to clapping, Connor’s hand wrapped firmly in mine, out to the waiting car that will take us to the reception hall.
“Congratulations, Saoirse,” Connor says in his smooth, gruff voice as the car doors close behind us. “You’ve gotten what you wanted. I’m your husband now.” He smirks, his fingers tracing the back of my hand. “I hope you don’t have cause to regret it.”
It sounds far too much like what Niall said to me the night of my bachelorette party. “Why would I?” I ask a touch crisply, pulling my hand away. “You’ll be the Irish King soon enough. You’ll get what you want, too. As will I.”
“I didn’t want this in the first place,” Connor reminds me. “But it’s mine now. So I will do my best to fulfill my half of the bargain.” His hand reaches for mine again, tightening around it. “Just make sure you fulfill yours.”
There’s a faint, threatening note to his voice that sends a shiver through me—but not an altogether unpleasant one. I try to pull my hand away, and he lets it go, looking out the window and not speaking to me again as we drive to the reception.
