By this time tomorrow, I’ll be his wife.
I close my eyes and hope against all odds that I’ll wake up in the morning and it’ll turn out to be some horrible week-long nightmare.
…though deep down, I know the truth.
This is no bad dream. This is reality, and it’s worse than any nightmare.
FIVE
Ronan
The day arrives,and we’re in the paper, featured in theNew York Timesevents section. It’s headline news that Ronan Callahan, son of rumored gangster Seamus Callahan, is marrying Simone Langston, daughter of global weapons manufacturer CEO, Malcolm Langston.
Killian tosses a rolled-up copy at me as I sit in a private room at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, biding the time until the wedding.
The room is small, tucked away from the main chapel—dark wood paneling, a single stained-glass window letting in muted light, and a minibar that’s seen more action in the last hour than it probably has all year.
“What’s this?” I ask, catching the paper before it hits my chest.
Killian pours himself some whiskey from the minibar, the pale brown liquid sloshing into a crystal tumbler. “Take a look. Front fucking page of the events section. You’ve made it to the big leagues.” He raises his glass in mock toast. “And all it took was marrying some weapons-dealer princess.”
I unfurl the paper and see a photograph of me and Simone from the engagement dinner. I wasn’t even aware photos were being taken, but there we are, pictured in the paper.
We’re seated together during dinner, neither of us looking at the other. She looks beautiful and elegant but detached. I’m moodier, my expression stone cold. We look like strangers forced to share a table.
Which, technically, we were.
I scoff and toss the paper aside. “Let them print us in the paper. Their waste of ink.”
For the last week, I’ve gone through a range of different stages. Stages a lot like grief—anger, disbelief, bargaining, anger again, and finally, real acceptance.
But it doesn’t mean I like it.
It doesn’t mean I’m going to play the role of some romantic prince in love with the woman he’s marrying.
I’m not in love with Simone Langston and never will be.
Sure, she’s gorgeous, and I’ll enjoy her in my bed however I like. But there won’t be any real feelings between us.
Mostly because I’ve never been the marrying type. I’m the moody grump who prefers to keep to his own devices. The brooding loner who’s better off that way.
Lochlan was always the more traditional brother in that regard, desiring the wife, the kids, the legacy.
As the spare son, none of those things ever mattered to me, so I grew up not even wanting them.
It’ll be the same in my marriage to Simone. We’ll avoid each other except when it comes time to sate my sexual needs.
The door opens, and in walk Dad and Eddie, both already in their formal wear. Dad opted out of traditional Irish kilts for the groomsmen wedding attire.
Instead he’s chosen a navy blazer and trousers with a boutonniere of a white rose and fresh Irish sprig pinned to the lapels.
Our way of representing Ireland.
It’s much like the rest of the wedding: subtle homages to our Irish heritage while giving the Langstons what they wanted, which was a classic American wedding with touches of Ghana.
Eddie spots Killian chugging some whiskey and perks up. “How about sharing?”
Killian doesn’t even look at him. “When your balls drop, you can have a taste.”