A sigh tumbles out of me. I sink onto the stool by the vanity mirror. “Pour me some wine.”
Chantal doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the bottle of wine sitting on the vanity table and pours a generous glass. She hands it to me then pours one for herself.
“To surviving,” she says, raising her glass.
I clink mine against hers. “To surviving. If that’s what you call this.”
When we can’t stall any longer, Chantal and I leave the private dressing room and step into the corridor outside the Gilded Grand Ballroom. The hall is as glamorous and opulent as the rest of the Crown Plaza Hotel, with its ivory walls and gold detailing that almost feels unreal.
Everything gleams, polished to perfection.
Ronan waits for me near the double doors, hands in his pockets, looking infuriatingly composed. His navy waistcoat fits him impeccably, emphasizing his broad shoulders. And then there’s the emerald tie that matches his gleaming gaze as if by design.
Chantal walks me over to him, her energy even more hostile than mine. Always my ride or die, she stops short of handing me off and points a finger at his chest.
“If you even think about hurting her, I’ll key your carandslash your tires. And don’t think about messing with me either. My dad’s a senator, but he’s not above fighting dirty, Callahan. Your brother’s already serving eight in the penitentiary. We can come for you next.”
She slowly backs away, eyes narrowed, before turning and disappearing down the hall.
Ronan cocks a brow at me. “Isn’t she Mary fucking Sunshine?”
“That’s my best friend, and I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you.”
“She’s very protective, is she?”
“She has reason to be.”
His head slants to the side, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “I understand why. Youdidjust marry an Irish gangster. I hear they’re brutes.”
I glare at him, so frustrated that words elude me.
He laughs, the thick broguish sound rumbling from his chest. “It’s gonna be a lot of fun getting under your skin for the next however many years we live.” He offers his arm. “Shall we, princess?”
I reluctantly take it, my hand resting lightly on his thick, sturdy forearm.
The doors swing open.
The Gilded Grand Ballroom spreads out before us—ivory walls, crown molding, arched windows overlooking a private garden courtyard.
In the center of the room hangs a massive crystal chandelier imported from Prague, its light refracting into a thousand tiny diamonds across the floor.
We make our debut as a married couple to a captive audience. Almost a hundred faces turn toward us, applause rising like a wave.
We stroll to the center of the dance floor as the live band begins to play. The opening notes are soft and soulful, playing a rendition of Prince’s “Adore.”
The singer’s voice is rich and resonant, filling the room with warmth.
Ronan holds my gaze as he speaks, lips barely moving, “You have to pretend to like me for our first dance, princess.”
“I’m not an actress.”
His hand comes to my waist, sending an instant sharp shiver jolting down my spine. His other hand takes mine in his to guide me.
We start to move in a slow waltz as everyone else watches.
It’s surreal.
Dancing to this song about deep love with a man who feels more like an enemy. A man whose name I’ve taken without ever having had a full conversation with him.