"Bullshit."
The word hangs between us. She doesn't blink. Doesn't soften it with a smile or qualify it with an apology. Just lets it sit there, sharp-edged and honest, and watches me decide what to do with it.
"A dozen women fit that strategic description. Cormac could have married a Greek woman. Declan could have married anyone — God knows he's slept with half of Boston. Why me, specifically? Why the sister instead of the brothers?"
She's good. She's already worked the angles I hoped she wouldn't see. She's not asking out of insecurity — she's asking because the answer tells her what kind of man she's about to marry. Whether I'll lie to her face or respect her enough to offer the truth. It's a test. I recognize it because I use the same one.
"Because you're the only one in that room who wasn't afraid."
She considers this. Turns it over the way a jeweler turns a stone, testing for weight, for flaws, for the light that passes through and the light that doesn't. "That's not the whole answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
A beat. She accepts it, not because she's satisfied but because she's smart enough to know when pushing yields diminishing returns. She'll come back to it later. I can see her putting it away — not forgetting, never forgetting, just setting it aside for a moment when the leverage shifts.
"Fine. My terms." She straightens in the chair, not adjusting for comfort but shifting into a posture I recognize. I've seen it in boardrooms, in back rooms, across tables where the stakes were measured in lives. She's done this before. Not marriage negotiations, but something close enough. She learned to negotiate from men who don't lose.
"I'm listening."
"My own money. A separate account in my name that you can't touch, freeze, or monitor. Funded before the wedding. I won't be financially dependent on a man I met last week."
"Agreed."
She blinks — she expected resistance. The faintest crack in her composure, repaired instantly. Good. Keep her off-balance.
"Freedom to see my family. No restrictions on when, where, or how often. My brothers are not your leverage."
"Agreed, with one condition. You take security when you travel to Southie. Viktor Reznikov knows who you are now. The streets aren't safe."
She chews on that. I can see her testing it for hidden clauses, for the way men useprotectionas a synonym forcontrol.She's had practice spotting the difference. "Fine. Security. Not surveillance."
"Understood."
"I'm not a prisoner in your penthouse. I come and go. I have a life, work, obligations. I don't sit in a tower waiting for you to come home."
"You'll live with me. That's non-negotiable — appearances matter, and a wife who keeps a separate address undermines the alliance before it starts. But within the penthouse, your time is your own."
"Separate bedrooms." She says it flat, factual, daring me to argue. "Until I decide otherwise."
The wordsuntil I decideland somewhere low in my gut. Notuntil we decide.Notuntil it happens naturally.Untilshedecides. She's claiming the power before I can offer it.
"Separate bedrooms," I agree. "For now."
Two words. She hears them. Her eyes narrow slightly, not anger, but recognition. She knows whatfor nowmeans. It means I'm patient. It means I'm certain.
"And you?" she asks. "What do you want?"
"In public, you're my wife. Completely. No distance, no awkwardness, no visible cracks. The alliance holds because people believe this marriage is real. We stand together at events. You sit beside me at dinners. When I touch you" — the wordtouchdoes something to the air between us and we both feel it — "you lean in, not away."
"Easy enough. I'm a good actress."
"I've noticed." I pause. Let the silence carry weight. "An heir. Eventually. Not immediately — I'm not a medieval lord demanding a wedding night consummation. But eventually, this marriage produces children. That's the expectation from both families."
Something crosses her face. It’s quick, complicated, gone. Not rejection. Something more layered, more private. The wordheirsettles between us like a third presence in the room, clinical, transactional, reducing whatever happens between our bodies to a line item on a contract. A calculation I can't follow because it involves a future she's already thinking about in ways I haven't considered. "Eventually."
"Eventually."
She's quiet for a moment. I watch her calculate. She's weighing everything I've said against everything I haven't, measuring what she's gaining against what she's giving up, marking what she can renegotiate later when she has more leverage. She thinks like I do. Something tightens in my chest that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the way her mind works — fast, precise, fearless.