We discuss options and plans, and then I spend the rest of the day working on business, legit and otherwise, to insure we have the funds needed to exact our revenge and take back what’sours. The money buys us resources, like guns, but also cops, Kean guards, and perhaps the other families.
That evening, I push through the front door of my new house. It’s quiet. Eerily so. There’s no music floating from Hannah's art room, no cheerful chatter with the staff. Just silence and the faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen.
"Mr. Ifrinn." Antonio nods as I enter. "Your dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."
"Where's Hannah?" I pull my already loosened tie from around my neck.
He hesitates. "Mrs. Ifrinn went out with her friends. She said not to wait up."
For a moment, the world seems to stop because she’s not here. Then I panic, knowing it’s not safe for her. Especially when my brothers and I begin to show ourselves, she’ll be in greater danger as my wife and O’Donnell’s daughter.
"The security detail?"
"Following protocol, sir. Two cars, four men."
At least she's protected. That should be enough. “Good.” I leave the kitchen, heading upstairs, telling myself this is exactly what I wanted, a wife on paper only to help with our mission. A wife who could live her own life. So why does it feel wrong?
I change and head back down to the dining room. Antonio serves my plate, and I sit alone to eat. I’ve eaten alone before. But I keep looking to Hannah’s side of the table like I expect her to be there, filling the silence with stories about her day, teasing me until I crack a smile despite myself.
I remind myself again that this way is better. Safer. But as the evening stretches on with no sign of her return, I can't shake the empty feeling in my chest or stop checking my phone for updates from her security detail.
I head to my study, expecting the bare walls and empty space because the furniture hasn’t arrived yet. Instead, I find signs ofHannah's touch everywhere. A folding table sits against the wall, carefully arranged with a laptop, some files, and a cup holding an array of colorful pens. She's pinned paint swatches to the wall, a cool gray and a dark green. It’s like a metaphor with my being the gray and her the lively woman with green eyes. I hope she picks the green.
On the table, I see the notepad where she's sketched furniture layouts, her artistic talent evident even in these rough drawings. She's imagined built-in bookcases, a heavy desk, comfortable chairs for meetings. The margin is filled with little notes.Ask Ash about leather vs fabricandCheck whether he prefers darker wood tones.
She's planned this room around me, around what she thinks would make me comfortable. While I've been avoiding her, pushing her away, she's been quietly working to create a space where I belong. A place that she’ll make for me and then disappear from.
I sink into one of the folding chairs, shame burning through me as I remember my cruel words to her about the furniture. "You had one job and couldn't even do that right."
The memory of her face falling… The way she'd squared her shoulders and refused to let me see how much I'd hurt her twists in my gut.
I pick up another sketch, this one showing the library she's planning. Notes crowd the margins about which classics to include, questions about my preferred reading genres. She's even marked spots for photos of my brothers and their families.
What kind of bastard am I? She's eighteen, thrust into marriage with a man who treats her like an inconvenience, and still she tries. She puts thought and care into every detail of our house. Our home.
A plant by the window catches my eye. I shake my head thinking she must be trying to bring life to the darkest cornersof this house. To the darkest corners of me. I wonder if Jenna helped her pick it out.
I pick up another sketch, this one showing a small seating area by the window of the library.For when he needs quiet time, she's written beside it, with a little smiley face.
I hate myself. I’ve been treating her like an obligation while she's been treating me like I’m someone worth caring about. It’s really the other way around. I’m nothing but darkness. She, on the other hand, is all light and life.
The front door opens and closes with a soft click. I rise from my study chair, ridiculously excited about seeing her, anticipating her usual burst of energy and her smile that somehow brightens even the darkest rooms.
But when Hannah appears in the doorway, her expression is carefully neutral. "Oh. You're still up."
"I was working." Even now, when I’m enthralled by her, I’m lying and hiding. Why don’t I tell her I’ve seen her sketches? How much I like them? How I’ve spent the last hour drowning in guilt?
"Don't let me disturb you." She adjusts her purse strap. No warmth. No light. Just measured courtesy that feels worse than anger.
"Did you have a good time?" The question comes out stiff, formal.
"Yes, thank you."
I realize she’s avoiding my eyes. The silence stretches between us. Words I want to say rattle in my brain but never leave my mouth.
Hannah shifts her weight, suppressing a yawn. "I should get some sleep."
"Hannah—” I start, but she's already turning away.
