Bríd took one look at her and clucked her tongue. "Well, you look like shite warmed over, don’t you?"
"Thanks," Aisling muttered, dragging herself back toward the couch. Right now, she didn’t have the strength or the energy to put up a fight. And Bríd probably already knew what had happened.
Bríd didn’t wait for an invitation. She stormed into the kitchen, put the electric kettle on, and started pulling bread and butter from the cupboards like she owned the place.
"You haven’t eaten," Bríd said, not a question but a statement. "You’re still in your pajamas. You’ve got that look about you, like you’re ready to set the whole bloody world on fire."
"I might," Aisling said, collapsing onto the couch again. It was nice now that the main room and the kitchen were one big open area.
Bríd made a noncommittal sound, the kind that said she’d seen worse and wasn’t scared off yet.
"You heard the gossip, I’m sure," Aisling said, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Bríd barked out a laugh. "Heard it? Girl, it’s all anyone’s talking about after Mass this morning. Half the town’s ready to throw a wedding feast, and the other half’s betting how long it’ll take you to burn Ronan Gallagher’s house to the ground."
Aisling snorted despite herself. “Don’t tempt me.”
Bríd walked over with a plate of toast and a cup of strong tea and set them down in front of her. "Eat," she ordered. "You’re no good to yourself or anyone staring and sulking."
Aisling picked at the toast, her stomach turning with every bite.
"Tell me everything," Bríd said, sinking into the armchair across from her. "And don't leave out the filthy details. I’m an old woman, I live for scandal."
Aisling let out a shaky breath. "It was perfect. God help me, Bríd, it wasperfect. We drank too much at the pub, we came back here, and..." She trailed off, feeling her cheeks flame.
Bríd smirked knowingly. "And you had yourself a night you’ll remember on your deathbed."
Aisling gave a helpless little laugh, tears pricking at her eyes again. "Yeah. I did."
"And then?"
"And then I woke up to a courier at the door delivering a decades-old agreement. One that says if I don’t marry Ronan, the land and this house go to the Gallaghers anyway."
Bríd sat back, eyes narrowing. "Séamus Gallagher. That crafty old bastard.”
"Yeah," Aisling whispered. "The old bastard initiated it with my grandmother right after I was born. Ronan knew nothing about it. Claims he didn’t anyway."
Bríd swore softly under her breath. "That man’s been scheming to get this property into Gallagher's hands since before you were a twinkle in your mother’s eye."
"I feel like such a fool," Aisling whispered. "I trusted Ronan. I let him in. I thought..." She shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. I kicked him out. Told him not to come back."
"And your father?" Bríd asked gently.
Aisling let out a brittle laugh, the sound hollow. "Not a word. Not even a 'go to hell' email." She dragged a trembling hand through her hair. "Maybe that’s just my curse—every man I ever need walks away and never once looks back.”
Bríd sighed and leaned forward, clasping Aisling’s cold hands in her warm ones. "Oh, love. None of this is your fault. You’re carrying the sins of two families on your back and trying to make sense of it all.”
Did she need to go to confession? Join a nunnery or kill the goat in a sacrifice?
"I just wanted to know where I came from," Aisling whispered. "I just wanted to build something real for once. Not another lie. Not another heartbreak."
"You will," Bríd said fiercely. "You’re stronger than all of them. You’re your mother’s daughter, your grandmother’s granddaughter. You’re an O’Byrne, and your family doesn’t fold when the world tries to crush you."
Aisling squeezed her hands back, some tiny piece of her—the part that wasn’t completely shattered—holding on to the truth of that.
"You love him," Bríd said softly. "Don’t you?"
Aisling bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I didn’t mean to."
