Page 16 of Faithless Vows

A flicker of satisfaction crosses his face before he puts the glass down hard and sneers. “So damn above it all now. Like you’re fucking absolved. Like putting aring on my sister’s finger can erase the past and all the women you fucked even after your betrothal to her was signed.”

“That’s rich,” I say, voice flat.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying. You don’t get points for pretending you’re tied down now—not when it’s never stopped you before. And I’m sure my sister would love to know what you were doing while she was sitting at home, thinking you were some kind of love story.”

Regret and anger twist together in my gut, and all I want is to reach across the desk and wipe that smug fucking grin off his face. He’s not saying anything I haven’t already told myself. I should never have stepped out on Alannah. Betrothal or not, choice or not, I knew what she was to me. Knew what I stood to lose every time I did it.

But I’m not about to give him that.

I hold his stare, daring him to keep pushing. “I’m done with that,” I say. “That’s all you need to know.”

He gives a low laugh, like he can’t help getting one last dig in. “Aye. Sure you are.”

I turn back to the papers on my desk, finished with him. “If you want to go out, go,” I say. “I’m not in the mood, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

He doesn’t move. He stays there, silent and staring, waiting for me to look up and give him another excuse to keep going. I don’t give him one. “Fine,” he says. “Stay in. I’ll find someone else to drink with.”

His boots start toward the door. I let him get a few steps before I say his name. “Mick.”

His footsteps stop.

“Whatever I did before I proposed to Alannah is in the past,” I say. “She’s going to be my wife. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that doesn’t mean something to me.”

He huffs a laugh. “You give yourself too much credit.”

The door shuts behind him, but his words stick with me. I know he and Alannah aren’t close, but she’s still his sister. Before I proposed, maybe he could pretend this was nothing more than something our fathers decided for us. But after I put a ring on her finger because I wanted to, he should know better. Instead, he’s still acting like being faithful to her is some unfairthing I’m being asked to do for a woman I didn’t choose. But whatever he thinks, I’m done.

Done with the bars. Done with the women. Done with him talking shit about his own sister like she’s some foolish girl playing at romance instead of my fiancée.

Every time Mick drags me out, it ends the same way. Every Southie bar we hit, the routine’s already waiting for me. Women who know my name. Who know what it means. Smiles that aren’t shy. Drinks sent over without asking. A girl finding an excuse to sit close, like she knows I’m a sure thing. Like being with me is a notch. A story. Something to brag about the next day, quick and careless, claimed like it proves something.

It used to feel easy. Normal. Just part of the noise that came with the work, the reputation, the rooms I moved through. When I was younger, it had even been fun—something simple to take without thinking too hard about it.

Now it just feels crowded.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned watching the older men on my father’s crew, it’s that a man’s home life bleeds into his work whether he wants it to or not. You piss off the missus, you start slipping. You bring trouble through the front door, it follows you into the back room. Decisions get sloppy. Tempers get short. People get hurt.

I don’t want that for my future. I want a marriage like my parents have. Like Alannah’s parents have. A solid one. One that doesn’t bleed into everything else.

I refocus on the numbers on the page, the irritation burning itself out. Mick can keep acting like nothing’s changed, like my engagement to Alannah is still just an arrangement our fathers decided for us. If getting down on one knee didn’t show him that I chose his sister, that what we have is real, I don’t know what will.

Chapter Eight

Alannah, Age Eighteen

Mam and I arrive at the dress shop a few minutes early for my appointment. I’ve been restless all morning, too excited about my final fitting to sit still for long. The bell over the door gives a soft chime, and Mrs. Keane looks up from behind the counter. “Alannah. Mrs. O’Connell.” She smiles as she comes around the counter. “It’s so nice to see you both again.”

“It’s lovely to see you too,” Mam says.

Mrs. Keane’s smile brightens. “Come, come. I think you’ll be very pleased. Sheila has outdone herself.” She gestures toward the back, where the fitting rooms are, then leads the way, and Mam falls into step beside her, asking after her family and mentioning that Eileen should be along shortly. I follow behind them, nerves knotting my stomach a little tighter with every step I take.

Inside, the room is ready for us, the same as it was the first two times we came. Mirrors line one wall, with a low platform in front. Across from it is a little sitting area with a sofa, two chairs, a small table between them, and a coffee table already laid with china cups and a teapot still giving off steam. Mam and I sit on the sofa while Mrs. Keane fills our cups. I fold my hands in my lap, but my fingers won’t stay still, twisting together no matter how tightly I clasp them. When Mrs. Keane hands me my cup, I wrap both hands around it, grateful for something to hold.

Mam stirs a cube of sugar into her tea, the spoon clinking softly against the china. From the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me with a small smile. “This is it,” she says quietly. “Final fitting.”

I nod, my fingers tightening around the cup. It feels as if she’s plucked the words straight from my head.Finalfitting. Today Sheila will go over everything one last time, make whatever small adjustments are needed, and then it will be done. The wedding is only weeks away now, and once the dress is finished, there’ll be one less thing standing between me and walking down the aisle toward Ronin at St. Brigid’s. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, just as Mrs. Keane opens the door again.

She holds the door wide while Eileen steps inside, carrying a long, narrow box in both hands. “You can set it there,” Mrs. Keane says, motioning to the small table between the chairs. Then, glancing around at all of us, she adds, “Now that everyone’s here, Sheila should be in shortly.”