Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
“This is gold,” he mutters, grinning. “Callaghan family drama. Love it.”
Domhnall lunges, but Bane moves faster, stepping in front of him with a quiet authority that makes even my hot-headed brother pause.
“Not worth it,” Bane says.
Domhnall glares. At Bane. At me. At the world.
And that’s when the real circus arrives. More paparazzi flood the back parking lot like vultures smelling blood. Flashes explode around us, blinding and relentless.
Domhnall tries to shield Mads, who finally snaps out of her trance. She flinches at the lights and throws her arms over her head.
Bane pulls me closer, his body a solid wall between me and the chaos. But it’s too late. I hear the shutter click. A perfect shot:
Domhnall, furious, his hand still clenched into a fist.
Mads, fragile and wide-eyed.
Me, mid-yell, hair wild, expression wilder.
And Bane, towering behind me, protective and dark, his hand firm on my waist.
One photo.
A thousand stories will be splashed all over the internet tomorrow about tech billionaire Domhnall’s lunatic fiancé and sex-addict sister.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Christmas Eve, Mid-morning
BANE
The faint scent of fresh laundry greets me when I step off the elevator at Moira’s penthouse apartment. No doubt the cotton-scented candles she likes to burn. It always makes the place feel homey. She told me once she likes the smell because it makes her feel like a normal person with a normal life.
She’s waiting for me.
I don’t even have to see her to know it. I feel her—this buzzing, restless thing thrumming in the space where she’s pacing as I turn the corner. I hear her before I see her. The quick, uneven taps of her footsteps against the floor, like her anxiety has its own heartbeat.
When I round the corner, she freezes.
Her face—God. That face. Wide, dark eyes rimmed with worry, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s afraid if she lets go, the terror will spill out.
She knows where I’ve been. I had to have an emergency meeting with the bishop about everything that went down at the gala last night.
Her voice is a whisper, fragile and thin like it might snap under its own weight. “Do you still have a job?”
I should draw this out. Make some joke about clergy job security or how even God wouldn’t fire me. But I can’t.
“Of course, I have a job.”
I say it fast, like I need to get the words to her before they lose their meaning.
She crosses the room in a rush, colliding with me. I catch her, my arms wrapping around her small frame automatically. She fits against me like she was made for it. Her face presses into my chest, her body trembling the second she makes contact.
It hits me harder than it should—her shaking.
“Thank god,” she breathes, the words a soft exhale against my shirt. “I’ve been so worried.”
“I can tell,” I murmur, my hands sliding up her back, massaging the tension from her shoulders. She’s all tight knots and frail bones beneath my fingers.
“Shhh,” I whisper into her hair, breathing her in like I need her scent more than oxygen. “I told you everything would be fine.”
But that’s a lie. I seem to be stacking them up lately.
It wasn’t fine.
Not even close.
I don’t tell her that.
I don’t tell her about the bishop’s voice, sharp and cold, slicing through the screen like it could cut me where I sat. I don’t tell her about the way my name—Father Blackwood—sounded like an accusation instead of a title on the bishop’s lips.
I went to the church office for the video meeting, although meeting seemed like the wrong word. It was more like an interrogation. The bishop’s face glared back at me from the screen, framed by the sterile white walls of her office.
“Explain to me why you’re on the front page of the Dallas Chronicle.” She folded her hands underneath her chin like she was ready to deliver a verdict even though I’d barely said a word.
I kept my face neutral, hands in my lap, but my jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it.
“With respect, Bishop, I don’t control the media.”
Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a scalpel. “Don’t be flippant with me. This isn’t just media, Father. This is a scandal waiting to explode. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”
I didn’t flinch. “It looks like a man caught in a photograph.”
“A man caught with Moira Callaghan,” she snapped, her voice rising. “A woman with a—how shall I put this delicately—colorful history. The press didn’t even bother with subtlety.” She waved a hand, mockingly quoting, “‘Billionaire Tech Tycoon’s Unstable Fiancé and Sex-Addict Sister Cause Chaos at Charity Gala.’”
I said nothing.
She leaned forward, her voice colder. “But I know who you are. And I know who she is. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m serious about her.” The words left me before I could temper them. “That’s what you asked when we last met, and I am. Serious.”