Deklan

It didn’t quite happen that way.

I finished high school way before the age of eighteen; I’m no one’s idiot. However, the wedding had been delayed without explanation until this summer, a full year after the agreed-upon time. Then last week, Fergus Foley fell ill. There was talk of postponing the wedding until he was out of

the hospital, except he never came out.

The patriarch is dead. I’ve had the final fitting for my dress, and the wedding is supposed to be tomorrow afternoon. But now, my family has been called to the Foley home to discuss the arrangements.

Arrangements.

Arranged marriage.

What century is this anyway?

I swallow hard and steel myself. I try not to think this way. The idea of marrying a man I hardly know is frightening, but I’ve known it was going to happen for five years, three months, and four days. My future was sealed in an agreement between my father and Fergus Foley—an agreement that saved me from a horrible fate.

I owe the Foleys my life, so I guess I’m going to give it to them.

To him.

Sean Foley.

Dad drives up to the gates of the property, and the security guard gives him a nod as the gates are opened, and we drive through. The driveway is long and paved with sand-colored bricks, complete with inlaid designs in red, gold, and green. It makes me think of the eighties music Mom always listens to in the car, and I wonder what kind of karma a family like ours collects.

Marrying Sean Foley doesn’t upset me. Forced marriage isn’t my preference, but I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I’m comfortable with the idea. I don’t know the man well, but we’ve exchanged emails and have met in person a few times. Our fathers have always been present when we have been together. Nothing has ever happened between us—not even hand-holding or a kiss.

Every time I have been in his presence, Sean has been polite. He shakes hands, makes eye contact, and smiles a lot. We have similar tastes in music. We are likely better off than a lot of other couples. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

As we come around to the front of the estate, I think to myself, One thing is for sure—I could get used to living like this.

Even if Sean and I don’t end up getting along, I’ll have plenty of other people in the house to keep me company and plenty of activities on the estate to keep me occupied. I’ve been home-schooled since my ordeal, so I’m used to a solitary life. I can continue my education online. I have friendships with people I’ve met through social media book clubs and baking websites. Through the internet, I can keep in contact with them, and my life won’t be drastically different than it is now. I’ll be fine living here. I’m excited to try horseback riding.

Who am I trying to convince?

Dad pulls up and puts the car in park. He reaches up and runs his hands through his thinning, grey hair. Whenever the Foley family is involved, Dad displays this nervous tick even if he is just on the phone with one of them. He isn’t like that with other people.

Cormick O’Conner, my father, has a collection of small businesses: four convenience stores, six gas stations, two nail salons, and a small bookstore. Though none of them do much business, they all bring in money.

A lot of money.

I know they’re all fronts. The people who come to talk business with my father range from the seedy, creepy types to the far too well-dressed. Crates of goods that never make it onto the shelves of the stores are always coming in and out of the warehouses and are always moved in the dead of night.

I don’t know what might be in them, but I have my suspicions.

“Mind your manners,” my mother says for the umpteenth time.

“I will.”

“And don’t talk too much. You get so chatty sometimes. Sean Foley doesn’t want to hear all your chatter.”

“I won’t.” Truth be told, there’s a lump in my throat. I’m not sure I could talk even if I knew what to say.

I rub my left wrist. It’s a nervous habit. Miss Jolly, my therapist, tries to get me to remember why I started massaging my wrist whenever I was uncomfortable with a situation, but I won’t talk about it. There might not be any permanent marks anywhere, but I know I was tied up. That’s just a part of being kidnapped and held for ransom. I remember being grabbed on my way home from school, and I remember thinking that I was going to die. Sometimes, if Miss Jolly tries to force it out of me, I remember the sound of gunshots, followed by my body being lifted off the floor, presumably by my rescuer. Everything in between is blank, and I’m all right with that. I don’t need to remember the details.

It’s the outcome that has my attention now.

I understood the basics of the deal my father had made for my safe release though I didn’t really understand the why of it. Why me? Why would the head of such a powerful family bother with rescuing the daughter of a gambling addict in the first place, and why would Mr. Fergus Foley want me as his son’s wife? No one seemed to be able to give me a decent answer. Even at fifteen, I had been able to comprehend what was going on around me. My mother’s babble about Irish family bloodlines was just that—babble. Our families had all been here since before the Civil War. Our genetics had melted in the pot along with everyone else’s, and I didn’t even know anyone in Ireland. Mom said to just go along with whatever the Foleys wanted without question, but that didn’t clarify why I was eligible to be a wife of a Foley.

I still don’t know why. All I know is that I’m about to be married to a man I barely know and that he is now the head of one of the wealthiest families in the country. I try not to think too much about what must have been done to amass such wealth. I don’t know exactly what the Foley family is involved in, but I know it’s no more legitimate than my father’s businesses. Drugs? Weapons? Something worse? Whatever it is, they’re good at it.