Chapter 2

When I woke up in the old chair in the sitting room, every muscle in my body ached.

Morning light filtered through the lace curtains. I rubbed the stiffness out of my neck and was about to stand when I noticed a copy of "The Irish Times" on the coffee table.

I didn't subscribe to it.

I picked it up and found a photograph tucked inside.

The woman in the photo was poised and dazzling, smiling brightly—almost like the Virgin Mary in a stained-glass window, the kind of beauty people were meant to look up to.

Behind her was the grand lobby of Dublin's famous Royal Hotel, where the welcome banquet for Aisling had been held yesterday.

The same place where Cillian had proposed to me.

The familiar ache tore through my chest again. I pressed a hand to my abdomen, where that dull pain never truly went away.

At the edge of the photo, a long male wrist was caught mid-frame—cufflinks engraved with the Brennan crest. And around his wrist was the woolen band I'd knitted for Cillian myself.

With burning eyes, I stared at the wedding ring on that hand, then down at the glove I was holding—Aisling's glove. The longer I looked, the colder I felt.

Last night he'd said he was going into town to deal with accounts. Clearly, he'd found somewhere more important to be.

I wanted to lose my mind. To scream, to smash things, to cling to him shamelessly—because I only had a few months left in which Cillian could still be mine.

But I didn't have that right.

I was Cillian's wife, but the person he'd always loved was Aisling.

I was a selfish country woman, daring to think that in the little time I had left, I could keep monopolizing him.

I shouldn't.

I had to learn to let go—to make you two whole again.

I pinched the photo between my fingers and walked to the fireplace… then, in the end, I carefully slipped it into the jewelry box my grandmother had left me.

Maybe I should find a chance to talk to Cillian—properly.

I was clearing dishes in the kitchen, staring at my pale, drawn face in the cracked mirror, when there was a knock at the door.

What I didn't expect was that Aisling would be the one to come looking for me first.

She stood on the doorstep of the little house Cillian and I shared, dressed in a tailored coat she'd brought back from London, leather boots neat and polished.

A single "Saoirse" snapped me back to myself.

I looked at Aisling—smiling, radiant, as if she were lit from within—and it stung my eyes to even meet her gaze.

"Aisling."

I was still processing her sudden appearance when she lifted a ring of keys—and I understood at once.

She even gave them a little jingle.

So Cillian had given her a key to our home, so she could come and go as she pleased.

And he hadn't said a word about it to his wife. Not one.

Hanging from the keyring was the small four-leaf clover charm I'd had made for him. It swung back and forth as she moved, almost tauntingly bright.

"Cillian said he's going to the county town today," Aisling said lightly. "He won't be coming home. He asked me to pick up some documents for him."

As she spoke, she tilted her head, studying my face with deliberate interest.

"You don't mind, do you, Saoirse?"

"How could I?" I forced a smile, pretending not to notice how openly she was sizing me up.

"Come in, then," I said, stepping aside. "If it's for him—go ahead and look."

I followed her quietly toward Cillian's study.

Aisling knew this house better than I did. Before I married into it, she'd been a frequent guest here.

She'd spent plenty of happy hours in these rooms with Cillian. I'd always known.

Back then, I'd often played messenger between her and home.

When my parents questioned me, I had to say, "She's at church." "She's visiting friends."

In their eyes, I was the good child who couldn't lie. If it came from me, it must be true.

Sometimes, after Aisling wrote to me with her gentle explanations, I'd hear villagers talking about her and Cillian in Dublin—little fragments of news that matched the tenderness in her letters.

My heart hurt so badly I thought I might die, and yet I still smiled and accepted it.

They'd been so right together. And then I—a "country girl"—had come along and ruined it.

Lost in the rush of thoughts, I stopped outside Cillian's study.

"Aisling," I said quietly, "you go in. Cillian doesn't let me touch his papers."

Aisling paused. Her brows lifted in faint surprise—then she let out a soft laugh.

"You really are obedient, aren't you?"

I lowered my head and didn't answer. I watched her glide into the study, and the ache in my chest sharpened.

The place I wasn't allowed to step into was somewhere the person he truly treasured could enter freely.

Yes, Saoirse. You're always so well-behaved. And that's exactly why no one cherishes you.

Good children don't get sweets.

Aisling came out quickly, moving with effortless elegance, not sparing me a glance.

Only at the porch did she toss a sentence over her shoulder:

"Saoirse—you know the one he's always loved is me."

I stared after her, at hair as pale and smooth as spun silk.

"I know."

The calm in my voice surprised even me, as if I'd been waiting for her to say it out loud.

In truth, it still hurt. Of course it did.

I'd loved the wrong person, and it had cost me twenty years.

All my best years—I'd given them to Cillian.

It was in my bones.

Something in me was already starting to die, quietly.

Aisling clearly hadn't expected me to accept her declaration so easily. A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed her face, and she pressed harder.

"Then give him back to me," she said. "Will you?"

She turned around, tears shimmering in her eyes, putting on that fragile, pitiful look as if it were second nature.

Will you?

I looked at her. The familiar cramping pain twisted through my abdomen again.

I didn't answer.