Chapter 3

Cillian and Aisling had always looked like they were made for each other.

He was one of the few highly educated accountants in town; she was the elegant young lady returned from London. They were, by anyone's standards, a perfect match.

And yet their happiness had been ruined by me—the so-called "country girl."

Even now, I could still remember the whispers in the church on my wedding day.

"Why on earth is Cillian marrying a woman like that?"

"She must be quite something, stealing a man right out from under her own sister…"

Every rumor pricked at me like needles, leaving my heart raw and aching. I kept a smile fixed on my face, clung to Cillian's arm, and walked step by step toward the altar where the priest was waiting.

At the time, I told myself that we were finally married, that I had made it through the storm and into safe harbor at last.

But the moment I saw the strained, embarrassed expressions on his friends and the guests, I realized how wrong I was.

They had never accepted me. In their minds, the woman standing beside Cillian should have been graceful, polished Aisling—not me, the coarse country girl.

Back then, I was far too attached to Cillian. So whenever the gossip cut me open, all it took was for him to soothe me with a little patience, and I would swallow the bitterness and bear it in silence.

Cillian had always been proud and composed. He never explained, never defended me—but the steady way he held my arm made me feel, at the time, as though I had something solid to lean on.

Now, all I could do was laugh bitterly.

Other people might not know the truth—but could I ever forget it?

Cillian had originally been my lover. We were the ones who had fallen in love first. Aisling was the one who came between us.

But even if I said that out loud, who would believe me?

Even my own parents, who knew exactly what had happened, would rather keep their eyes wide open and pretend they were blind. If they wouldn't stand by me, who ever would?

It was Aisling—my sister, the one who had monopolized all our parents' love since childhood—who cried for the first time in her life and begged me to give Cillian to her.

She loved Cillian. They would be happy together.

"But Cillian isn't an object," I murmured numbly under her pressure. "How can a person be handed from one person to another so easily?"

And yet, when she finally linked arms with Cillian and stood in front of me with that smug, triumphant air, telling me they were together, I saw it in his eyes—

The unmistakable disgust he felt for me.

Cold. Distant. Unrecognizable.

I was desperate to explain, but he had already begun to pull away from me of his own accord.

Maybe that was when the first seed of estrangement was planted between us. We said nothing, but something heavy and suffocating settled there, waiting for the day it would finally split open.

How could I not know that Aisling had orchestrated all of it?

She had thrown a fistful of pound notes over my head, letting them rain down around me while she smiled that smug, satisfied smile of hers.

"This should be enough to pay for those cheap little years you had with Cillian, shouldn't it?"

I had gone cold all over. Then, word by word, she drove the knife in deeper.

"Cillian knows it was you who got tired of him and wanted a change of pace—so you handed him over to me."

"And tell me—if Cillian didn't love me, why would he believe me?"

When I stared at her in shock, Aisling looked delighted. Her laughter was sharp, almost feverishly excited.

"Don't worry, sister. I'll treat him well. I'll make up for all the hurt you caused him…"

Later, at the wedding, I heard Cillian murmur in a low voice, "Saoirse, I was never an object to be traded."

I know.

But I never—

I thought then that Cillian must hate me more than anything.

Even though I had done nothing.

That was the way of the world, wasn't it? People would rather let others twist black into white and invent whatever lies they pleased than listen to one person's pale, powerless defense.

Cillian, when I met you in the brightest years of my youth, I thought I had found the love of my life.

I never imagined you would become another abyss.

I wanted to escape the pain of the family I was born into, and instead, you placed it back in my hands tenfold.

I let myself be blinded by you—condemned forever to a prison of despair. I stood in the dark, unable to see any way out.

And now, at last, even this final torment was coming to an end.

After the night Aisling returned, Cillian did not come home for three days.

And in those days without him, I finally saw too much too clearly.

From beginning to end, the person who had been deceiving me most was myself. I had lied to myself, indulged my own delusions, and let myself sink.

I didn't want to go on living like this until the day I died.

I wanted to run.

To escape this strange family—twisted, ugly, nauseating.

It was like a dream I had woven with my own hands, every scrap of happiness no more than a fantasy I had invented for myself.

Reality had always been rotten underneath.

The illness seemed to be getting worse. For the past few days, the pain had been so severe I had nearly blacked out more than once.

On the fourth day, Cillian came home.

He looked utterly exhausted as he stepped through the door, silently pulled off his mud-caked boots, and hung up his damp coat.

I said nothing. I just sat quietly by the fire, watching his every move.

When Cillian entered the sitting room, he seemed only then to notice me. He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

I saw his brows knit slightly, a flash of impatience crossing his face—gone almost at once.

"You must have been happy to see Aisling," I said. "Happy enough to forget you had a home to come back to."

I poured him a glass of whiskey and smiled. For a split second, surprise flickered across his face—but then he frowned again.

"What are you talking about? I've been dealing with matters at the ranch these past few days. I really have been busy."

"It's all right. I understand." Fighting through the pain in my abdomen, I managed what I hoped looked like my friendliest smile.

Then Cillian's gaze shifted. He noticed the trash bin by the fireplace—noticed the bright smear of blood inside.

A look of confusion flashed in his eyes, and just as he was about to question me, I cut him off.

"Let's get a divorce. I'm letting you go to her."