Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“You’re acting like he’s some absolute villain,” my father mutters from the front seat. “And you know this is how things work in our family.”
I shake my head. I don’t waste my breath arguing.
They want to pretend I wasn’t humiliated for years in hallways and locker rooms. Pretend I wasn’t stripped down to nothing while Cavin McCarthy laughed.
They want to pretend I have a choice. Pretend I’m the selfish one here.
No. I won’t let them twist me into that.
“And what does Cavin get out of this?” I ask.
“Were you not paying attention?” my mother snaps. She turns to me. I feel the distance between us and how different we are. Her makeup’s flawless. Her hair sculpted, unmoved by the storm she’s throwing me into, not a wrinkle on her clothes.
I’m a mess.
“The McCarthys get access to our trade routes.”
“Why?” I press.
“Don’t be stupid, Erin,” she spits. “For someone so smart, you really don’t see the forest for the trees.”
“Tara,” my father warns, chiding like a man who’s already surrendered.
My mother’s nostrils flare. “You both know what’s at stake, and you know what we hope to gain from the McCarthys. We forfeit our trade routes, but we could save Bridget.”
They forfeit trade routes, and… me. My mother folds her hands in her lap, prim and polished, as if she hasn’t just sold me like another shipment in the trade route.
The car is too quiet after that. The tires hum over smooth pavement, as if the world dares to pretend my life hasn’t just been detonated.
My father stares straight ahead, his jaw clamped, the silent executioner.
“I’m sorry,” my mother whispers finally. The words are so thin they barely exist.
I blink because I’ve never heard her say them. Not once.
“It had to be done, Erin. It had to.”
My father shifts, muttering something about timing, family needs, but I cut him off.
“You didn’t even ask me. You didn’t ask if I wanted to marry him.” My voice breaks. “You just… gave me away.”
“You said you’d do this for your sister,” my mother fires back. You said you’d do anything, in the hospital, the day she collapsed.”
She trembles now, and it breaks me in ways I hate.
I don’t want to forgive her. I don’t want to feel her pain. I want to hate her. I want to hate someone for the way my ribs feel like they’re being crushed from the inside.
“I know you’ll do this for your sister,” my mother repeats, softer this time.
“Of course I will,” I whisper.
Tears burn down my face. My hands shake.
And the car hums on, relentless.
From the front seat, my father finally speaks. “You’ll do this for her because it’s the only way she lives.” He doesn’t meet my eyes in the rearview mirror.
I nod once. My throat is raw.
I know.
And that’s when it settles. The final truth. This isn’t a request. It’s a sentence. The decisions have already been made.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, then breathe in once, sharp and hard.
“I will,” I tell them. “But don’t you dare make one more plan without me. Not one.” My voice trembles.
The city flashes by in streaks of yellow light. How can everything outside look the same… when inside, nothing is.
The last leg of our journey is silent. I have nothing left to say. We pull into our drive, and I look at our house differently now. It’s big enough, but nothing like the imposing majesty of the McCarthy mansion.
Inside, I step away from my parents, pull my shoes off, and walk down the long hallway, my bare feet silent against the cold wood, putting as much space between myself and them as I can.
The rule in the Kavanagh family is simple: A daughter stays with her parents until she gets married.
Old-fashioned, people would say. I’d call it fucking archaic. But fine. Whatever.
I stay. Not for them, but for my sister.
I put up with my mom. I tolerate the passive-aggressive glances, the pressure, radio silence, and judgment because I need to be near Bridget. Need to make sure she’s okay.
And tonight’s no different.
Every part of me wants to crawl into bed, bury my face in a pillow, and scream. But instead, my feet move down the long, dark hall to Bridget's room.
This house is old—an Irish country house passed down on my father’s side. Gleaming hardwood but drafty walls. The kind of place where the cold seeps in through the baseboards. At night, the wind howls through the chimney like a ghost that never left.
The floors creak. The windows rattle.
I shiver, and… I remember Cavin.
The way he slipped his jacket over my shoulders. Not kindness, something else. Obligation, maybe? Performance?
He did it because it was expected. But still… I liked it.
I can imagine my mother now, pouring herself another glass from the sideboard in the dining room, as if she didn’t drink her way through two full bottles at the McCarthys.