Page 6 of The Past

Rory sighed, his amusement fading.“Fi, I know it’s not what ye want, but play the game, yeah?For now.”

I scowled.“Easy for ye to say.”

“Not really,” he said, giving me a pointed look.“But I know this much—bucking against Seamus outright won’t get ye anywhere.If ye want something different, be smart about it.”

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders.He was right.Rory didn’t openly fight my da, but he didn’t blindly follow either.

“Fine,” I muttered.“I’ll go, I’ll smile, I’ll pretend Brian Kavanagh isn’t the most insufferable boy in Ireland.”

Paddy grinned.“That’s the spirit.”

I swatted at him, but he dodged, laughing as he took off out the door.

Rory gave me one last look, something like sympathy on his face.“Be careful, Fiona.And remember—yer not trapped, no matter what it feels like.”

I nodded, but the weight of expectation settled over me like a lead cloak.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Rory said as he stood from the chair to escort me to the door.“Got an old college friend from the States who asked me for a favor.Wants his son to come work here for the summer.He’ll be here this weekend and I’m hoping ye can extend a friendly hand.He won’t know anyone.”

“Of course,” I replied brightly.I’d do anything Rory asked of me.

“That’s a good girl.”Rory chuckled as he ruffled my hair.He did it to annoy me because I’m not ten years old and I ducked away with a laugh.

I started through the open door but on impulse, I turned back and threw my arms around my uncle.“Thank ye for everything ye do for me.”

CHAPTER 3

Fiona

The kitchen smelledof roasted meat, buttered potatoes and brown bread, the scents curling around me like a trap when I walked into the house.I ran up to take a quick shower and change into more ladylike clothes, but I refused to put on makeup.I let my wavy hair dry naturally and suffered a look from Mam that clearly said, “Honestly, Fiona, why can’t ye just fall into line?”

But she didn’t insist I go slap on lipstick and instead set me to kneading a fresh batch of dough under her watchful eye.

We had a cook, as any proper horse family of our status did, but tonight, Brigid Conlan had insisted on preparing the meal herself—with my help.She called it a show of hospitality.

I knew better.This wasn’t about tradition or kindness.It was about me.Or rather, what I could offer as a good Irish wife.

“Mind yer hands, Fi,” Mam chided, not even looking up as she stirred the thick gravy in the pot.“If ye overwork that, it’ll bake too heavy.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my fingers to relax.The dough was warm under my touch, pliant, obedient.I wish I could be so lucky.

“This is a right dose,” I muttered, keeping my voice just low enough that she could pretend not to hear me if she wanted to.

She sighed but didn’t argue, which said enough.Instead, she bustled across the vast country kitchen, her apron tied primly at the waist of her modest floral dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat bun, not a strand out of place.While she didn’t cook many of our meals, the kitchen was still her domain.Warm and homey, filled with cast-iron pots, polished copper pans and the faint scent of turf smoke from the range.I had always loved this room—until right this very moment.

Tonight, it wasn’t a kitchen.It was a stage.

And I was the prize on display.

Before I could say anything more, my father strode in, instantly changing the vibe from one of sullen acceptance of my fate to feeling like I was traversing on a thin wire.Seamus Conlan never walked—he arrived, his presence filling every inch of space, even when he didn’t speak.He cut an imposing figure, sharply dressed in slacks and a crisp button-down, his sleeves rolled just enough to make him look like a man who still worked with his hands, though I knew better.

As the king of Glenhaven, he was a delegator, a procurer and a dictator.

He barely glanced at the meal preparations before giving me a hard stare.

“Behave yerself tonight, Fiona.”

Not a request.A demand.

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