Page 3 of The Heir's Defiance

He ignores my comment and says, "You were supposed to secure that connection. Instead, you fractured it."

I lift my chin. "I won't apologize for refusing to be traded." My eyes flash with hatred, not for him but for the way he treats me.

"You think you’re standing on principle?" His laugh is short and sharp. "You're standing in a grave you dug yourself."

The room feels smaller now, like the walls have shifted closer while no one was looking.

"You owe this family," he says. "You owe me."

I plant my feet harder into the rug. "I owe you nothing," I say, each word crisp enough to break on impact.

My father’s hand slams against the table. The sound cracks through the room like a shot. The whiskey glass rattles, but it stays upright, teetering for a moment before settling. The table shudders beneath my fingertips.

"You’ll do what you’re told," he says. "You refused the match. Fine. Now you’ll serve where you're needed." I can feel Callum watching me as my father continues, but he stays silent, letting my father do the cutting.

"You'll attend Corbin O'Hare’s memorial," he says. "You’ll stand with the family, and you’ll show the O'Rourkes that we are not fractured inside, no matter what the Russians?—"

"And now you expect me to parade around like everything’s fine," I say, cutting him off.

My father’s chair scrapes harshly against the floor as he pushes to his feet. His hands plant flat on the table, knuckles whitening. "You’ll do it because you’ve already put a crack in this family’s armor," he says. "You think you’re too good to fix what you broke?"

I glare at him, every muscle in my body straining against the instinct to step back. I don't move. I don't lower my gaze. He hates that more than anything.

"You will show up, and you will make it right," he snaps. "And if you can't manage that, I'll find a use for you that you won't like."

The muscles in Callum's jaw work, but he still says nothing. Still, I can see the fracture that runs through him at my father's statement.

My father straightens his jacket with one sharp tug and jabs a finger toward the door. "Now get the hell out of my sight."

I turn and stomp out. By the time I reach my room and slam the door behind me, my hands are shaking. I throw myself onto the bed, the mattress giving a low, miserable creak under my weight, as I ball myself up and fight back the tears.

I stare up at the ceiling, the rage thick in my chest, knowing there is no justice for daughters like me. It's all duty and debt, and we didn't even create it, but it's ours to carry and manage and I refuse.

The hours pass without anyone checking in. I stay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, too tired to move and too angry to rest. Nothing changes. Nothing softens. The room around me seems to hold its breath right alongside me.

I may have refused to marry the Russian, but it seems I've gotten myself into worse trouble now. I'm not sure what Da meant by a use for me I won't like, but I hate the sound of it. And Mum will be no help at all. She coddles him, kowtows to everything he wants. But to her, he's God Almighty, full of power and grit.

A knock comes at the door just before four. It’s short and firm, but I ignore it.

Orla steps in, holding a black garment bag and a neutral expression. She doesn’t speak as she crosses the room and lays the suit across the foot of the bed. The jacket is pressed sharply, the skirt narrow and exact. There's nothing feminine aboutit, nothing delicate. Just fabric made to fit a body that isn’t supposed to speak or have a personality. I hate it, just like I hate this situation. But a funeral is better than a wedding in this case.

I push myself up off the bed and groan loudly in protest, but Orla ignores me. She leaves without a word, pulling the door shut behind her. The room hasn’t shifted, but it feels smaller anyway, especially as I try to force myself to follow my father's orders.

My entire body is lead as I strip off my comfortable clothing and put on the suit. I don’t know why but I agonize over whether to put my hair up or leave it down, but I decide on the long, dark strands being loose around my face.

At four thirty, Liam knocks once and opens the door without waiting. He nods toward the hall. There’s another man with him—quiet, broad-shouldered, and unfamiliar. I don’t ask his name. It doesn’t matter. As long as I do what my father wants, I'll be back home in no time, free to eat some chocolate pie and down a bottle of wine if I want.

The car ride is quiet. Liam sits beside me in the back, his shoulder angled slightly away. The driver says nothing, just keeps his focus on the road while the city shifts past the windows. We pass shops I’ve known my whole life, places that feel smaller now.

When the church comes into view, traffic slows. It’s one of the older ones downtown, all stone and iron. People are already gathered out front, some lingering on the steps, others drifting toward the doors in small, silent groups. Most of them wear black, a few in charcoal or navy, but all of it tailored, all of it intentional.

Liam steps out first. He gives a brief scan of the area, then opens my door.

The air is sharp. The sky threatens rain but holds back for now. I climb the steps without hesitation. The guards follow but keep their distance. No one speaks to me as I enter.

Inside, the church is dim, lit mostly by candlelight and the late afternoon through tall stained glass. The pews fill slowly, the hush of the space broken only by the occasional cough or the shift of shoes against stone.

At the front, near the casket, stands Connor O’Rourke.

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