Page 151 of Unrequited
“They’ve been plotting with Branson,” Matvei continues. “And now it’s time. Seamus is making his move to take the throne. The only way to do that… was to cut Branson out. For good.”
“My fucking god, is he going to apologize?” My voice cracks. “Apologize for breaking my heart? For pushing me off a fuckingcliff?”
Matvei’s jaw tightens. “He’d better. He planned it all. He called me. I was already in town, waiting for this. The others are coming. I had to make sure they don’t kill him.” He sighs.
My blood turns to ice.
“So yeah,” I mutter, “he’ll be lucky ifIdon’t get to him first.”
I feel it, the rage, the betrayal, and the wild, awful love still buried somewhere in me.
Matvei’s lips curl. “Attagirl,” he says, proud.
“I’m not joking!”
“Oh, you’ll love him again,” he says softly. “You’ll see. He feigned your death. Ash was in on it.”
“Ash,like you’re best mates?”
“Aw. Mates, like you’re Irish already.”
“Of all the fucking?—"
“And that dress,” he says, nodding to me. “He made you wear that?”
“Yes,” I spit. “Said I looked pretty in it.”
“It’s because it was light,” Matvei says. “So you’d surface. He checked the tides too. Made sure they were high.”
I blink. “Did you see the Coast Guard?”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes dark. “He had four crews on standby. So no, there was no way he was gonna hurt you. He pushed you far enough to fall, but not enough to break anything. Not enough to risk anything, really.”
I’m speechless.
“I waited on the shore,” he finishes. “While Ashland reported your death to Branson.”
“So… Ashland’s on Seamus’s side?”
“Yes,” Matvei confirms. “They all are now.”
Chapter 29
SEAMUS
I feel detached.Half-alive. A walking fucking ghost. There’s this slow burn under my skin, rage mixed with dread, and all of it points to Branson. He forced my hand, pushed me into this. And now? Now I have no choice but to follow through. I have to. There’s no going back.
The grand front hall is too quiet. Unnaturally still, like the house itself is holding its breath. The only sound is the faint shuffle of expensive shoes on polished hardwood. I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, and watch as my mother glides past the base of the staircase. She moves like she's haunted, slow and careful, like she might shatter if she steps too hard.
She won’t meet my eyes. I don’t blame her.
Behind her, my sisters drift, clothed in muted tones, heads down, not saying a word. They won’t talk to me. Again, I get it. They’re scared, maybe even disgusted. But none of thatmatters now. Because the clock’s ticking. And if everything unfolds the way I’ve planned…
My father stands off to the side near the staircase. Shoulders broad. Back straight. The very image of a king too stubborn to kneel. But he won’t speak. He won’t look at me. Doesn’t have to. They all know.
I glance away, exhaling slow through my nose, trying to steady the churn inside. The night air presses in, thick with tension, with expectation. This is it. No more lies.
“It’s time,” I say, stepping forward, letting my voice fill the silence. “I’ve brought you all in here for a reason. Please. Sit.”
