Page 81 of Ruthless Savior
The interior is just as impressive as the exterior. We enter through a grand foyer with a high ceiling. A massive chandelier hangs overhead, crystal catching the light from tall windows. The floors are polished wood, and oil paintings in heavy gold frames line the walls—portraits of stern-faced men and women who must be Ronan's ancestors.
"The O'Malley family gallery," Ronan explains, noticing my stare. "Going back several generations."
"They all look very serious," I can’t help but say with a small laugh, and Ronan actually chuckles.
"They had good reason to be. Life wasn't easy back then, even for wealthy families."
A woman appears from somewhere deeper in the house—middle-aged, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes. She's wearing a simple black dress, and she takes us in with the confidence of someone who's been running this household for years.
"Mrs. O'Brien," Ronan says warmly. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Leila, and her mother, Claire Murphy."
Wife.The word makes me flinch. I can’t help it—I’m not used to it, and it sounds strange. I don’t feel like someone’s wife. All of this still feels like a dream—or a nightmare that turned into a dream, and I can’t wake up from any of it.
Mrs. O'Brien's face breaks into a genuine smile. "Well, and it’s lovely to meet you both. Welcome to Aulinnross," she says, her Irish accent thick and musical. "I've prepared the blue suite for Mrs. Murphy, and the master suite is ready for you and your wife, Mr. O’Malley."
The master suite. Where Ronan and I will be sharing a bed, pretending to be a real married couple. I’d wondered about that,but he must have decided that we can’t risk any rumors flying around that we’re not sharing a room. My stomach flutters with nerves—and something else I don't want to examine too closely.
"Thank you," Ronan says. "Mrs. Murphy has been traveling for quite a while and needs to rest. Could you show her to her room?"
"Of course." Mrs. O'Brien turns to my mother with maternal concern, which makes me smile, since they’re not that far apart in age. "You look tired, dear. Let's get you settled, and I'll bring you some tea and something light to eat."
My mother looks like she's about to protest—she hates being fussed over—but exhaustion wins out. "That sounds wonderful, thank you."
As Mrs. O'Brien leads my mother up the grand staircase, I'm left alone with Ronan in the massive foyer. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything that happened on the plane, everything we're not talking about.
"Our room is this way," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.
I follow him up the staircase, my hand trailing along the polished banister. The walls are lined with more portraits, more stern-faced ancestors watching our progress. At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretches in both directions, lined with doors and lit by wall sconces.
"How many rooms are in this place?" I ask, trying to fill the silence.
Ronan chuckles. “I can’t say I ever thought to count. A lot. Most of them don’t get used regularly. Mrs. O’Brien had quite the job getting the estate ready for guests, it’s been a long while since we’ve visited.”
The mansion is vast, even bigger than Ronan’s back in Boston. I think of my mother’s brownstone apartment, which I always thought was spacious for the city, and how I tried tofind space for my things when I moved back in. The contrast is almost absurd.
The master suite is at the end of the hall, behind heavy wooden doors that Ronan pushes open with a slight hesitation. I understand why when I see the room.
It's enormous, dominated by a four-poster bed that looks massive. The posts are carved dark wood, probably mahogany, and heavy curtains in deep blue velvet can be drawn around it for privacy—again, something out of a period drama instead of real life. Tall windows look out over the estate grounds, and a fireplace large enough to stand in takes up most of one wall.
But it's clearly a room meant for a couple. There's only one bed, and everything about the space speaks of intimacy—the sitting area with two chairs pulled close together, the vanity table with space for two people's belongings, the massive bathroom visible through an open door.
"I can sleep somewhere else," Ronan says quietly, reading my expression. "There are plenty of other rooms." He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and I can see that he’s uncomfortable. At the idea of sharing a bed with me, or this whole situation? I press my lips together, unsure of how it makes me feel.
“You didn’t ask for us both to be in here?”
“No. Mrs. O’Brien assumed.”
“Should we let her assume?” I chew on my lower lip. “We need to look like this is a real marriage, right?
He nods slowly. "You're right. We need to keep up appearances."
Appearances. That's all this is.
I move to the window, needing some distance from him and that enormous bed. The view is breathtaking even at night—the sky is vast and studded with stars, without any of the light pollution I’m used to in Boston. I can see that the estatestretches far beyond the manor house, and I feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing it all in the daylight.
"It's beautiful," I say, and I mean it.
"My great-great-grandfather built this house," Ronan says, coming to stand beside me at the window. "The original castle was destroyed, but he wanted to stay on the land. Said it was in his blood."
