Chapter 8

Cillian’s POV

“Let me go first,” Malachy said.

“No.”

“Sir.”

“He’s my brother, Malachy.”

I was already out of the chair. I don’t remember crossing the room. I remember the corridor, the elevator, the long white hall on the ninth floor with its soft carpet swallowing my footsteps. Nell ran beside me. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t try to slow me. Halfway there, she found my hand and held on.

I pushed open the door of the bridal suite.

“Cillian!” Fintan said, and smiled. “There you are.”

He stood by the fireplace with the black folder in one hand, as relaxed as a man at a garden party. My brother. Two years older than me, six inches shorter, with our father’s mouth and our mother’s tired gray eyes. He had taught me to ride a bike. He had stood beside me at the funeral and held up my elbow when I couldn’t stand.

Bronagh stood beside the desk, stiff as a coat hanger. Her face was gray.

“Explain,” I said.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Explain, Fintan.”

He glanced at Nell. At our joined hands. His eyebrows rose. “Well. This is new. Is this the fiancée?”

“Don’t talk to her.”

“I’d heard rumors. I didn’t believe them. Cillian Doyle, in love.” He tossed the folder onto the bed. It landed with a soft, sad slap. “That’s quite a fake you’ve printed. Lakeshore Tower. Very convincing. It had me for nearly a minute.”

“You knew?”

“Not until I saw the numbers. You always were a terrible liar with a spreadsheet.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve been telling Desmond what he needed for six months. One more folder won’t change the outcome.”

Bronagh made a small, broken sound. “Mr. Doyle. Sir. I’m so sorry.”

“Bronagh,” Fintan said, gently. “Stop.”

“He said it was for the family.”

“It was.”

“Sir, I have two kids in college. He said if I helped, he’d...”

“That’s enough.”

I hadn’t raised my voice. I don’t think I have ever raised it in my life. But every head in the room turned.

“Six months,” I said. “Six months of my plans, my bids, my numbers. Given to Desmond Fitzgerald. Why?”

“Because you don’t listen.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is, though.” Fintan set his jaw. It was our father’s jaw. It was the worst thing about the whole scene. “Dad’s hotels are a museum, Cillian. You refuse every offer. You refuse to sell the north side. You sit alone on the top floor like a monk, and you turn down deals that would make us safe. We’re three bad quarters from a crisis. You won’t see it. You never see it. You think loyalty is a strategy.”

“Dad said...”

“Dad is dead.”

The words hit like a fist.

Nell’s grip tightened. I felt her thumb move over my knuckles, very slowly. Once. Twice. Like she was telling me to breathe.

“You could have talked to me,” I said.

“I tried. For two years.”

“You could have shouted. You could have quit.”

“And left the company to you?” His voice cracked. He caught it and smoothed it flat. “I made a deal instead. Desmond takes the lakefront lot. He pays triple. We keep the name on the door. Nobody’s hurt.”

“Nobody?” Nell said.

Every head turned to her.

She stepped forward. She was small, five foot six, in flat shoes and a wrinkled blouse. There was flour on her sleeve from the morning. She walked up to my brother and stopped a foot away.

“Nobody hurt,” she said. “I got an eviction hearing this morning.”

“I didn’t touch your lease.”

“You gave Desmond a planner.”

“I gave him a name he could find. He asked for the best in the city.” Fintan frowned. “I didn’t know you were his.”

“I’m not anyone’s.”

“Then why...”

“Because a man decided to be kind to me on the worst day of my year.” Her voice was quiet and shaking and absolutely steady. “You should try it. It’s much more efficient than betrayal.”

Fintan stared at her. For one moment, a flicker crossed his face. Shame, maybe. Or the memory of a boy on a bike.

Then it closed.

“I’ll have my resignation on your desk by morning,” he said to me. “You’ll want my keys.”

“Fintan...”

“Don’t. Please.” He took a folded handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his palms, and walked to the door. He stopped on the threshold without turning. “The papers know, by the way.”

My blood went cold. “What?”

“Desmond called the Tribune an hour ago. He didn’t tell me what he’d say.” He glanced at Nell. “But I don’t think it’s kind.”

He left.

I stood in the middle of the room and couldn’t feel my hands. The fire crackled. A clock ticked on the mantel. It was the same clock my father had wound every Sunday of my childhood, and my brother had just walked past it without looking.

Malachy came in quietly. He took Bronagh’s phone from her fingers, gently, and led her out with a hand on her elbow. She didn’t fight him.

The door closed. Nell and I were alone.

“I don’t know how to stand up,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I have a company on fire and a brother who just quit and I don’t know how.”

“You stand next to me.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” She squeezed my hand. “Come on.”

~

Malachy’s radio crackled before the door had clicked shut.

“Sir. We have a situation in the lobby.”

I lifted my wrist to check the time. There was nothing there. I dropped my hand.

“How bad?”

“Four cameras. Two reporters. A man from Channel Five. And Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Stay put.” I looked at Nell. “You don’t have to come.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Nell.”

“Cillian.” She lifted her chin. It was the same lift I’d seen at the boathouse, the same hard, beautiful line. “I got you into this. Or you got me. I’m not sure anymore. But I am not leaving you alone in a lobby with a camera.”

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted it so badly it was a physical pain.

“Okay,” I said.

We rode the elevator down in silence. Her hand never left mine.

The lobby was full. Bellmen frozen mid-step. A crowd of guests pressing against the marble columns, phones raised. In the center of the floor, under my father’s portrait, stood Desmond Fitzgerald in a camel coat, holding court. Beside him, Brendan, with a pale, satisfied smile.

A reporter with a silver microphone spotted us first.

“There they are!”

Cameras swung. Flashes went off like lightning. Somebody shouted my name, my real one, and I felt the ground tilt. Nell flinched. I stepped half in front of her.

“Mr. Doyle!” the reporter called. “Cillian Doyle! Is it true you’ve been living under an alias?”

“Ms. Gallagher! Nuala! Did you hire a man to pose as your fiancé?”

Nell went rigid.

“Is it true you invented an engagement to win the Fitzgerald contract?”

“Is it true you’d never met Mr. Doyle before Monday?”

Desmond folded his hands and smiled at me like a man watching a house burn.

“Good afternoon, Cillian,” he said, warmly. “I believe you have a story to tell the city.”

The cameras closed in.