Page 5 of Ciaran

Buzzed with energy at winning her over, I beam. “Great. Seven okay? I’ll pick you up.”

She reaches for a napkin and scribbles down an address, then hands it to me. “That’s where I’m staying.”

I hold back a wince. The place she’s staying at is an absolute shithole frequented by hookers, pimps, and petty criminals looking to hide out until the heat dies down. God only knows what the apartment she’s viewing will be like if this is her temporary accommodation. I make up my mind there and then. She doesn’t need to search for a job because I’ve found her one—as O’Reilly Manhattan’s new front desk clerk. The current one is going on maternity leave soon, and Declan’s been too maxed out to contact any recruitment agencies. Having someone we know work the desk is a far better solution than hiring a stranger.

Realizing I haven’t spoken, I look up. “I’ll be there. Good luck with the apartment.”

If I have my way, you won’t be there for long.

With a tentative smile and jerky nod in my direction, she picks up her purse, slings it over her shoulder, and leaves. As she passes the window of the coffee shop, she waves, then disappears into the crowds.

I stare down at her neat, precise handwriting. Opening my wallet, I tuck the napkin inside.

Millie had been hesitant, but at least she agreed to dinner. I’m determined it will be the first of many. With a lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in years, I set off for home.

Chapter 2

Millie

Dropping my sunglasses in place, I stroll toward the building where I’m meeting the woman with a room for rent. Despite the early hour, a heat haze rises from the ground, and sweat beads at the nape of my neck. God, it’s humid. I brush my bangs to one side, hit by the joys of New York in summer. Although Chicago isn’t much cooler.

The apartment is more than I can comfortably afford, but I have to sleep somewhere, and the streets of Manhattan don’t appeal. I could have gone anywhere when I left Chicago—maybe somewhere the living costs aren’t quite so extortionate—but New York is, and always will be, home. It’s where my happy childhood memories are, where Mom and Dad live.

That also makes it the stupidest place to be.

The thought has me glancing over my shoulder. Relax. He’s in Chicago.

I shudder and check my watch—a cheap one that keeps gaining time. Every morning I have to set it back three minutes, but I pawned the designer watch Tanner had given me for our fifth wedding anniversary. We’d fought bitterly when I realized he’d gone into debt to buy me the damn thing. I’d insisted he take it back, but he’d refused. Then the sulks had started, the slamming doors, petty tantrums, followed by the verbal abuse. How ungrateful I was. How I didn’t deserve him. How he wished he’d married someone else, like maybe Carly, a pretty blonde cheerleader. How he’d bet she wouldn’t be an ungrateful, fault-finding bitch.

Same old routine. Same old Tanner.

Same old me.

I’d taken his anger without argument, allowing him to chip away at my self-worth until he’d stripped me of it entirely. It had been easier that way. Fighting back only made it worse.

It’s still five minutes before my appointment. Regardless, I push open the door to the building and step inside. The smell of destitution and desperation floods my nostrils. How has my life ended up like this? Ten years ago, the idealistic eighteen-year-old me had sauntered into the sunset on the arm of the captain of the football team, certain I was heading for a wonderful life, only to have my dreams shattered.

I’d been on the rebound from Callum O’Reilly, Ciaran’s twin brother—although in hindsight, my feelings for Callum were little more than a schoolgirl crush. When Tanner made his move, I’d forgotten all about Callum, basking instead in the attention Tanner had lavished on me. And, I admit, I’d relished the jealous stares from the other girls because I was on Tanner’s arm, and they weren’t.

What a naïve idiot.

Every girl in my senior class turned green with envy when Tanner put a ring on my finger. Not that their petty gossiping mattered. We’d left New York behind after Tanner secured a tryout with the Chicago Bears.

His big chance… except it hadn’t worked out. He’d trained hard, yet never quite made the team. As each game passed without being selected, Tanner grew more and more frustrated, his anger and disappointment transforming into snide comments and critical taunts aimed in my direction.

It was two years before his coach finally selected him for the team. He’d come home that day full of excitement and positivity, and I began to hope our lives could start again. Then, on his first run out, he’d damaged his knee.

Despite surgery, the doctors told him he’d never play professionally again. He spent about six months in a deep depression, using me as his punching bag—except words were his weapon of choice instead of fists, although an undercurrent of violence was never far away.

His old coach had always liked Tanner—he could charm a snake when in the mood—and he offered Tanner a job as an entry-level coach to help out with the juniors. I’d prayed this slice of good fortune would signal the beginning of him turning his life around. Instead, he’d watched others living his dream, and his bitterness only deepened.

Over time I learned to live with his bouts of rage followed by weeks of depression. I’d wanted to support him, but when his tirades increased in frequency, I feared the brutality festering inside the man I’d once loved.

Eventually, I found the strength and courage to run, but although I’ve finally broken free, I can’t shake the uneasiness that follows me everywhere. I’d give anything to go back in time and run as far from Tanner as my legs could carry me. Instead, I gave him my innocence, and he, in turn, destroyed me.

I hoist my rucksack onto my back and climb the stairs to the twelfth floor, pinching my nose to keep out the stench. The building does have an elevator but, unsurprisingly, it has an ‘Out of Order’ notice stuck on its doors. Even if it had been working, I wouldn’t take it. Imagine if it got stuck between floors and I couldn’t get out. No, thank you. On reaching the right floor, I tug my sleeve over my hand and open the door into the hallway. No way am I touching that filthy handle.

Stepping onto a threadbare carpet covered in cigarette butts and debris, I shudder. Despair weighs heavily on me, but I refuse to let it to bring me down. My life in Chicago hadn’t been extravagant—far from it—but compared to this place, my home was a palace.

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