Page 72 of The Irish Arrangement

Likely isn’t set in stone.

A stubborn, almost zealous hope took seed in my mind.

If there were any possible chance she could…

I wouldn’t compromise that. She was my wife. And she would be my last.

Twisted up with her news, I stormed out of her room, unsure how to react without worsening the situation. Foremost in my thoughts was that she’d duped me, and that was a sentiment I wanted to shed right now.

I was supposed to be the one in control, always.

I’d never felt further from it as I hurried away from her soulful, sad eyes and soft, heart-wrenching sobs.

26

CARA

Icouldn’t blame Declan for storming out of my room.

It was the worst-case scenario I’d feared. His face registered pure shock. All that confusion that shone in his eyes made me feel even worse, like he struggled to understand how or why I’d deceived him at all.

We started our marriage based on lies. We met each other under the force of manipulation. And still to this day, we were bound to our own selfish wishes.

I needed to secure a better life for my mother.

He had to produce an heir.

But it seemed our best-laid plans to accomplish that were not feasible with our staying together.

After he left my room without a word, I ran to the bathroom to shower. This gown was a mockery, and I couldn’t wait to get it off.

I had no business pretending to be his wife, to stand by his side and try to act like one of those fancy Mob wives, those elegant women who stood with their men like the puppets they were.

This wasn’t me. I would not let myself be some idiot, dolled up in this gorgeous gown when I should be back home, toiling away on the farm and helping Mom with her care and getting her to her appointments.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” I groaned to myself as I stepped in the shower.

All this time I’d wasted. I was a fool to ever actually think there could be an easy way out of a hard life. That making a deal with my father would ever end well. That trying to sweep all my stress away in one fell swoop would really work.

Now I’d lose him, too. I’d told Declan that I’d give him six months. Only five remained now, and I wouldn’t be any more likely to get pregnant within them. He’d leave me, per the deal we shook on at the church. He’d let me go, like he said, and I knew I would never see him again.

After the hardships that pushed me to reach him, to discover that dark, deep love that I knew couldn’t be a lie, I had to lose it all with him.

I stood in the shower, letting the hot water pummel my flesh. It was a weak attempt to invigorate myself. Unless the water could seep under my skin and rinse out the guilt, shame, and building heartbreak, I would remain broken and dirty.

After I turned numb and my skin pinkened with the blast of heat, I shut the water off and got dressed to try to do damage control again.

Declan had given me my phone to call my mother only, but that rule no longer mattered to me.

If I couldn’t go to her, I’d do the best I could from a distance. I called the hospital. I tried to get ahold of all the doctors who made up the care team for her problems. It was late, though, and I struggled to speak with anyone who could help me.

That night, I curled up on the bed holding my phone in case someone would call. I was prohibited from checking in with Mom directly. She couldn’t take calls, and Oscar’s phone wasn’t connecting. I prayed that he, or the neighbor, was with her so that she wasn’t alone, but I doubted she would understand why I wasn’t at her side. She wasn’t likely to forgive me for my absence, either.

With my heart breaking and my mind a ragged mess, I fell into a fitful sleep only to wake late.

Groggy and disoriented, I sat up and immediately tried all the numbers again. Faced with the same issues, I clenched my teeth and growled through the frustration of being so useless. Since it was the weekend, no offices were staffed. No one answered the phone. And the two people I did speak with weren’t any help. One woman at the hospital confirmed that my mother was still in critical care, and the other person, a young man who was an after-hours receptionist at her primary doctor’s office, suggested nothing more than making an appointment for three months from now for a follow-up.

I paced, so mad that the ache and tension in my stomach worsened further. Rubbing my abdomen hardly helped, and it took all my energy to breathe through the panic attack of my life coming apart.

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