Page 44 of The Heir's Defiance

"I want a city that stops bleeding my resources. If that means Connor O’Rourke takes a bullet in a suit and tie, so be it."

He walks around the desk. His stride is forceful, the way a predator circles. I stay still, but everything in me is coiled tight. The walls feel closer now, the bookshelves heavier. The scent of scotch is stronger here, like it’s been poured straight into the wood. Every inch of this place reminds me who built it and what he built it on.

"You let that boy get into your head," he says. "He is not your equal. He is not your ally. He is a means to an end." He steps closer and drops his voice like he’s letting me in on a secret. "And for Christ's sake, I hope you used protection. The last thing we need is a mutt baby ruining the bloodline."

The words land like a slap. My skin crawls. He doesn’t say it to get a rise—he says it because he means it. Because somewhere inthat rotted-out soul of his, he believes it. I want to hit him. I want to scream. But if I give him anger, he’ll know he still owns me.

I swallow bile. My fists are so tight I can feel my fingernails pricking my palms. The heat under my skin is pure, focused rage. I’ve held knives with less tension than what’s in my jaw right now.

"You done?"

He smiles, thin and cruel. "Tell me when you deliver."

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, just turn and walk for the door. I count each step, keep my shoulders squared. I'm going straight toward the back door with every intention of calling Connor to warn him, but halfway down the hall, I see two of his enforcers posted by the exit. Brick-wall types. The kind who take pride in breaking bones.

They straighten when they see me, step forward like they’ve been waiting for this. Like this is all part of the script and I’m just playing my part.

"You’re not leaving, Ms. Fitzpatrick… Strict orders." The first one tries to stand in my way, and I snub him.

I keep walking. I don’t break stride. My voice is calm, colder than I feel. "I'm leaving."

One of them shifts, blocking my path. The other steps to my side, arms loose, ready to react. Their eyes are flat—professional—dangerous.

"It wasn’t a request," I tell them, praying that my status as daughter of Seamus Fitzpatrick is still honored, but they're not budging. "You touch me, I scream," I say, but my voice quavers.My spine’s locked. My jaw too. The threat tastes hollow, but I mean it. I’ll make them bleed if they push me.

He doesn’t flinch, but he holds out a hand. "Phone."

I freeze, caught in the split-second understanding of what that word means. He’s not asking for my phone—he’s taking it. This isn’t protocol. It’s possession. They’re not here to walk me somewhere or watch where I go. They’re here to cut me off, to lock me in. And I know the second I hand it over, the only voice anyone will hear from me is the one they write for me. Da planned this.

He knew I'd get mad and storm off. He told them ahead of time that if I try to run, they'd have to contain me. They're going to use my phone to bait him, and I'm going to be forced to sit back and watch as they kill him.

The hallway closes in. I glance at the door—ten feet away, but it might as well be ten miles. There are no windows on this floor. No witnesses—just velvet wallpaper and polished trim and the knowledge that I've been his pawn this whole time. I know this house like the back of my hand, but I’ve never felt more trapped inside it.

I slide my phone from my coat and place it in his palm. My fingers hesitate a second longer than they should. A pointless protest. He checks the screen, then powers it off, slips it into his jacket like it belongs to him. That part stings. Not the loss of it—but the statement. I’ve been silenced before. But this time, they’re not even pretending to hide it.

"You’ll get it back when it’s time," he says.

"And who decides that?" I think I want to throw up. My stomach is rolling so hard I feel like I'm on a ship at sea.

"He does," the taller one says, and I know he means my father.

They flank me. I don’t resist. There’s no point. They're twice my size and armed with multiple guns. I don't stand a chance, anyway. So I follow them upstairs where they lock me in my room. I crumple onto my bed in tears as I listen to the sound of their boots fading back up the hallway.

Whatever my phone sends to Connor next—he won't be hearing me.

He'll be hearing them.

25

CONNOR

My mind slips a little more every day she doesn't answer my calls and texts. I think I'm going insane. Not in some metaphorical sense—I mean it. The angles in the room don’t sit right. The ceiling hangs lower, like the whole house is pressing down to watch me fall apart. I wake up to silence and carry it with me, and somewhere in the middle of the night, I start checking my phone without realizing I've reached for it. It buzzes with crew updates, shifts, alerts from the perimeter feeds—but never her.

Three days ago, I sent her a good morning. Two days ago, I sent her a question about Callum. Yesterday, I asked her if she was all right.

Today, I haven't sent anything. Not because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know if I can handle it if she doesn't message me back.

The phone is still clutched in my hand when I step into the courtyard. I don't remember grabbing it, but I feel like it's an anchor. She might not message, but the hope that she could or might keeps me clinging to it like a life preserver.

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