Page 71 of Surrender
The porch was still. The gravel driveway silent. No car engine. No sound at all. Just the wind shifting through the trees—and the ghost of what they could’ve had.
She hadn’t slammed the door.
Hadn’t made a scene.
She’d just left.
And Keefe O’Brian, the man who had fought everyone to protect what they had, was helpless to stop her.
He stood on the porch long after she was gone, barefoot on the cold stone, staring at the empty drive like if he waited long enough, she’d come back.
She didn’t.
Rain started to fall—soft at first, then steady. He didn’t move.
His shirt clung to his back. His arms hung limp at his sides.
Inside, the house still smelled like her cherry blossom shampoo and the cinnamon candles she always forgot to blow out.
It felt like she’d just gone to the store. Like she might walk back through the door any second.
But she wouldn’t.
Because she was gone—and this time, she’d walked away with nothing but the truth.
He pressed a hand to his chest. It didn’t help.
This wasn’t like the other times. This wasn’t rage or heartbreak or betrayal.
This was loss.
And there was no one to blame but himself.
He should’ve gone after her. Hell, she couldn’t have gotten that far. But he hadn’t. He’d just stood there on the porch like a goddamn coward, rooted to the spot while everything he wanted disappeared into the rain.
He should’ve chased her. Down the drive and all the way to Dublin if he had to. Should’ve made her see the truth—that she wasn’t breaking his family, she was his family.
But he hadn’t.
He’d let her go. Not because he didn’t love her—God, he did—but because he hadn’t known how to make her believe it was enough.
And now, it was too late.
She’d walked away thinking it was the right thing. That she was sparing him. Sparing them all.
No slammed doors. No screaming.
Just love. And silence.
And the ache of everything he hadn’t managed to say.
Chapter 21
Sophie stood at the edge of the cliffs, the Atlantic wind lashing her coat and whipping her hair into knots. She clutched a half-full whiskey bottle in one hand as she swayed with each gust. The sky overhead had darkened to that familiar gray-green churn that always came before rain, and below her, great waves slammed against the rocks in a rhythm that matched the beat of her heart.
This view was supposed to be calming—inspiring, even—but lately, all it did was tighten the knot in her chest. Even here in her own backyard, her supposed haven, she couldn’t outrun the weight of it.
The anger.
