Page 125 of Unrequited

She answers softly, looking down at the table. “No. But give us a minute, Seamus. I’ve given you several.”

But he snaps, sharp. “My decisions are between me and Dad. I’ll demand nothing but respect from the rest of you. Zoya is one of us. She’s Zoya McCarthy now.”

“She’llneverbe Zoya McCarthy,” Kyla hisses. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, tosses her napkin on the table like it burned her, and storms out.

Caitlin lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for minutes. “Oh dear,” she mutters.

Seamus moves half a step like he’s about to go after her, but Caitlin reaches out, gently pressing a hand to his arm.

“No, son. Leave it. I’ll have a word with her.”

My heart thuds.

I don’t want them to fight over me though. That’s not what I came here for. That’s not what love is.

“Now, lad, come and sit. Eat. Have some of this delicious food your wife made for us.”

“My wife?” he echoes, looking at me with a kind of wonder, like the word tastes new and sweet on his tongue. “They put you to work already?” he asks, taking a seat.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, a little sheepishly. “The housekeeper had to leave.”

Caitlin chuckles, then turns to him. “You know how I am at cooking?”

“I do know how you are at cooking,” he replies, grinning apologetically, and I stifle a giggle.

“This looks delicious, Zoya,” he says, his eyes scanning the table.

Bronwyn leans in, smirking. “See? Now I know why he married you. You know how to cook. The rest of us are absolute shite at it.”

“Bronwyn,” Caitlin warns, giving her a look. “Language.”

Seamus scowls at his sister. “You heard mam. Watch your mouth,” he adds.

“Sorry,” Bronwyn mumbles, her cheeks flushed. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

Bossy, overbearing brother is awfully familiar to me, only this time I’mmarriedto him.

Yikes.

Just then, a hush falls over the room like a curtain being drawn. The door at the far end creaks open, and with it, the air shifts, charged now, like the static hum before a storm. Caitlin sits up straighter, and her eyes instinctively sweep over each of her children at the table, assessing, anchoring.

Keenan McCarthy steps into the room, moving with a quiet, unspoken authority that bends the room to his will without a single word. It’s the kind of presence that makes spines straighten and conversation die mid-breath. Seamus rises immediately, a reflex, a sign of deference that runs deeper than mere politeness. I follow a breath later, his cue, my instinct.

His fingers find mine, a grounding point in the chaos, warm and sure. “Da,” Seamus murmurs, his chin tipping toward the door in a subtle signal. Keenan nods, his gaze gliding across the room.

And when it lands on me, it holds. No flicker of anger, no hint of warmth either. Just a cold, clinical assessment, like I’m another piece in a puzzle he’s trying to fit into place.

“Zoya,” he says, deep and almost unnervingly smooth. “Welcome. I apologize for my earlier behavior. I’m sure you’re well aware your family and mine… have not exactly seen eye to eye for some time now.”

His civility is unnerving. Not kindness. Not warmth. Just razor-sharp composure.

“Thank you,” I say carefully. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Better to stay quiet, let my silence speak for me. He doesn’t press. Just claims the seat at the head of the table like it’s a throne. Every movement is deliberate, surgical.

“This looks delicious,” he says, his tone appreciative but distant. Caitlin starts to rise to serve him, but he stops her with a raised hand.

“No, thank you, lass. I’ll get it myself.”