7. Orla
ORLA
T he invitation was delivered to my desk by messenger, cream cardstock bordered in gold. Boston Children's Hospital Annual Benefit Gala, Saturday at the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel.
"I need you to attend that shitshow with me," Cillian says from his office doorway. "Several major clients will be there."
He steps into my office area. "I need you as my date."
I choke on air, I was not expecting that, I was joking. "Your date?"
"My regular plus-one canceled, and arriving alone would cause hysteria and mother’s setting me up with daughters. I’d like to avoid that."
A room full of Kavanagh business contacts means access to information I could never get otherwise. Yet it also means hours hoping no one blows my cover by accident.
"Is that appropriate?" I ask, playing my part as the cautious employee.
"It's business," he says with a wave. "The gala starts at eight. I'll send a car for you at seven-thirty."
He turns to leave, then pauses. "Wear the right clothes for the occasion. The company will cover any expenses if needed."
After he exits, I text Doyle.
I am going to that gala this weekend. Should I be worried?
His reply comes fast.
I'll be there. Working security detail. You’ll be okay.
I stare at my phone, a flicker of concern crossing my mind.
Doyle mentioned taking private security gigs at high-society events months ago—a way to access rooms filled with Boston's elite without raising suspicions.
Poor cop trying to earn extra money. The perfect cover for getting close to the Kavanagh network.
When I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, a stranger looks right back at me. The midnight blue dress is elegant enough to blend in, but not flashy enough to catch unwanted attention. It hugs my body, but doesn’t show skin, understated but I still feel sexy in it.
I open my jewelry box, and take out the only piece in it that matters to me—my mother's emerald pendant on a delicate silver chain. She left it behind when she abandoned us. Wearing it feels risky tonight, it is too connected to my real identity, but I need the reminder of why I'm doing this.
I practiced dancing yesterday, preparing for any rogue socialite who asks me to dance. I went over every detail about my fake life story, so I won’t trip up. I have a mental list of names, people who might be there tonight—people who I think may have been connected to my father’s murder.
The buzzer sounds. There is a town car waiting for me outside, like Cinderellas carriage, only it won’t turn into a pumpkin.
The Fairmont's ballroom is overflowing with the who’s who of wealth and power, every well-to-do family in the city has someone here tonight.
Crystal chandeliers, white-clothed tables, floral arrangements taller than most children.
Boston's elite mingle in tuxedos and couture gowns that I couldn’t ever afford even on my new salary.
Cillian looks very different from the man I see daily at the office. His tuxedo fits like the sewed it onto his body, hugging his broad shoulders and trim waist. He draws eyes from every corner of the room. Men, and women turn to look as we pause just inside the doors.
"Ready?" he asks, offering his arm.
I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, nothing but solid muscle beneath fine fabric. "I’m ready."
We join the crowd. Cillian guides us through the trophy wives, and politicians, introducing me as "Orla Kelly, my new executive assistant."
"James Richardson, Boston Harbor Development," Cillian says, introducing me to a silver-haired man with a politician's smile.
"Pleasure," Richardson says, holding my hand longer than necessary. "So you’re the one keeping his office running smoothly?"
"I try my best," I reply with a smile.
"She's essential," Cillian adds.
Richardson talks about waterfront properties. I listen carefully, noting their coded references to "special access points" and "flexibility"—it is likely they’re discussing smuggling.
While they talk, I scan the room for faces I might know.
Anyone that could blow my cover. Near the service entrance I see Detective Doyle in a private security uniform, watching the crowd.
Our eyes meet briefly before I look away, my heart racing.
His presence changes everything, even a hint that I might know a cop will set Cillian off.
Seeing him here makes the danger real. One mistake from either of us could unravel everything, and put me in real danger.
No one will look for a missing person that doesn’t exist.
More introductions, small talk and fake smiling.
Judge Martin Palmer, who mysteriously never presides over cases involving Kavanagh interests.
City Councilwoman Helen Zhao, who chairs the port authority portfolio.
A customs official whose children attend an elite private school on a civil servant's salary.
I make a note of each face, each connection, building a mental map of the Kavanagh’s criminal network while being the best fake-date any man could ask for.
"Care for a dance?" Richardson appears at my side. Cillian left me alone to go speak with the mayor across the room.
"Mr. Richardson?—"
"James, please," he interrupts. "One dance while Cillian is occupied."
I weigh options fast. I don’t want to offend the man. "Of course."
On the dance floor, Richardson holds me closer than he should. "How long have you worked for Cillian?"
"Six weeks," I answer.
"Interesting timing," he muses. "Right after the Donovan situation."
That gets my attention. Donovan—a name from my father's notes and one I have heard around the office.
"I'm not familiar with any situation," I say.
Richardson smiles. "No reason you would be. It is ancient history now." His hand slides lower on my back. "What did you do before joining Kavanagh Import & Export?"
"Administrative work for?—"
"Mind if I cut in?" Cillian appears to save me from having my ass groped, his tone pleasant but his eyes stone cold.
Richardson steps back with a smug smile. "Your assistant was just telling me about her last job."
"Another time," Cillian says, taking my hand. "The hospital director wants to introduce us to some of the other donors."
He guides me away, his palm warm against my back. Once we're across the dance floor, he turns to me.
"Richardson has a reputation," he says.
"For being hands?" I reply, keeping my voice low.
Cillian's jaw tightens. "Dance with me."
He pulls me into his arms as the orchestra begins a waltz. Unlike Richardson, his lead is natural, confident without unwanted advances.
"You can dance," I say.
"Not by choice. My mother insisted. She called it a life lesson, our school mates called it gay."
We float across the floor, his hand resting properly at my waist, mine on his shoulder. The dance feels intimate.
"Tell me about the Donovan situation," I say.
His steps pause briefly. "Richardson mentioned that?"
"He said it happened when I joined the company."
Cillian watches my face. "A former business associate who made some unfortunate choices. Nothing you need be concerned about."
He’s evasive about it. "I should know about things that may crop up in the office."
His mouth curves. "You're persistent."
"It's why you hired me."
The music changes, a slower more sensual rhythm. Cillian adjusts our position, pulling me closer. I notice the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand against mine.
"Why the emerald?" he asks, glancing at my necklace. “I haven’t seen you wear jewelry once.”
"It was my mother's."
"It matches your eyes," he says.
"It is a special occasion," I reply, uneasy about his attention to detail. “I wanted to look pretty. To fit in.”
We dance in silence for the rest of the song, I fight unwelcome awareness of him as a man rather than the murderer I believe he is. His hand at my waist is strong, firm. Our bodies move in a harmony.
"You're different tonight," he says.
"How so?"
"More relaxed. Less uptight."
"Is that a problem? Is this not supposed to be fun?"
"No," he says, voice dropping. "It's nice to see you relaxed."
His eyes hold mine, and for a moment, I forget why I'm here. Forget he's a Kavanagh. Forget my father's blood soaking his desk.
I pull away. "I need a moment." I say, and flee to the powder room.
I splash cold water on my wrists, avoiding my reflection. What am I doing? Detective Doyle is a guard in this very building. My father's murderers are working the room outside these doors. I danced with Cillian Kavanagh, and enjoyed it.
I touch the emerald pendant, I need to remind myself. This isn't real. None of it. I'm here for justice, not to trip over pretty words and strong hands.
When I return to the ballroom, Cillian is watching for me, he looks concerned. I put on Orla Kelly's sweet smile and make my way back to him.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
"Perfect," I lie.
As we move back into the crowd, I notice Detective Doyle is watching us. A silent reminder of the promises I made at my father's grave.
No matter how Cillian looks at me, no matter how I good his touches feel, I can't forget who he is and what his family did. Even if, for just one dance, I almost did.