Chapter 3
Chapter three
The Red Ledger
Siobhán
The sheets are too soft. That’s the first thing I notice when I wake. The second is the way the sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains and lands on the silk pajamas I don’t remember unpacking last night. Or putting on…
Emerald green. Smooth as sin. The pants hang low on my hips.
The camisole drapes like it was measured to my collarbones.
There’s a matching robe folded neatly at the foot of my bed.
Thick, dark green, with a velvet sash and a subtle "O" embroidered near the collar. Cillian always did like to brand what he owned. Even when it wasn’t his to claim. There’s also a pair of velvet slippers waiting by the chaise lounge.
Of course they are. Cillian always knew how to paper a woman. Even the one who hates him.
I slide out of bed slowly, letting my bare feet hit the polished floor. There’s something surreal about the way this room wraps around me—luxury like a weapon. As if every soft thing was chosen not for comfort, but for control.
I shrug into the robe, tie it loose at the waist, and cross the suite to the sitting area just as a knock lands on the door.
“Room service,” a voice says.
I don’t answer. Just unlock the latch and open it halfway. A young staffer wheels in a tray stacked with silver cloches, a French press of coffee, stark white teapot with The giant O on it, a crystal pitcher of orange juice. Behind her, a sleek black garment bag is draped over a second cart.
“I was instructed to deliver your breakfast,” she says with a smile, “and your outfit for the day. Everything’s been curated to your taste.”
I arch one brow. “Was it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. O’Dwyer’s orders.”
Of course they were.
I turn and let the door flow open as I sit cross-legged on the chaise in the living room. The staffer places the tray near me and disappears into the bedroom to lay out my outfit for the day, I presume. She leaves with a tight smile and closes the door behind her.
After she leaves, I make myself a cup of tea and sit back on the velvet chaise, one hand wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup, and stare at the tray like it might bite.
Flaky pastries. Smoked salmon. Poached eggs.
Sliced strawberries arranged like art. The kind of breakfast no one eats before bleeding on a stage.
The sort of breakfast meant to lull you into softness.
I take one bite of the croissant, walk into my bedroom, then unzip the garment bag. It’s not what I expected. Not a dress. Not a threat disguised as temptation. No claws this time. Just an outfit tailored with precision.
A sleek cream wool coat. A cashmere turtleneck, the color of fresh snow. High-waisted black trousers. An emerald scarf so soft it feels like sin between my fingers. And boots. Designer. Italian leather. Beautiful. Deadly. It’s elegant. Subtle. Timeless. And it screams you’re being watched.
I smirk as I walk back into the living room and sip the tea. If he wants me dressed for the part, fine. Let him dress me up like a porcelain doll. He’s going to regret giving me silk armor.
I take my time getting ready. Not for him.
For me. The clothes were a power play. A gift disguised as control.
But I don’t mind playing dress-up—so long as I’m the one choosing the weapon.
I slide the trousers on slow. Tuck in the cashmere turtleneck like I’m sealing armor.
The boots? Sharp-heeled, supple, and silent.
Then I sit at the vanity, unwrap the silk scarf, and smooth my hair back with deliberate grace. Brows brushed. Mascara wicked. Cheekbones sharpened with a little warmth and a lot of audacity. And then I reach for it. The tube of deep, murderous red.
The one that matches the memory of my mother’s final concert. The one that made men at intermissions forget how to breathe. The one I wore the last night I saw Cillian O’Dwyer. I glide the color on slowly, watching my reflection. Bold. Perfect. Unapologetic.
A siren’s mouth. I blot once. Fix the curl of my hair behind one ear. Then I rise, putting the wool coat on and finishing off with the emerald green scarf. When I open the door to the suite, he’s there—of course he is. Rogue. Grinning like a fox in a room full of drunk hens.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says, arms crossed, one boot kicked up against the opposite wall like he’s posing for a magazine cover called Smug Bastard Quarterly. “His Highness figured you’d be heading out. Asked me to tag along. Safety and all that.”
I don’t slow down. Just brush past him like he’s made of fog. “I don’t need a babysitter,” I mutter.
He follows, undeterred. “I can drive. Or walk behind ya like a sad, sexy bodyguard. Whatever helps your mood.”
I press the elevator button. Hard. Then turn to him with a smile that could slice flesh. “I need to be alone, Ronan.”
His smile flickers. Just for a second. And I see it—that little twitch of unease behind his eyes. Like he’s wondering if I’m running, or hunting.
“Where you off to then?” he asks, his Dublin accent wrapping around the words like a smirk.
“Somewhere you’re not.”
The elevator doors open. I step in. He stays behind. Good boy.
I watch as the numbers light up, slowly going down until they reach the letter L.
The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, but my pulse is already racing.
Ronan won’t stay put. He’s not wired for stillness.
He’s wired for pursuit. And I’ve given him a ten-second head start. That’s not nearly enough.
I step off the elevator like a woman late for mass and cut across the gleaming lobby, heels clicking hard and fast against marble. Heads turn. Concierge eyes flicker. The doorman shifts to open the door for me—But I don’t wait. I shove it open myself and spill out into the street like a storm.
The wind catches my coat. The city is loud, messy, alive.
I don’t hesitate. I move. Down the steps.
Across the pavement. Into the current of foot traffic like I’ve done this a hundred times.
I duck between a pair of tourists fumbling with a map, pivot left at the pedestrian crossing, and vanish into the crowd before the light changes.
I keep my head low, scarf tight, mouth set in a line of red warpaint.
Left again. Right. Then down an alley that splits off from O’Connell Street.
I know this city better than it remembers me.
And I’m not ready for him to find me yet.
The moment I round the corner onto Abbey Street and see the black sedan parked half a block away, engine idling—his car—I raise my arm like it’s muscle memory.
A cab screeches to the curb. Black paint, creaking doors. Perfect.
“Out past Lucan,” I tell the driver as I slide in. “Keep off the motorway.”
He nods, no questions asked. And just like that, I vanish from the city again.
The further we drive, the quieter it gets.
Grey turns to green. Noise fades to mist. The buildings thin out, traded for hedgerows and stone walls dusted with frost. The air shifts.
Colder. Older. Like the land remembers what I tried to forget.
My childhood home waits like a secret at the end of a long, overgrown drive.
It wasn’t a palace. Not a mansion with gates and guards like the O'Dwyers had.
But it was elegant. Understated. One of those modest country manors with ivy-strangled stone, tall windows, and a door that always squeaked in protest no matter how well it was oiled.
Now it’s just... tired. The paint has peeled. The shutters hang crooked. One corner of the front step has crumbled into moss and rot. But it still stands. Just like me. I pay the driver and wait until he’s out of sight before stepping through the rusted gate.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I make my way up the path. Every step a ghost. This house used to smell like cinnamon and piano polish. Now it just smells like cold.
There’s a reason I came here. Not just for the ghosts. Not just for the memory of my mother’s hands on ivory keys. But for what she left behind—quietly, secretly, like a final gift sealed in silence. And for the person who’s been helping me dig it up.
The door to the music room groans when I push it open, like the house is trying to speak before it crumbles entirely.
The air inside is stale, heavy with dust and memory.
Shafts of cold morning light cut through the windows, illuminating the white sheets draped over every piece of furniture like shrouds.
Like the room is mourning itself. I move slowly, trailing my fingers along one of the sheets. Dust flutters in the air like snow. Beneath the fabric is the old baby grand, covered head to toe like a body waiting for burial. I don’t lift the sheet. Not yet.
There’s a creak from the hallway. Barely audible. I don’t turn. Just say, “You’re late.”
No reply. Just footsteps—soft ones—moving into the room. Slow. Deliberate. Careful not to step too loudly on the warped floorboards.
I keep my eyes on the piano. I don’t want to know who he is. Not yet. It’s better that way. Cleaner. Safer for both of us.
“I searched the crawlspace again,” I say. “The insulation’s been stripped. Someone already looked.”
A pause. Then, low and rough: “Not surprised.”
The voice is familiar. Irish. City-trained but country-born. He’s old. Careful. Not reckless. One of theirs? Or one of mine? I don’t ask.
“I need to know where it is. The ledger. Before Saturday.”
Another beat of silence. Then, behind me, the rustle of paper. The soft thunk of something being set on the bench behind the piano. A single envelope. No markings. I turn slightly. Not enough to see his face. Just enough to register the weight of what’s been left behind.
“You’re sure it’s the real one?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shifts back toward the door. But before he leaves, he says—so quiet I almost miss it.
“You won’t get another shot.”