Chapter 5
Chapter five
Blood Red Prelude
Siobhán
Istep back into the crowd like I was never touched.
Never pressed against the wall. Never told to play or beg.
My hands still tremble. My throat still burns with the words I didn’t scream.
But my smile? Perfect. Sharp. Composed. I let it curve slowly as someone calls my name, and I offer a tilt of my chin, a flick of my fingers—like royalty giving her blessing.
They eat it up.
Dublin’s darling daughter has returned, glittering and untouchable.
The prodigy they raised like a saint, now polished and feral in heels custom-forged to hurt.
The crowd closes in with praise and longing.
Their words tangle around me—reverent, gushing, insincere.
They call me a legend. A star. A symbol of the city’s greatness.
They don’t know I nearly shattered ten minutes ago.
“Siobhán!”
“She’s even more stunning in person—”
“Can I get a photo with you—”
Their voices blur. Flashes go off. I offer them the version of me they want—charming, poised, untouchable.
The siren of Dublin. The prodigy who left them breathless and bleeding for more.
They don’t see the tremor in my spine. They don’t see the fingerprints Cillian left behind, pressed like bruises into the silk of my composure.
And then I feel it.
Power. Cold and ancient, moving through the crowd like a tide.
Darragh O’Dwyer. The air sharpens the moment he enters my orbit.
Suits part for him like scripture. The crowd quiets, a reverence built from fear and favor.
He approaches with the weight of generations in his wake.
I turn slowly. Smile like I don’t taste copper in the back of my throat.
“Siobhán Kelleher,” he says, lifting my hand in his.
His grip is firm, practiced. Every move precise.
“The darling daughter of Dublin returns.” His lips brush my knuckles with all the warmth of a guillotine.
“You shine bright enough to make a man forget what’s his,” he murmurs, low and lethal.
“Careful who you dazzle, girl. Not all kings appreciate distractions.”
It sounds like praise. The crowd will hear it as a compliment. But I know better. So does he. I hold his stare, let my smile cut sharper.
“Distractions don’t fill rooms like this,” I say softly. “They don’t get standing ovations. And they certainly don’t make strong kings nervous.”
His smile doesn’t crack, but I feel the shift. A flicker of something cold and warning behind his eyes. A reminder that his throne isn’t just ornamental—it’s built on blood and tradition.
I tilt my head and whisper, “You taught your son well, Darragh. He almost had me on my knees.”
He exhales a quiet chuckle that never touches his eyes. “Almost,” he repeats, and steps back with a nod, his presence still choking the air around me.
I don’t breathe until he’s gone. Not because I’m afraid.
Because I’m planning. Because this city might belong to the O’Dwyers…
But tonight? The spotlight belongs to me.
I lift my glass. Champagne, cold and sharp.
The taste of gold and war. Someone says my name — I don’t turn.
Someone laughs too loud — I don’t hear them. Because across the room, I see him.
Cillian. He moves through the crowd like a secret everyone already knows.
Shoulders squared, gaze locked, suit blacker than sin.
The world parts for him without asking. Even the music softens, like it’s holding its breath.
He shouldn’t be coming toward me. Not after that threat, not after what he said backstage.
But he is. And I can’t decide if I want to run or drop to my knees.
My lips curve before I can stop them. Instinct. Armor. A smirk that tastes like survival. He stops in front of me, so close I can smell the ghost of smoke and whiskey still clinging to him.
“Play again,” he says.
Not a question. A command. Low. Lethal. Private, even here in a room full of people.
The glass in my hand trembles once before I steady it. “You really don’t like not being the center of attention, do you?”
His jaw flexes. That muscle I used to bite when I wanted to make him swear. “Play again, Siobhán.”
The way he says my name —not like a plea, but a punishment— makes my spine go rigid. I set my glass down. Turn toward the piano. And smile.
“Fine.”
Each step back to the stage clicks like a countdown. He follows, silent, a shadow made of heat and hunger. When I sit, I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I just rest my hands on the keys — and smirk. A hush rolls through the ballroom, velvet and sharp, as he steps up to the mic.
“My apologies,” Cillian says smoothly, his voice a blade in a velvet scabbard. “But I’m afraid I’ve demanded one more performance from our guest.”
Soft laughter erupts throughout the room. The air shifts. Curious. Anticipating. Hungry.
He turns slightly, gaze cutting to me. “My dove,” he says, soft enough for only the closest to hear, but I feel it all the way down to my bones. “Give them something unforgettable.”
Oh, I will. I press my fingers to the keys—cool and waiting—and smile like a sinner. Like I’ve already sinned.
The first notes of Vivaldi’s Summer explode like lightning down my spine, each chord a storm surge that commands attention.
My fingers move with purpose—sharp, slicing, relentless.
The tempo burns. It’s frantic, barely tethered to restraint, and I let it unravel beneath my hands.
A cyclone of sound, a wildfire set loose in velvet walls.
Heads turn. Champagne flutes pause mid-air. I don’t look up.
0:54. I shift—seamlessly—into Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu, the chaos giving way to elegant, arrogant grace. This one is flirtation disguised as fury. My wrists flick. My fingers glide. I dance across the octaves like I’m laughing at them, like I know they’ll never catch up.
I hear it—the low sound of breath held too long. Their silence is louder than applause.
1:27. Then I strike—hard and fast—into Flight of the Bumblebee. My pulse matches the tempo. My fingers blur. Staccato fury with the precision of a sniper. It’s absurd, theatrical, ruthless. I play it like I’m angry, and maybe I am. Angry that they thought I wouldn’t. Angry that he knew I would.
The room is a held breath. No one dares move.
2:00. I cut into Moonlight Sonata’s third movement like silk sliced open.
Dark. Devastating. It begins soft—tragic, haunted—but it builds.
Oh, it builds. Fury hidden in elegance. Wrath in a ballgown.
My foot presses to the pedal. The sound swells and swells until I’m not sure where the music ends and I begin.
I close my eyes. I can feel him watching.
2:30. The notes twist into Rachmaninoff’s Little Red Riding Hood. It snarls. It bites. It isn’t delicate—it devours. I let the lower register growl beneath my palm, the melody above it shrieking through like a warning. This is not the fairy tale they remember.
This is mine.
2:55. Etude op. 10 no. 1 — The Waterfall. I lean into it, posture perfect, wrists fluid. It’s a cascade of brilliance. I let my right hand carry the flow, fast and clean, while my left anchors the storm. It’s technical insanity, and I don’t just play it—
I conquer it.
3:40. No break. The Torrent. Etude op. 10 no. 4. My hands are flying now, devouring keys like they owe me something. There’s no pause, no mercy. The rhythm is cruel, unrelenting, and I ride it like a second skin.
The piano groans under me. So do a few of the men in the front row.
4:27. Winter Wind. This one is violence dressed in a waltz. I hammer each note with delicate brutality, fingers sweeping like daggers across the ivory. There’s a moment—just one—where I forget the room, forget the dress, forget the fact that I’m here to play for him.
I’m just the girl and the piano. And the fire I set between them.
5:16. I lift my hands barely an inch. Enough. Just enough for drama. Then I fall into La Campanella. The bell. The trickster. I tease the audience with it—delicate notes like falling stars, sparkles across the dark. My smile returns, sharp and slow. This one’s for him.
Let him wonder if it’s a message. Let him guess what kind.
6:18. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6. Finale. I break into it like a confession—loud, bold, and damn near feral. My body sways with the rhythm now. I let the music take me. Own me. The entire room is a cathedral of silence, watching, praying, desperate to know what comes next.
I end it with a flourish. My final note echoes.
And the world stays silent. For one breath.
Two. Then they erupt. Roaring, clapping, cheering like a war god just walked off the battlefield.
I stand. No bow. Small curtsy. Then a steady lift of my chin, one hand smoothing the skirt of my gown like I’m brushing ash from silk.
And then I look Cillian O’Dwyer dead in the eyes. Because that? That was war. And I won. I turn on my heel and walk away, heading to my gilded cage for the night.
It’s the next morning and I’m halfway through a croissant I don’t remember ordering when the door unlocks with a sharp click.
Rogue strides into the suite like he owns the place.
No knock. No warning. Just expensive cologne, knuckle tattoos, and an expression that says he’s too hungover to care about personal boundaries.
“Jesus, princess,” he mutters, flicking his cigarette into the crystal ashtray on the console. “You look like you murdered Mozart in his sleep.”
“I did,” I say dryly. “Then fucked Bach on the piano bench for good measure.”
That earns me a laugh. A low one. He drags a chair out with his boot and flops into it like this is a routine hangout and not whatever the hell this is.
He tosses a garment bag on the table. “For today,” he says.
I eye the bag. “Let me guess. From His Royal Tragedy himself.”
Rogue smirks. “Cillian said you’d say that.”
“And you still brought it?”
“I’m loyal, not stupid.”