Chapter 7 #2
“You’ve got that look again,” he murmurs.
I don’t glance up. “What look is that, Cill?”
“The one that says you’re deciding whether to kiss me or stab me.”
I offer him a fresh dish towel instead. “Keep talking and you’ll get both.”
His laugh is low, rough around the edges. “There’s my girl.”
I should correct him. Should remind him I’m not his.
Not anymore. But the words don’t come. Instead, I lean on the counter beside him, glass in hand, watching as he loads the final plate into the drying rack.
He moves like he always has—fluid, focused, impossibly sure of himself.
And dammit, that steadiness feels like a lighthouse in the middle of the fucking storm I’ve made of my life.
Safe. That’s the worst part. I feel safe with him. I never wanted to feel safe again.
When the dishes are cleared, I move on instinct—opening drawers, pulling out sugar, flour, chocolate, the good salt. The quiet stretches between us, thick but not suffocating. Cillian leans against the counter, sleeves rolled, watching like I’m a show he’s paid admission for.
“You’re really going to bake,” he says, amusement curling at the edge of his voice.
“Not bake. Fix,” I correct. “You gave me dinner; I’m giving you penance.”
“For what sin, exactly?”
“Existing.”
He laughs under his breath, that low, sinful sound that used to crawl right beneath my skin. “Fair.”
The scent of melted chocolate fills the kitchen, slow and warm. He pours more wine—of course he does—and sets a fresh glass beside me. I don’t thank him, but I take a sip anyway.
“Still addicted to over complicating everything,” he says. “Could’ve just opened the biscuits.”
“And let you think I’ve gone soft? Not a chance.”
He hums, a sound like approval. “Never thought you were soft, dove.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Careful, Cillian. You almost sound like you missed me.”
His smirk is faint, quiet. “Almost.”
I shouldn’t smile. But I do. By the time the dessert’s cooling, we’re both leaning against the counter, side by side. Not touching. Just near enough that the air starts to hum again.
“So,” he says, careful but not cautious. “New York.”
My hand stills on the counter.
He reads it instantly—he always did. “What happened?”
I exhale, slow, watching my breath fog the glass of the window. Snow’s falling harder now, the world beyond the estate soft and white. Untouchable. “I lost everything,” I say simply.
Cillian doesn’t speak. He waits. Always patient. Always damn steady.
“I didn’t even know he was married,” I whisper, staring at the snow. “That’s the part that still makes my stomach twist. Not me getting fired, or blasted across the tabloids, or my name being smeared across my peers.”
His knuckles flex against the marble, but he stays silent.
“I walked into his apartment with Thai takeout and wine,” I continue, “only to find a woman in his bed wearing his shirt telling me she was his wife and they had three kids at home.”
Cillian goes absolutely still.
“He told me he loved me,” I say softly. “Told her he was out of town for a conference. He told both of us lies. And the tabloids—God, they devoured it. The married conductor and his foolish pianist mistress.” The wine burns down my throat.
“The Philharmonic didn’t want the scandal.
Too messy. Too emotional. They said my ‘reputation might distract from the winter performance.’”
“Bastards,” Cillian mutters.
I shrug. “They weren’t wrong.”
When I look back at him, his jaw is clenched tight enough to crack.
“I’d have killed him,” he says finally.
I laugh—small, bitter, but real. “I figured you’d say that.”
He leans closer, voice dropping low. “Don’t mistake honesty for theatrics, dove. I’d have buried him under his own fucking stage.”
That shouldn’t make me feel warm. But it does. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all. The air between us hums like a suspended chord—held just long enough to ache. He looks at me like he always did. Like I’m the only song in a silent room.
And then he moves. His hand lifts to my cheek, tentative, reverent. Thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of my silence. I don’t stop him. I can’t. When he kisses me, it’s soft. Careful. Not because he doesn’t want more—but because he knows how much it means.
Slow, sweet pressure. A question. I answer with a sigh, with the parting of my lips.
Let him in, just enough. The taste of wine and memory lingers between us as it deepens—still tender, still unhurried.
His hands stay where they are. No rush. No claiming.
Just the kind of kiss that says I remember every part of you.
But I pull back before it goes further. My breath is shallow. My heart’s louder than it should be.
“Goodnight,” I whisper, brushing my lips over his one more time.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just nods, slow and solemn, like he knows he’s holding a note that’s not ready to resolve.
I slip past him, fingertips trailing the edge of his sweater for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then I step into the bedroom. Close the door.
Press my back to it. And exhale. The silence on the other side feels like a held breath.
Mine trembles as I crawl into bed, haunted by lips and longing.
1. I yield. I am your servant, my dear love.