Chapter 10
Chapter ten
In the House of Green Silk
Cillian
The moment I take her hand, the room stills. It’s not the hush of respect or even curiosity—it’s reverence. Like they know something holy is about to happen, and they’re not sure whether to cross themselves or run.
My fingers brush over hers, guiding her past linen-draped tables and crystalline laughter. The chandeliers tremble above us, glittering with firelight. A symphony of glasses clinking and heels tapping fades beneath the hush of anticipation as we stop at the edge of the grand piano.
She stands beside me like a fucking vision. Red velvet and gold. Blood and fire. The Darling of Dublin dressed for the kill. My fingers settle at the small of her back, pressing just enough for the room to notice. My palm is calm, my pulse is not.
“My friends,” I say, voice smooth, unhurried, biting the edge of formality with my usual grin, “I promised you something unforgettable tonight—and as always, I intend to deliver.”
A ripple of amusement, murmurs. But none of them are watching me. Not really. Not when she looks like this. Not when she breathes like a storm kept behind glass.
“Tonight you are in for something rare. Intoxicating. Haunting.”
The crowd leans in. Eyes flick toward her, then back to me. They always want to know what she is to me. Tonight, I’ll tell them.
“Please welcome the Darling of Dublin… our very own duchess.” I pause, turn my head slightly, and let my gaze drink her in. “But I know her simply as Siobhán.” A breath. A beat. “My dove.”
There’s a ripple through the room—soft laughter, raised brows, half-swallowed gasps. It’s a claim. And she knows it. I feel the tension in her spine before I see it on her face. But when she turns to the crowd, it’s all poise and red-lipped charm.
She smiles. God help me, she smiles. Lifts her own glass and locks eyes with me like she’s planning my execution.
“Sláinte,” she says sweetly, and takes a sip like a queen blessing her court. Then she turns toward the piano, voice calm and clear. “I’m going to play my favorite Christmas piece for you tonight.”
A murmur. Cameras click. Some lean forward. She settles beside the grand piano, her fingers brushing over the ivory like it’s a memory.
“It was one my mother used to play,” she says, voice a little lower now. “Every Christmas morning. Without fail.” Then—deliberately—she lifts her glass again. “This one’s for you, Lord O’Dwyer.”
My gut twists. She’s not here for me. She’s not here for the money. Or long lost times. She’s here for her. And then she drinks. A full sip. Not a polite one. Not a lady’s toast. A declaration. The room doesn’t know what she’s done. But I do. My pulse spikes. My fingers clench around my glass.
My father inclines his head—barely. But I see the flicker in his expression. Recognition. Resentment. And maybe, just maybe… guilt.
The music starts. Soft. Elegant. Familiar. Tchaikovsky. Her fingers move with haunting grace. It’s beautiful. Nearly angelic. And it guts me. Because I know what this is. It’s not just a tribute. It’s a reckoning.
She’s here tonight because of her mother.
She wore red velvet and kissed my cheek and smiled for the crowd—because she suspects something.
And she thinks the answer is inside my house.
Fuck. I swallow down the panic. I watch her.
Her posture is perfect. Regal. Controlled.
But her jaw ticks. Her brows twitch. Her foot presses the pedal with more force than the piece calls for.
She’s furious.
And the room is too entranced to see it.
They see a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress playing a beautiful piece.
They don’t see the fire behind her eyes.
But I do. God, I always have. I step closer, half-aware of the ripple of tension near the head table.
My father’s knuckles are white around his cane.
I should stop her. I should interrupt—whisk her off the bench, say she’s had too much champagne, make some fucking excuse. But I don’t. Because there’s a part of me that wants her to burn it all down. And a darker part that wants to watch.
She leans into the final cascade of notes, her hands trembling from the intensity.
One last chord rings out—full and echoing—before silence falls like snowfall.
For a breath, the room is still. Then applause erupts like thunder.
People rise. Toasts are called. But she doesn’t move.
She just sits there, back straight, face unreadable, eyes locked on mine like she knows.
And I’m the one who breaks first. I make my way toward her, all gracious smiles and polite nods. The crowd parts for me. They always do. The son of the devil commands a certain reverence, and tonight, I wear that title like a second skin.
But the second I reach her side, I lean in—close, but not touching. “What the fuck have you done, dove?”
Her smile is a blade wrapped in silk. “Claiming me in front of your father? How bold of you.”
She stands, slow and composed, lifting her glass with poise as if she hadn’t just played a funeral dirge hidden beneath a Christmas classic.
As if she hadn’t just set fire to the foundation of this house using nothing but a piano and a ghost. People flock to us like flies to sugar and rot.
A woman in emerald furs coos over her dress.
A politician pats me on the shoulder and tells me I’m a lucky bastard.
Siobhán laughs. So do I. It’s all smoke and mirrors.
Between every smile, we trade barbs like daggers.
“Did you pick that song to impress my father, or haunt him?”
She sips her champagne. “I don’t play for men like him.”
I lower my voice. “You think this is a game?”
“I think you’re scared of what I remember.”
Before I can respond, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. My father arrives. His presence is a cold thing. It sucks the joy from the room, even at Christmas.
“Well played, duchess,” he says, voice dry as ash. “Though next time, perhaps you’ll consider something with a little more cheer.”
Siobhán’s expression doesn’t waver. “Forgive me, Mr. O’Dwyer. I didn’t realize your taste in music required pom-poms and sleigh bells.”
He smiles, sharp and wrong. “Just civility.”
“Oh, I gave you civility,” she replies, her tone dipped in honeyed venom. “You just don’t recognize it when it comes from a woman with a spine.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—something close to rage—but he laughs instead. A hollow sound. “She’s got teeth, son. Careful she doesn’t bite.”
“She doesn’t bite,” I murmur, eyes locked on her. “She fucking devours.”
And she smiles again. Because she knows I’m right. A man with a whiskey-slick smile leans in toward her. One of my father’s investment bankers, younger than most of the bastards here, but arrogant enough to think he’s special.
His cufflink glints like it’s winking at me. “Will you play another, duchess?” he asks, voice just shy of flirtation. “Something just for me?”
Siobhán’s lashes lower, her smile sly. “Only if you promise to behave.”
He laughs like a fool. “I make no promises,” he says, tilting his glass.
She clinks her champagne flute against his. “Then I suppose you’ll enjoy the punishment.”
The crowd around them chuckles. She turns before I can step in and break the man’s jaw.
She walks slowly—no, deliberately—toward the piano in the center of the room.
Like it’s her throne. The red velvet clings to her curves, parting just enough to tease the outline of her thigh with each step.
The diamonds at her ears flicker under the chandelier’s gaze.
But it’s her eyes I can’t tear myself from. She doesn’t look at anyone else.
Just me. As she sits, her spine is straight, posture regal. Her fingers hover over the keys like they already know secrets the rest of us will never be worthy of.
“I think I’ll play one more,” she says, her voice delicate, deceptive. “A little something for the winter wind.”
The room stills. A few old patrons murmur appreciatively at the mention of Chopin, but they don’t understand. Not really. Not the choice. Not the venom tucked inside the elegance. Her gaze remains locked with mine as the first note hits.
Cold. Cutting. Furious. The music slashes through the room like a blade wrapped in silk. She doesn’t play it. She weaponizes it. Each movement is chaos under control—violent winds tucked into manicured grace. The kind of performance that turns men to fools and women to ghosts.
My father shifts in his chair, his jaw tight. Men watch her like wolves do prey, but I see it—the rage in her fingertips, the fury masked by finesse. This isn’t a performance. This is war. And every note she plays is a reckoning.
For someone. Maybe for him. Maybe for me. But as the music howls, as her eyes burn, I realize one terrifying truth: She is not here to be adored. She is here to destroy.
And God help us all—she’s beautiful while doing it.
The final note crashes into silence. And for a moment, no one breathes.
Then—Applause. Roars. Gasps of awe. The ballroom detonates like she lit a fuse beneath it.
She stands, slow and deliberate, and tips her chin to the room.
Not a bow. Not humility. Just acknowledgment.
Like a queen. Or a goddess. Or something even more dangerous.
I barely hear the praise being thrown around.
“Prodigy.”
“Unreal.”
“Christ, she’s fucking magnificent.”
She is. And she’s mine. She finds me in the crowd. Her gaze catches. Snags. Holds. And then she smiles—small, smug, private. Then she turns. “Rouge.”
He steps out of the shadow near the back entrance, every inch of him sharp and waiting. “Yeah, duchess?”
“Take me back to my room, please.”