Chapter 13 #2
I lift my chin, voice steady. “You know the rest—about me and Cillian. Darragh never truly approved. Hell, he let it happen. Thought it made him look powerful to have the Darling of Dublin wrapped around his son’s little finger.”
Rouge doesn’t even blink. “It was never about love, it was all about the leverage. You were a prodigy. The golden girl. Press darlings fawned over you, and every gala wanted your name on the bill. He kept you close because it made him look good. Made Cillian look good.”
My voice turns brittle. “But don’t get it twisted—he never thought it’d last. Thought it was a phase. A crush. It wasn’t….”
“No shit,” he mutters. “But Darragh doesn’t play by the rules.”
“I thought we’d be safe. That the war between our families had ended. But it didn’t end, did it? Darragh just… changed strategy.”
“Exactly. Took his time. Let you think you had peace. Then yanked it all away.” Rouge exhales slowly. “So that’s when it happened, yeah? The night everything went to hell?”
I nod. “The Velvet Knife.”
His brows shoot up. “That place Cillian’s father owns? Jesus, Siobhán.”
I stare past him, lost in the memory. “It was one of the private shows he insisted I play. I was twenty. My first performance back in Dublin after Paris. Darragh booked the entire club—said it would be my ‘rebirth.’”
Rouge snorts. “Sounds about right for him.”
“I played the whole set,” I whisper. “Every note. And then afterward, someone slipped an envelope into my case. No name. Just an initial. M. Inside were photos. The music room at the O’Dwyer manor.
My mother’s body on the floor. Blood pooling beneath the piano bench.
The same bench I used to sit on as a girl. ”
Rouge goes still.
“I knew that room,” I say. “The blue velvet curtains. The crystal decanter on the sideboard. Cillian’s family crest carved into the damn piano. And there she was—dead. A pool of red where the music used to live.” My voice shakes. “The note said Ask him why.”
Rouge’s jaw tightens. “And you thought—”
“That he knew,” I cut in. “That he kept it from me. He’d been distant for weeks. Strange phone calls, long nights away. I thought he was protecting Darragh, covering for him. So I ran.”
“Straight to New York.”
“Straight into another trap,” I murmur. “Malachi was already waiting. Said he’d been following my career. Said he wanted to help me uncover what really happened. I was so angry. So lost. I believed him. He always just referred to himself as M. I didn’t… I didn’t know it was Malachi.”
Rouge shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath.
“I thought I was running from Cillian,” I whisper. “But really, I was running right into his father’s plan.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy and merciless.
“Alright then… tell me about the conductor. The real story. Not the tabloids.”
I glance up, startled by the shift. “You read those?”
He laughs, low and dark. “Read them? Cillian bought every damn copy he could find and set them on fire like they insulted his mother. Threatened half the bloody city to stop printing them. You were untouchable, Siobhán. Didn’t matter what they said—you were his.
Everyone knew it. They were on your side whether you wanted them or not. ”
A lump catches in my throat. I look away.
“A chroí, a chinniúint”2 he murmurs under his breath.
I don’t ask him to repeat it. I already know. The silence stretches. Rouge doesn’t fill it—just props his shoulder against the piano like he’s giving me time to breathe, or drown.
“The conductor,” I start, voice brittle around the edges.
“I met him in New York. He was the kind of man who made you feel seen, you know? Older. Refined. Everyone respected him. I thought working with him might help rebuild my name after…” I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “After everything with Cillian.”
Rouge hums low. “Older, powerful, and emotionally unavailable. Love that for you.”
I shoot him a look. “Do you want to hear this or just get stabbed?”
“Bit of both, honestly.”
I sigh, but the tension breaks just enough for the words to come. “He wasn’t cruel. Not at first. He was charming in that weary, tragic way men like that always are. Told me he was separated. Said his wife was long gone. He made me believe him.”
Rouge’s brow lifts. “And let me guess—she wasn’t.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “Not even close.”
My fingers trace the piano’s edge, following a crack that wasn’t there before.
“I remember that night clear as day. I’d had a good week—two sold-out shows, new reviews coming in, a standing ovation that actually felt honest. I decided to surprise him.
Went to his condo. Had Thai food and a bottle of cabernet.
Stupid little celebration before my next flight. ”
Rouge murmurs, “You romantic disaster.”
I smirk without humor. “Door was unlocked. His lights were still on. And there she was—his wife. Sitting up in bed, wearing his shirt, smiling like I’d just delivered her dessert.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“She thanked me,” I say, the memory tightening my chest. “Said I’d made it easy. That I wasn’t the first, and I wouldn’t be the last. I dropped the food. Heard the bottle smash. Then I heard the cameras.”
Rouge straightens. “Cameras?”
“Across the street. In the goddamn windows.” My voice cracks.
“They knew. They were waiting. Photos hit the tabloids by morning—Prodigy Pianist Seduces Married Maestro. I lost everything in forty-eight hours. Sponsors, bookings, my label deal. No one wanted me near a piano again unless I came with a public apology and a priest.”
Rouge shakes his head slowly. “That’s not a scandal, that’s an execution.”
I meet his eyes. “And the moment I hit bottom—guess who emailed me?”
His mouth twists. “Darragh.”
“Darragh,” I echo, tasting the venom of it. “So polite. Offered a lot of money for me to play just six events. That Dublin missed it’s Darling Daughter. On and on. And I fucking took it..”
Rouge exhales, long and low. “He set the whole bloody thing up.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. We both stop—same second, same realization slamming into place. I wasn’t collateral. I was bait.
Rouge mutters something filthy under his breath, then goes quiet again. The fire crackles, the air feels colder. For the first time, I think we both understand just how deep Darragh’s game really went. “Well, fook me sideways, princess. That’s a new level of bastardry—even for Dublin.”
I almost smile. “You’re not wrong.”
He studies me for a moment, then tips his head. “So what then? When this is over—when the ledger’s done and the old man’s six feet under—are you going back to New York?”
“I don’t know.” I smooth a wrinkle from my sleeve, steady now. “Maybe. Maybe not. New York was survival, not home.”
Rouge’s grin crooks. “Aye, but it had decent whiskey and questionable men. That’s practically the definition of home for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Says the man who once woke up in a church pew with lipstick on his collar.”
He smirks, proud. “And still made Sunday mass.”
Before I can answer, the door opens. Cillian steps inside, cold air curling around him like smoke. The weight in the room shifts instantly. His gaze flicks between us, sharp but unreadable. “Everything alright?”
My body moves before my brain can. I’m on my feet, crossing the room too fast, every thought drowned out by the relief that crashes through me. His hand finds my shoulder; my fingers catch his wrist. For a heartbeat, the world goes still.
Rouge clears his throat behind us. “Well, isn’t this cozy? We were just discussing your father’s impressive talent for psychological warfare. Bastard set our dove up with that conductor.”
Cillian practically growls. “I’m going to kill him.”
Rouge grins faintly. “Get in line, boss.”
I straighten, brushing invisible lint from my sleeve. “You can kill him later. We should go—everyone’s already up at the manor.”
Cillian nods once. “Right. My father is up to something. He just kept telling me not to trust you and to watch you carefully tonight.’
Rouge claps his hands. “Well then, this will be a fun field trip!”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my mouth as I turn toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Cillian falls into step beside me, Rouge trailing just behind as we leave the room together—three ghosts heading back to the house where all the noise began.
Another night. Another performance. Three of six.
The manor hums with movement—voices echoing down the hall, lights being adjusted, the faint vibration of tuning strings from the room below.
Everything smells like wax and old wood and anticipation.
I sit at the vanity, earrings in hand, the reflection staring back at me steady and unreadable.
My hair’s swept up, my gown perfect, my pulse mercifully calm.
Cillian leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, tie still hanging loose around his neck. Rouge lounges on the sofa like he owns the place, a glass of whiskey balanced on his knee.
“Still breathing, duchess?” Rouge asks.
“Barely,” I murmur, fixing the last clasp.
Cillian watches me in the mirror. “You look ready.”
“I am.”
He nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the sight of me before the curtain rises. Rouge breaks the tension with a low whistle.
“Well, lads,” he says, raising his glass. “Third time’s the charm—or the explosion.”
Cillian shoots him a look that could melt steel. Rouge just grins wider.
The silence that follows hums low and warm. I turn back to the mirror, pretending to fuss with my earrings again, but I can feel him move behind me—slow, deliberate, like he’s deciding something.
When he finally speaks, his voice is softer. “I have something for you.”
I glance at him in the glass. “You’ve already given me enough headaches.”
He doesn’t smile. Just reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small velvet pouch. The kind old jewelers used—worn at the corners, the drawstrings slightly frayed.
“What’s that?”