15. Orla
ORLA
C illian comes up beside me, offering me a glass of wine. "My grandfather built this place forty years ago. No one knew about it except immediate family."
I accept the glass. "No business associates?"
"No. That was the point." He stays close. "This was where we came to be normal. No Kavanagh business allowed."
The house sprawls out across the rocky outcrop with ocean views from every room. I spot security cameras hidden in the interior decor, satellite equipment disguised as part of the architecture, reinforced, bulletproof windows. Even in retreat, the Kavanaghs prepare for the worst.
"Penny for your thoughts," Cillian says.
"Just taking in the view." I taste the wine. "Thank you for bringing me here." I don’t think he understands how much I needed a break, but it’s myself I need a break from most.
His invitation was out of the blue—a weekend away, he’s been very careful about not being alone with me since New York.
We eat dinner overlooking the ocean, seafood Cillian cooked himself. Night wraps around us as conversation flows through bland topics—books, travel, music. Easy subjects that I don’t have to lie about.
After dinner, we move to the great room where Cillian builds a fire. I settle into a leather sofa, wine glass in hand, watching him arrange the logs.
"You build fires like a boy scout," I say.
"Dad taught us some camping skills. Said every man should know how to survive outdoors." Flames rise as he sits beside me. I think about a man like his father teaching his sons how to ‘run and hide’ if they need to. "Though it was more than camping."
"What else?"
Cillian moves closer. "The skills went beyond fishing and fire-building. How to disappear. How to live a life without leaving any trace you exist."
I try look mildly interested while my pulse speeds up.
"Unusual lessons for kids."
He watches the fire. "My childhood wasn't normal. I figured that out young."
"How young?"
He pauses. "I was twelve when Dad took me to a warehouse near the docks. A man was tied to a chair. Dad said he worked for us but he had talked to the pigs."
My fingers tighten around my wine glass.
"I thought we were going to scare him." Cillian stops. "Dad handed his gun to our lieutenant and said, 'Show my son what happens to traitors.'"
My blood turns ice cold in my veins. I think of my father—an accountant who found things he shouldn’t have. A man who believed in honesty, and integrity.
"What happened?" I ask, already knowing.
"The lieutenant shot him in the head." Cillian meets my eyes. "Dad made me watch. Said a Kavanagh needs to understand consequences."
His admission is raw. This powerful man who maintains boundaries with everyone shares his darkest memory with me. A boy forced to watch murder in order to become the man beside me.
"That changed how you see things," I say, putting down my glass.
"It made me see everything." His voice is hard. "I saw my father and our family differently after that day."
"Is that why you want to change things?"
"Yes." He shifts toward me. "I can't change our past. But I can change the future."
A war wages inside me. He is telling me the truth while I lie to him. Each honest moment from him makes my deception worse. My mission means I have to stay Orla Kelly, the fascinated assistant and convenient lover. Yet part of me wants to match his honesty.
"Cillian," I start, my heart racing. "I need to tell you something."
He faces me, waiting.
"About my past." I pause. "I wasn’t completely honest."
His body stiffens.
"My father—" I choose words. "He worked in finance. For a company that handled Kavanagh accounts years ago."
"What was his name?"
One small truth among many lies. A test to see his reaction before risking everything.
"Thomas," I say. "Thomas Nolan."
"Nolan. The account executive from Eastern Harbor Investments."
I nod. "Yes."
"That was almost seven?—"
His phone rings. Cillian checks the screen and frowns.
"I need to take this," he says, standing. "It's Eamon."
He walks to the deck, closing the glass door. I sit motionless, my heart pounding. How much should I tell him? Where does a small truth become dangerous admission?
Through glass, I watch Cillian transform—back straightening, head raised. His voice carries faintly.
"When was that?" A pause. "What exactly is Doyle asking about her?"
My blood freezes. Detective Doyle. Questions about me. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"No. Keep it contained. Pay a visit to Walsh at the records office. Make sure those files are lost forever." Another pause. "We're coming back tonight. Have security ready at the house."
Fear grips me. Doyle promised to keep his distance while I gathered the evidence. Why risk exposing everything now? I can’t help the panic that is rising inside me, I could be in real danger—this was a terrible idea.
Cillian returns transformed. The man who shared his childhood trauma vanishes, replaced by the Kavanagh heir—calculating, dangerous, deadly and ice cold.
"We need to leave," he says, moving toward the bedroom. "Pack your things."
"What happened?" I ask, playing ignorant.
"Business emergency. I'll explain in the car."
I follow him, my mind racing through the ways to get out of this, to escape. My partial truth about Thomas Nolan is there—not enough to reveal my true identity but raising questions I can't answer if he asks me.
Fifteen minutes later, our bags are back in his car. The beach house is dark as we drive away. The connection we shared over wine and firelight disappears and he changes from man to monster right in front of my face.
I watch the passing trees while Cillian makes calls. Each instruction confirms that I am in deep shit. One detective asking the wrong questions could be the end of me.
The silence in Cillian's car grows thicker with each mile. He hasn't spoken since ending his third call, but I feel his anger like a weight. Every few minutes, his eyes flick to me, checking if I'm watching him.
I am.
The phone calls painted a clear picture.
Detective Doyle was asking questions. The files that need to stay buried, files I have copies of on my phone.
Security measures at "the house." All centered around me and my ‘safety’. He must think I am an idiot if he thinks I don’t hear and see all these things.
My hands are folded in my lap, to hid ethe shaking and my racing pulse. Cillian drives like he’s in an F1 race, taking the fastest route back to my apartment. Not his place. Mine . The distinction feels important. Our time away is very much over.
"You’ll be out all night?" I ask, testing the waters.
His jaw tightens. "Always something with my family."
The words drip with threats and lies. Family business. Not shipping concerns or import delays. The other kind of business. The kind that you do not want witnesses for.
We stop at a red light. Cillian's phone buzzes again. He glances at the screen but doesn't answer. The caller ID shows "E." before he dismisses it.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"It will be," he says, eyes on the road as the light turns green.
I want to ask about Doyle, but he doesn’t know I heard his conversation. About what questions he's asking. I need to know if my cover remains intact or if I should run tonight while he works. But asking would only confirm what we both know.
Instead, I watch the city pass outside my window. Familiar streets that might soon be nothing but memories if I have to disappear. The life I built as Orla Kelly crumbling with each silent mile.
Cillian parks outside my building, the engine is still running. He is not coming up.
"Thank you for the getaway," I say, reaching for the door handle.
"Orla."
I pause, hand on the latch.
"Be careful," he says, his voice softer than expected. "Boston can be dangerous for people who aren't... real."
Our eyes meet. Behind his controlled expression, I see the regret, the silent warning. He’s giving me a chance to get away.
"I'll remember that," I reply.
He gets out, walking around to open my door. The gesture feels strange now, formal and stiff. He walk me to the door, and stops there.
"Good night," he says, leaning down to kiss me.
The kiss feels like goodbye. Gentle but final. His lips linger against mine for just a moment before he pulls away.
I want to ask him so many things. About Doyle. About what comes next. The words gather on my tongue?—
But I stay silent. Some questions have answers I’m not ready to hear.
"Good night, Cillian."
I walk into my building without looking back. Through the glass doors, I watch him return to his car. He sits there for a while staring at nothing before driving away.
In my apartment, I check my security. The hidden cameras I installed. The backup files encrypted in multiple locations. The go-bag packed and ready for me to disappear right now.
Tomorrow there will be consequences for whatever Doyle did tonight. I pour myself whiskey and try to forget the taste of Cillian's goodbye kiss. I should leave—right fucking now.