The Asylum's Broken Beauty

1. Liath

LIATH

Men like my father—no, I couldn’t call him that anymore. Men like Michael Byrne only gathered like this when they wanted something, and tonight, I was part of the offering.

I made my way through the opulent ballroom of Dublin City Hall, the designer dress he insisted I wear pulled too tight across my ribs.

It felt like a costume. But then, everything about my place in this family was a costume, wasn’t it? Turned out, I wasn’t even his blood. I was just another expensive acquisition, picked out before I could remember to round out his image of the perfect political family.

My French twist pulled my hair so tight I could already feel the growing throb at the base of my skull and the ostentatious chandeliers stung my eyes. These damned heels would blister my feet long before it was safe for me to leave.

Still, I smiled before anyone asked me to.

I matched their grips, their volume, their laughs, adjusting my mannerisms without thinking.

Faces and names slid into place as I moved from one overly perfumed group to another, each donor already mentally tagged in his voice with what they were worth to him.

Across the room, laughter cracked in short, polished bursts, and hands clasped his with practiced warmth. Michael Byrne caught my eye and gave me a small, satisfied nod. He looked at me the way he looked at his poll numbers, like a successful investment.

For twenty years, I’d wondered why I never quite fit into the pristine Byrne family portrait, why his affection always felt staged.

Finding those adoption papers hidden in his desk last week finally gave me the punch line.

Signed with no name. Just a scrawled KD.

Proof that my own mother didn’t want me.

Something tight flickered low in my gut and vanished.

Fuck. I needed a drink. A proper one. But not yet. Not here. Not with him watching.

The hair on the back of my neck lifted. A low, bassy vibration of a cello thrummed at the base of my skull, accompanied by a faint, intoxicating smell of spice and dark wood.

My body turned toward it on instinct, drawn to the phantom note through the sea of overly sweet perfumes and political chatter. I took a breathless step forward, rising on my toes to search the room. Then the crowd parted, and the heavy cello note was violently drowned out.

Shite. Edward fucking Fitzgerald stood in my path, his suit button straining over his belly and a sheen of sweat already glazing his flushed forehead.

He clocked me before I could turn away, his smile widening with recognition, and he began steering his slender wife toward me, his grip firm on her elbow.

My smile slid into place before I could stop it.

Feck this. I raised two fingers.

The nearby waiter hesitated, the rows of flutes on his tray trembling with bubbles. He flicked a glance toward Michael across the crowded room as if looking for permission. I could almost hear his curt instructions to the staff, “She’s not to have more than one.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I said as the oddly matched couple stopped before me. “I do hope you’re enjoying my father’s party.”

“Liath Byrne, my goodness.” Fitzgerald leaned in and wrapped an arm around me, damp and insistent. His suit stank thick of expensive oud cologne, the scent fighting with the sourness of his sweat, triggering the sound of grinding gears in my head.

His hand slid over the curve of my ass.

Fuck him.

I froze for half a second too long, everything in me screaming to knee him right in his shriveled old bollocks.

His wife stiffened, her smile tightening at the corners.

Laughter rose nearby, too loud and too practiced. No one spoke up in my defense. Why would they?

I widened my smile instead of pulling away as I snatched a flute from the waiter’s tray and pressed it into Fitzgerald’s hand, forcing him to adjust his grip and break the hug. His arm loosened just enough for me to step back.

My skin felt dirty from where his fingers had been.

I leaned toward the waiter, slipping him a hundred-euro note. “Vodka. Double.”

The waiter’s eyes widened before he cleared his throat and slipped away.

Fitzgerald leaned close again, breath thick with red wine, froggy lips stained and wet. “That silhouette is very clever on you. It shows off your figure beautifully.”

As if his wife were fucking invisible beside him.

My designer dress scratched along my ribs and hips, and it took effort not to smooth it down.

“Oh, this old thing,” I said lightly. “It might be Chanel, but it’s off the rack.” I turned to his wife before he could respond. “Unlike your gorgeous dress, Erin. Couture?”

Her face lit up. “Hermes. From Paris.”

“Francois truly is a genius,” I said, nodding as if I cared deeply about the stitching.

“Your old man’s looking strong in the polls,” Fitzgerald said, edging closer. “He’s got the city in his pocket, doesn’t he? Must make you proud.”

“He works hard,” I said evenly. “Just like you, Erin.” I turned my body toward her. “How is the rescue doing in Wicklow?”

She seemed to jolt at having the attention turned back on her.

Fitzgerald opened his mouth again.

I cut in before he could speak. “Did you get that grant for the senior dogs?”

“We did,” Erin said, beaming, her eyes becoming animated, the hint of the former beauty queen showing through her soft wrinkles. “And we’ve managed to place six of them in the last month.”

“That’s brilliant,” I said, holding her gaze, placing my hand on hers and angling us away from him. “It’s so much harder placing older dogs. Everyone wants—”

Beneath the suffocating perfumes of the ballroom, that same intoxicating trace of spice and dark wood drifted over me. A split second later, the low, bassy thrum of a cello vibrated against my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck lift again.

He was still here. The watcher from the crowd.

I shifted my weight and looked over my shoulder as if adjusting my stance, scanning the marble columns and mirrored walls for a shadow that lingered too long.

But no one stood out.

I turned back, Erin’s smile faltering.

The heavy cello note did not fade. Neither did that watched feeling. Whoever he was, he hadn’t looked away.

“Puppies!” I forced out. “Everyone wants puppies.”

Erin’s frown softened and at my encouragement she kept talking, her hands moving as she described their plans to expand into Waterford, to build proper kennels instead of relying on borrowed sheds, her voice steadying as she spoke about space and funding and the dogs that still needed homes.

Her pompous husband stood there, his smile thin and strained, and I let myself enjoy the subtle punishment of it. Petty, maybe, but I’d take my wins where I could get them.

The only warning I had was when she looked past my shoulder and straightened.

A hand settled against my lower back. Metal flooded my mouth, sharp and immediate. And his cloying smell of ambergris caused a sharp shattering sound in my mind.

My tongue pressed hard against my teeth as the metallic taste spread. I swallowed, but it did not clear.

“There she is,” Michael said warmly, pride threaded through his tone as his hand stayed firm, holding me in place.

My spine locked. I forced myself to breathe past the pressure at my back and the echo of it lower, where a bruise throbbed.

“Forgive her, Edward,” Michael said smoothly. “My daughter gets carried away sometimes.”

My daughter. The lie tasted metallic even in my own head. He wielded the word so effortlessly to protect his campaign, when we both knew it was a total fabrication.

His hand pressed more deliberately at my lower back, angling me so I faced his precious donor. “Sweetheart, I’m sure our dear Edward doesn’t want to hear about unwanted strays.”

I swallowed a vicious laugh. He would certainly know.

His smile never slipped. “Focus on what matters.”

“To you, you mean,” I said, my voice sharp and clipped.

For half a second, something in my chest loosened, as if I had taken a full breath after holding it for too long. Sweet Jesus, that felt good.

Then the weight of what I had done settled in.

Erin went silent. Fitzgeralds’ gaze moved between us, curious and calculating. And a small gasp slipped out from a nearby group. I could almost hear the whispers starting.

Michael leaned closer, his smile unchanged for anyone watching. But his fingers dug into my hip, finding a bruise.

I winced before I could stop myself.

Someone nearby looked away too quickly. Erin dropped her gaze.

My bruise throbbed under the dress, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

He released me without a word, but his message was clear.

I’d pay for that later. I always did.

The hairs on my arms were still standing as I finished my vodka cranberry, the glass leaving a wet ring on the dark wood bar of The Vault when I set it down.

The feeling had followed me all the way here, a presence just behind my shoulder that disappeared every time I tried to catch it in a shop window or the reflection of a passing car. It clung to me now, stubborn as smoke in fabric.

The drink barely dulled anything. I needed numb. I needed my body to stop reacting, to stop remembering.

I could still feel Michael’s palm pressed into my lower back. Metal flooded my mouth, sharp and unmistakable, and no amount of cranberry sweetness covered it.

The bartender cleared my empty glass and gave me a look.

“Another one,” I said, not quite meeting his eye.

He was around my age, handsome in that scruffy hipster way, but his expression held a flicker of hesitation that scraped against my nerves.

My lip curled and I slid a fifty-euro note across the bar. “Go on, I’m grand.”

He nodded, tucked the note away, and reached for the bottle. I leaned back against the bar, every nerve in me still humming too tight.

Where the hell was she?

Typical. The one night I actually needed her and she was off the fuck knows where.

I checked my phone.

No messages.

I dialed Aisling. It rang and kept on ringing.