Everyone who comes near is either drawn or repelled.
My hands shake sometimes, but I can forgive them.
They have earned the right.
I run a brush through my hair, slow, counting the strokes like it's a magic trick that will keep the world away for another day.
I think of my mother, her hands rough, always pinning back my hair before a meeting, a job, a funeral.
She used to say, "Presentation is half the battle."
The other half is never letting them see you bleed.
I consider lipstick but decide against it.
There's no point pretending I'm still the girl who could walk into a room and leave with every eye.
Now, I walk into rooms and people look for the nearest exit.
There's a power in that.
I leave the room and head toward the hall.
Down the corridor, the sound of a kettle boiling.
The guards are already posted at the doors, the loyal ones and the ones too scared to ask questions.
I pass through the hall of mirrors—my father's idea, floor to ceiling glass on either side, so you never forget that you're always being watched.
The kitchen is empty except for Lena, who is already two coffees deep and vibrating with secondhand nerves.
She slides me a cup, the handle turned toward me like a peace offering.
"You sleep?" she asks.
"No."
"Good. It's better if you don't."
She's right.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the city in flames or the babies in a hospital, alone and wailing.
I see the pipeline running red, the names on the ledger bleeding off the page.
"I heard from Niamh," Lena says, voice lowered to a hush.
"The O'Duinns are planning a show tonight. Someone's bringing fireworks to the docklands."
"Let them," I say, sipping the coffee.
"No one will be looking at the docks after this morning."
She nods, but her eyes linger on my stomach.
"You sure you can do this?"
"I have to."
