I make a note of her name.
If this is how they see me now, it will be even easier to become invisible.
Later, as the crowd thins and the music grinds to a halt, I watch Ruairí collect his overcoat from the same bench.
He checks the phone, scans the screen, and pockets it.
No hesitation.
No concern.
Either he is a very good actor or he truly believes he is untouchable.
I slip away before he can approach, make for the main house, and go straight to the master suite.
The hallway to the bedrooms is lined with gold-framed prints of the old city—cathedrals, bridges, statues that have outlived a dozen generations of families like ours.
At the end, I stop and touch the glass of the last print—a panorama of the Liffey at dawn, when the water is so still it looks like stone.
Tonight, I am a Crowley.
But I remember every street, every corner, every window my father ever showed me from a moving car.
I know what it means to lose a city.
After going inside, I go through a routine—shower, remove the makeup, slip into something more comfortable.
When I step out of the bathroom, my husband is already standing by the couch, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that display the whole city beyond.
The bed is king-sized, linens crisp, a dent in the pillow that suggests recent but careful occupation.
On the dresser, a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers, untouched.
Ruairí does not turn when I enter.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the yard below, where the security lights blink in rhythm with the heartbeat of the alarm system.
I wait, measuring the space between us.
Ten feet, maybe less, but filled withenough history to sink the house if anyone were to weigh it all at once.
I slip off my shoes and line them up by the door, more out of habit than courtesy.
My mother taught me this trick—even if you have to live with wolves, keep your own side of the den clean.
He turns, then, finally.
His eyes are sharper in low light, the color impossible to name.
He looks older than when I first saw him at the altar, but also more dangerous.
There is a violence in the way he stands—heels planted, weight forward, every muscle already rehearsing the next move.
And God help me, he is beautiful in the way tragic, poisonous things often are.
My heart skips a beat, then two, but I school my face into what I hope is careful composure.
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the chair.
